I miss baseball.

Now that it’s almost back, now that we’re finally in the same month as Spring Training, now that PECOTA has been released and torn to shreds, I miss it more than ever.

I won’t lie–it’s hard to let go of 2009.

It’s hard to let go of that season where nearly everything broke *just* right, where the Yankees were that team, the one you decided you’d take as your own, because it was clear they were by and far the best team, and where you spent a chill November evening get drunk on Brooklyn Lager and free champagne at a bar on the Upper West Side.

A new season means that, according to the standings, at least, 2009 doesn’t matter one bit.

No matter how much you follow the team in the offseason, no matter how familiar you are with how Curtis Granderson hits during night games on turf against lefties or how Nick Johnson’s OBP improves if he hits in spot Y of the lineup instead of spot X, you still, ultimately, know almost nothing.

No matter how familiar you are with statistics–how you bypass OBP and OPS and go straight for WAR–the fact is that there is no statistic that will tell you which player’s going to get hurt (though they’re trying) or which rookie will be utterly unable to deal with the transition from a 10,000 seat AAA park to a 50,000 seat stadium, or which player is going to get in some sort of other trouble that prohibits him from doing what the team had planned for him to do.

The stats can tell you what should happen, of course–but, with the possible exception of Nate Silver, they usually don’t tell you what will.

Yet even so, even knowing that with the aging shortstop, third baseman, catcher and a couple pitchers PECOTA’s 93-win prediction may not be all that far off–I still miss baseball.

I miss listening to “amp-up” music on the way to the subway, wearing my Yankee t-shirt and hi-fiving grown men with whom I have utterly nothing in common–except that we’re Yankee fans.

I miss coming out of the subway and crossing the street, feeling the rays of the sun on my back and moping about how I forgot sunblock, while I wait for my friend/brother/co-conspirator to come and meet me.

I miss trying to scan a crumpled-up paper ticket to get through the turnstile, and then walking all the way to the sushi stand in the food court, even though my seats are all the way in right field.

I miss trying to rush back, climbing G-d-only-knows how many flights of stairs to get to my Terrace or Grandstand level seats for which I’ve overpaid, just so I can finish my food before the National Anthem.

I miss the clapping till the first strike, and the Roll Call, and watching as Gardner flexes and Swisher salutes.

I miss the way the Stadium explodes when A-Rod connects, or when Jeter makes that jump throw, or when Canó manages to do anything with a runner on base.

I miss the way that you really don’t know what the score at the end of the game is going to be–and don’t tell me you do, because in 2009 I saw Chien Ming Wang outpitch Roy Halladay and am now a firm believer in anything being possible.

I miss the roar–in this case, the cliché is true–when “Enter Sandman” starts to blare, and the way we hang on Mariano’s every pitch as though life itself depends on it. Sometimes it does–and then we get to savor the sweet-smelling pie afterwards. I miss that, too.

I miss going to Ollie’s for dinner afterwards, watching game highlights on my phone and just trying to soak in everything I can about that day.

No matter how hard it may be to let go of 2009, I do it because that summer is over. It’s about time for a new one to begin.