(Apologies if this isn't quite slashy enough, but time and inspiration are in short supply this week. One can't rely on fate to hand one a gay plush flying monkey every time one needs to blog. ;) )
What do you think is the most romantic season? Is it spring when the flowers start to bloom? Or summer when so many people insist on getting married? Or autumn when the trees are in their splendor of gold and yellow and red? Or winter when we snuggle up with a special someone and a mug of cocoa in front of a roaring fire?
Well I would argue that it's none of these. The most romantic season, the season that never fails to ignite passion and tears and joy, is Baseball Season. Is it just the deliciously tight pants the boys of summer wear? That certainly doesn't hurt, but I frankly prefer the retro look with the baggy knickerbockers and high socks. Is it the slashy goodness of watching fit young men openly hugging, butt slapping, and leaping all over one another when they win, or embracing in tears when they lose the biggest games in the fall? That doesn't hurt either. But in my opinion it's the history of the sport, the excitement of the game itself, and the unmistakeable and inimitable cries of "My oh my!" and "Fly away!" and (my personal fave) "Get out the rye bread and mustard, Grandma! It's grand salami time!" from Cooperstown-bound Dave Niehaus that make my heart flutter and my eyes well up. That's romance to me.
And, yeah, the boys in tight pants smacking each other on the ass are nice, too. ;)