Here’s some good news. Pitchers and catchers report in FOUR DAYS! And we all know what that means!

Uhh… six more weeks of winter??

No, you moron! It’s the first sign of SPRING, that eternal season of renewal!

Not that this winter’s been so bad here on beautiful Long Island … only a couple days below freezing, and virtually no snow. You can almost feel the depression melting away!

I’m a lifelong, died-in-the-wool (what exactly does that even mean?) Mets fan, those lovable losers! But the new owner of the Mets, a hedge fund billionaire named Steve Cohen, has not been shy about spending to get the best players that literally only his money can by. We picked up ace pitchers Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer, the great shortstop Francisco Lindor, and re-signed fan faves Brandon Nimmo and Jeff McNeil. Next up? Pete Alonso, the home run-swatting ‘Polar Bear,’ who’s next in the “Strike it Rich” lineup card. Is there a World Series championship in our future? The anticipation is killing me!

Back in the day, my lifelong friends Victor, Greg and I made a point of going every year to Opening Day at the old Shea Stadium, where we’d clamor up to the top deck so as to be in the sun for as long as possible. (Opening Day at Shea, near Flushing Bay, could still be quite cold in April.) We’d start in the left field upper deck and make our way around to the right field side to stay warm, following the sun as it crossed the sky.

(One of things we’d always say when a batter hit a foul ball into the stands was, “I got it,” even if the ball was hit 27 sections over from us. Another gem was, “If you miss the first pitch, you miss the game.” Still true, in my book. And what would a ballgame be without a loud “Down in front,” screamed at the guy sitting in the seat right in front of us! Vic and I would laugh, and Greg would call us a couple of dorks. He was right.)

We’d try to drink a beer an inning, but back in those days, before batters had to adjust their helmets, gloves and cups (most definitely not for drinking out of!), quick 1-2-3 innings could move the game right along, backing up the beers. Somehow, though, we managed to catch up by the end (and invariably stagger back to the 7 train to Woodside, where we’d switch to the Long Island Rail Road to get home.)

And, spring also means that we’re coming up on another season of golf. How can something be pleasing and torture at the same time? (See: ‘Life with Carrie’.. JUST KIDDING, Hon!) I started swinging crooked sticks at little white orbs when I was 15, after my dad bought me a custom set of Lee Trevino Faultless clubs. Why he bought them for me, I don’t know. I can’t recall ever having any particular love for the game.

The top players that year, 1971, were of course Trevino, and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. Nicklaus went on to win a record number of major tournaments, and Palmer went on to put lemonade and iced tea together, in the same bottle! The man was a genius.

I guess I caught the golfing bug from my Aunt Emily and Uncle Irv, who lived next door to us and loved the game. After I got my clubs, they would take me out to what was then Salisbury Park (later renamed for WWII hero and president Dwight David Eisenhower) for a lazy 9 holes, then stop at what was then Mr. Donut on the Turnpike for coffee (for them) and donuts (for me!) Quick aside how nothing stays the same: Mr. Donut became Dunkin’ Donuts, then just Dunkin’, and now it’s an Arby’s!

A second quick aside: Aunt Emily (my beloved mother’s sister, may they both rest in peace) had an amazing knack of finding the closest parking spot to any building she pulled up to. And to this day, whenever we pull into a crowded shopping center or supermarket, we chant, “Em-i-ly, Em-i-ly,” and as if the Red Sea parted, we always get a spot up close. It’s both incredible and kinda creepy. (It’s about this time in the story that my oldest daughter, Alexa, would chime in with “hashtag: adjectives.”)

Anyway, Uncle Irv wasn’t a great golfer, but he was better than my aunt and I, and was one of those guys who just had to critique literally every shot we took.

“You lifted your head on that one,” or “You didn’t follow through,” or “Not enough backswing,” and the classic, “What were you aiming at??” And then, as if on cue, he’d shank one into a sandtrap, muttering under his breath. I was always tempted to say, “You lifted your head on that one,” but he was much larger than me, and didn’t really have my sense of humor, so “Tough break” was all I got out.

But none of that mattered. It was just great to be with them, outside, for hours. Anyway, I think I shot about 115 — on a par-72 course. That adds up to a 43 handicap. Today, Carrie would say that’s not my only handicap! (She’s so funny!)

This spring will mark the 52nd year I’ve been playing. And, for the record, I still shoot about 115. And it still doesn’t matter. The game has evolved for me — no more donuts, lots more scotch — but it’s still about playing, outside, for hours, with people I love being around.

Bring on the spring!! As the Polar Bear himself says, “Let’s Fucking Go, Mets!”