As the Subaru pushes across the Florida state line, I immediately turn on the air conditioner to make a point.  I am here.  Baseball is here. You are there. And you are cold.

What could be more American than driving a Japanese car down I-75, Springsteen cranked, cruise control set to an illegal number, Cracker Jacks all over the floorboard- all the while moving closer to the dream/mission/odyssey to be physically present at seven spring training matchups that mean nothing, yet promise everything?

Springsteen encored with Born To Run about the time I slogged into my hotel. I am staying at the stadium-friendly Holiday Inn Express so I can walk to the game.  No parking rip-off buzz-kill, please. Not on the FIRST one.  Let me be ripped off by the five-dollar pretzel, instead.

The breakfast room is packed full of boisterous Yankees fans, of which I am not.  Neither a fan, nor boisterous.  I have been alone for the last 20 hours and the sheer volume of even one Yankee fan is deafening. WHERE ARE THE DAMN SPOONS?  WHO IS IN CHARGE OF SPOONS?

I see a lone Braves fan in the corner just sitting there being polite and nursing a biscuit or three. Well, I think I’ll go right over there and just say hello.  I don’t.

Covered in dangerous layer of chemicals we call sunscreen  (yeah, I get the irony, that’s why I put it in there), I hustle down whatever-the-name-of-this-long-street is towards BASEBALL ITSELF, in this case, in the physical form of George Steinbrenner Field.  The Yankee propaganda is as omnipresent as it is accurate.  I know a lot of folks, many of whom I admire, HATE this team.  Hate A-rod.  Hate the pinstripes.  Hate the payroll numbers. Hate the loud breakfast eaters. Well, I hate the pinstripes- but I can’t hate this team.  I love baseball too much to despise a group of men that sweat it out all year to make it happen for me.

And let’s be honest, Tanaka, who is pitching today, is a joy to watch- the very essence of a master pitcher.  And Jeter, who is still in Panama at the moment, is a basic all-around-hero to anyone who truly loves decent human beings with superhuman skills.  But yeah, OK, I still hope the Braves pound the overpaid Yankees into the dirt in a way that will leave the fans quiet, humble and sad at Holiday Inn Express dinner buffet.

Hate, no. Enjoy watching emotional pain, yes.

I do my traditional pre-game scuttle around the circumference of the park, except you can’t do that here.  So I stop at the last place you can go, the Walgreen’s Deck/Bar (YES, it’s called THAT) and then freeze, stare blankly, and then turn around like Forest Gump when he reaches the California Coast.  This is followed by the secondary traditions: the pretzel, the gift shop visit to scoff at the orange and white NY hat, and the mandatory inspection of what must be the most narrow bathroom stalls in all of stadium-hood.  And taking in the unmistakeable baseball smells, all of ’em. The good, the bat, and the Uggla.  But mostly just the hot dogs. Why do they only smell magical HERE?

Finally, I settle into my seat and size up the folks in my row.  All acceptable- a nice mix of nerds, former jocks who don’t know they are former jocks, chatty commentators with a 2.89 IRA (interesting/realistic average) , passionate fans of both teams, and even the dad who seems to continually belittle his youngest son for being barely interested- and for, well, having the attention span of a six-year-old. Let me know how that works out for you 11 years from now, pops.

The Yankees fans in row C-217 look wealthier and more confident, the Braves fans look more relaxed and gregarious.  So, we could call it a draw except that Braves fans, impossible not to notice in such warm weather, have bigger breasts.  And that’s not just the men, the women, too.

Turning the observations towards the guy sitting my seat,  he seems to know more about the players and their stats than anyone else.  This gives me a sizeable crumb of pride, but mostly just freaks me out.  Just a year or two ago, I was dead last in that category in most rows I sat in. In fact, last spring training I was shamed by a Phillies housewife who had to point out who Evan Gattis was.  She even knew his Spanish name.

Being newly in love with the actual stats, insights and details, I will spare you those now.  A quick summary, though:  The game made us all happy, even the losers. Tanaka was brilliant. There is your take-a-way: Bet your granny’s retirement money on Tanaka.

And the score? The Braves were losing by the 7th inning stretch. But losing doesn’t matter here, right? Then why does it hurt when I peek at the scoreboard?

Several fair-weather, sunburned fans took the stretch opportunity to shyly scoot out to their air-conditioned SUV’s and semi-fancy hotels.  I followed them  to make sure they got out OK.