The early 20th century baseball star Rogers Hornsby was asked what he did in the off season. “People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”

As winter drags on, we can all appreciate Hornsby’s sentiment. As I write, a 40 mph wind is blowing in below zero temps. Whatever charm winter had, (“Oh look, the mosquitoes are gone”), faded with the passing of the Christmas season.

Like the weather, the news has also been bad. The divisions in our nation are wide. So, I’ve decided to write about something we all can agree with. Winter sucks and we can’t wait till spring.

Soon, they’ll play the Super Bowl. That will put a merciful end to the football season that started in summer. Every sport has stretched its season to obscene lengths. Baseball in November, hockey in June, college football till whenever that ends. We know this is all about money. It is the beast we’ve created.

Regardless, when the Super Bowl ends and the Vince Lombardi Trophy is hoisted amid the confetti, I start thinking about baseball.

We all need a happy place to go in our minds. Baseball is one of those. It is a pleasant diversion. We all need diversions. At least those of us who haven’t been detained or jailed.

I start with the Twins. Who’s coming, who’s going, who’s had surgery, who’s disgruntled, who’s been arrested?

You can see this is an arduous task, and that’s just one major league team. There are thirty-two. There are rosters, starting lineups, and depth charts to analyze.

That takes most of February. It would go faster, but Pam keeps insisting I help around the house and occasionally shower.

In a few weeks, Spring Training will begin in warm places. We’ll see pictures of players playing catch and taking grounders. The grass will be green. It will be an enchanting glimpse into our future. We can delight in imagining the day we step outside in a T-shirt. Everyone who played the game, even poorly like me, can feel the ball in an imaginary glove.

Once spring training games begin, there will be box scores. For fans, box scores are little novels. The game that was played yesterday exists in a two by three-inch matrix of names and numbers. Once box scores appear, I’ll spend about equal time obsessing over those, the weather, and the markets.

That leads to Opening Day. Note that Opening Day is capitalized. It’s not exactly a holy day. But it’s more than a holiday.

By Opening Day, I will have convinced myself that the Twins will win the World Series. I have done that for sixty-plus years in a row. That’s my heart. My head says the Dodgers or Yankees will win it again. And again and again.

There has always been disparity between Major League teams’ payrolls. It has reached crazy levels. Every winter the Yankees and Dodgers sign the best free agents. The Twins sign people like Vidal Brujan. Every description of Vidal begins with “versatile.” That means he can play around the field. It also means he’s not that good.

The big leagues get a lot of attention. But that’s just a part of the baseball universe. It’s also the most expensive. I’ll go to Target Field a few times this summer. Between ticket, parking, and $15 beers, I’ll drop a hundred easily.

Thankfully, there is baseball at a more local and intimate level. I can go out to Stark or Leavenworth, see some friends, stand by the fence, have a burger and a couple of beers, and not spend a twenty.

I want to give a shout-out to the people who take care of the glorious ballfields in southern Minnesota. School ball in the spring morphs into town ball in the summer. It’s all dependent on volunteers who spend hours on a mower or putting down foul lines.

There is whole parade of people generous with their time who make baseball happen. Coaches, umpires, concession stand workers, scoreboard operators, moms who wash uniforms. It’s an army of people, mostly unpaid and underappreciated. I can’t pay you here, but I can appreciate you.

As I stare out my window, snowflakes have begun falling on the frozen landscape. It is taking a real force of imagination to picture green grass out there. Every few days someone tells me the days are getting longer. I suppose that’s true, but I’ll reserve excitement till I’m not eating breakfast and supper in the dark.

Until the sun returns, I’ll shuffle thoughts of baseball around in my head. I’m thinking of all the ballfields we have around here. Near me, there are venerable ballparks in towns. Springfield, Sleepy Eye, New Ulm have fields with nearly a century or more of pitching and catching and batting.

People who move here are amazed that in between towns, we have real Fields of Dreams that aren’t movie sets. A short drive from me are Leavenworth, Essig, Stark, and Sigel.

I remember talking to Otis Loose about baseball. Otis was a good ball player for the New Ulm Brewers in the 50s. He went on to be county auditor and passed in 2004.

Otis told me that there was a spot west of New Ulm where there is a rise on the road. On a summer night, he would get out of his car and could see the glow from as many as five ballparks on the horizon.

He was talking about how important baseball is in Brown County. When he said that, it was with a sparkle in his eye. What a magical image, the beautiful game of baseball all around you, warm illumination in the dark.

I never asked Otis where exactly that was. Maybe I’m meant to get in my car this summer and find that rise. Since then, Essig has added lights. With the right night, maybe a guy can see six or seven ballparks.

— Randy Krzmarzick farms on the home place west of Sleepy Eye, where he lives with his wife, Pam.