It's Pronounced 'Thermometer'

[Ed's note: Sweet Lou Monte will be in with a post later this afternoon.]

A brisk 45 degrees in Morningside Heights as I'm writing this. I mean, whoa. Pretty soon, we're not going to be able to go outside in shorts.

On Sunday [Dec. 17], a couple of us hit up Riverside Park around 3 in the afternoon to play hoops on the outdoor courts, which weren't burdened by anything so cumbersome as snow or ice.

It wasn't a bad setup; me, the White Phil Ivey, Kid Slick and this random middle-aged Chinese dude (with a surprisingly good jumper, as it happened) played 2-on-2 for a while, three games worth of effort. We were sweating when we finished.

The other courts were all occupied. Two fields over, a bunch of dudes had a good baseball game going. The killer aluminum bats were going at full bore, clinking their deathly plinks with regularity. It was like watching an early screening of the "Black Christmas" remake.

Now...

I have nothing against baseball in December per se. It's a big world, and baseball should be a year-round game. Keep the flame going, by all means.

But it shouldn't be anywhere near me in the Northeast, and keeping it entirely out of the country wouldn't be a bad idea. Outsource that shit during the "winter" months.

In fact, why on earth an I allowed to be playing outdoor pickup basketball during Hanukkah? By all rights, I should be only be able to hoop inside a stuffy gym that smells like old cheese and Sip's socks, and have to watch a bunch of old dudes miss about a million jumpers before I get a chance to play. Fair is fair.

By the same token, I want to see baseball being played in the Dominican Republic, and Jose Reyes not playing it, and in Mexico, where ex-Royals pitcher Andy Sisco apparently did something bad enough to ... well, get kicked off a Mexican League team. If Venezuela gets a league together, I'm sure Ozzie Guillen will help organize it.

That's baseball in December. Out of sight, mostly out of mind, just shady enough to keep it interesting.

Another point of order -- any time the Bills are supposed to have a home cold-weather advantage over the Dolphins, baseball shouldn't be played in the same state. Show me the man who'll say it should be.

I don't know about all of Y2K's readers, but I love the change of seasons. I'm not a raving fan of winter, but I like the continuity of the cycle that shifts us from one setting to another, year after year. It's always been reassuring.

Plus, we've tailored (consciously or not) a massive number of societal rhythms to this four-seasons pattern, and none more obvious than the sporting calendar. This just isn't the time for baseball to be played. The time for idle speculation and hot-stove talk, sure. But that feels weird when we haven't even turned the hot stove on yet. (Only Peter Gammons still has an actual hot stove.)

A week out from Christmas is NFL playoff season, the time for fans to finally start having to bundle up for games at the Meadowlands and worry about Chad Pennington's crap arm.

It's the time to trundle home from Knicks brawls through snowbanks, wondering what the hell just happened and what type of drugs Nate Robinson was given as a child.

It's the time for the Rangers' cold weather contingent (aka, the team) to draw strength from the heaps of snow outside the Garden and rally to get beaten by the Sabres one more time.

It's the time for the Mets front office to be taking extravagent trips to Southern California to escape the winter conditions and do some last-minute holiday shopping.

It's the time for snow, quite frankly.

But none comes, or is scheduled to. Most of you probably have this set up already, but my 10-day Weather.com forecast might be the most depressing thing I've seen since "The Majestic." Who's pumped about 50 degrees on Christmas?

This is probably coming off as a self-indulgent rant, but in all seriousness, the conditions are really throwing me off my game. I'm just not sure what to do with myself.

I'm basically like a bat at the moment -- blind, relying on my other senses to carry me around the sporting cave (sonar, baby!), but the strange environment is throwing off my readings just enough so as to render me helpless. This post is me bumping up against a stalagmite.

Now, you might be sitting there thinking to yourself, "Gee, Cheddar Ben, what can I do to help?" More likely, you're probably not. You heartless wretch.

But honestly, helping out doesn't take much. All you need to do to pitch in is go about your business as you would in a more normal December. Keep the routine as solid as possible.

Put on boots to go to work. Do your holiday shopping with a scarf and gloves on. Give a buck to the guy playing 'Silent Night' on the saxamaphone. Don't go swimming at public beaches, or run in Central Park with only a sports bra on (seen this weekend, for the love of ...).

Remember, every little bit counts. With your help, I may get out of this (thud) cave some time before Valentine's Day.

[Images in this post were taken from ESPN.com, horreur-web.com and pbase.com]