“I watch baseball and it’s my game. You know, you take your worries to the park and you leave them there. You yell like crazy for your guys. It’s good for your lungs, it gives you a lift and nobody calls the cops. A hot dog at the game beats roast beef at the Ritz.”

— Humphrey Bogart

If you grew up in Northeast Ohio or settled here later in life, you know the sun and relative warmth this week is most likely what we call “false spring.”

A week like this turns the thoughts of young and old men alike to baseball, golf and fishing.

I’d be lying if I tried to convince you that I haven’t been thinking about the Cleveland Guardians’ lineup and starting rotation, the incomparable feel of a well-struck drive followed by a brilliant approach shot and a clutch putt and pulling in a nice-sized bass from a shimmering lake.

But don’t be fooled. All of those things — aside from me actually putting together three or four good golf shots together — will arrive sooner or later, but as a lifelong Ohioan, I’m pretty sure we’re not finished with cold and snow just yet. Some of the worst winter weather I’ve experienced has come in mid-March or early April.

A memorable blizzard in mid-March 1993 stranded my wife and mother-in-law on a bus somewhere between Cleveland and Jefferson on their way back from a home and garden show. The same storm prevented me from getting to work one day because there was no way to get my car unearthed from 3 feet of snow or to navigate the back roads of rural Ashtabula County to get to equally snowy Meadville, Pa.

My boss, meanwhile, was the last guy out of Hersheypark Arena at the PIAA State Wrestling Tournament that night and had to go door-to-door in a nearby neighborhood to try to find someone who would let him borrow a shovel to dig out his car in the parking lot.

So the bad news — just call me Mr. Worst Case Scenario — is that there is a good chance spring isn’t quite here to stay just yet. But unlike all those people who insist that life as we know it is about to end because the candidate they backed didn’t win in November, I’m committed to staying positive, because the good news is that we are less than two weeks away from the start of baseball season.

There is just something about baseball that puts me in the right frame of mind. Maybe it’s the combination of the eventual end of winter and the renewal of life that literally “springs” upon us as a long, gray winter fades away. Maybe it’s the optimism that comes with spring training, the crisp uniforms, the crack of a bat and the sound of a ball popping into a glove. Maybe it’s the green grass of a well-manicured field against the pristine dirt of an infield.

Basketball, football and hockey have their appeal, but baseball has a rhythm and a feel unlike other sports. It’s almost spiritual in a way that many who love it can’t always explain and that those who don’t will never understand.

You’ve probably heard people call baseball boring. Some prefer the brutal collisions of football, the athleticism of basketball or the speed and skill of hockey. Others gravitate to the individuality of track and field or golf.

But baseball has the best of everything — the one-on-one of a pitcher and hitter, the unparalleled workings of a good defensive team behind a pitcher and the cerebral chess game between managers when it comes to strategy and moves.

It’s much more difficult to be a casual fan of baseball. Most who grow up with the game have immersed themselves in the experience, the numbers and nuances of the game.

Major League Baseball is not perfect as currently constituted. Commissioner Rob Manfred has introduced some strange rules to the game some of us love and many traditional fans will never forgive him for.

The extra-innings “ghost” runner on second is a travesty. So is outlawing the infield shift. I can live with the pitch clock, but I wasn’t thrilled about it. I’ve grown accustomed to instant replay, but it has removed some of the human elements of the game,

Manfred seems to be trying to cater to potential fans who don’t appreciate baseball’s timeless nature. It used to be that you never knew if you were going to experience a 90-minute pitchers duel or a four-hour, extra-inning slugfest when you walked through the turnstiles and found your seats. Some of that innate charm has been stripped from the game.

But I don’t really want to think about gripes right now. I’m with Humphrey Bogart, not to mention Xander Bogaerts and it’s almost time to play ball.

Let’s meet at the Bob Feller statue and hope for sun, a nice breeze and lots of Stadium Mustard.

Ed Puskas is editor of the Tribune Chronicle and The Vindicator. He can be reached at 330-841-1786 and epuskas@tribtoday.com.