I launched into a two-pronged celebration the second the Super Bowl ended. First, because the New England Patriots lost. Thankfully. But more importantly, because the Super Bowl’s conclusion marks the beginning of baseball season. 

Except, that is not quite true. There was another intermediate hurdle in the way: March Madness. On the first day of the NCAA tournament, my hopes were sky-high. No. 12 High Point beat No. 5 Wisconsin in a nailbiter, which is exactly what I predicted would happen. And No. 9 TCU, which I chose because frogs are great, defeated No. 8 Ohio State.

No one has ever chosen a perfect bracket, but what if I became the first? 

Nope. My hopes were dashed that night as No. 6 BYU lost to No. 11 Texas Tech. I had BYU in my Final Four. Don’t ask — I cannot possibly remember what led me to make that choice. 

Worse, I entered Thursday night with my bracket doing worse than my mother’s. For context, she chose teams based on a combination of vibes, mascots, the fact that “UNC and Virginia and Duke and Villanova are always good” and a random disdain for the state of Texas. 

While I’ve since overtaken her in the lead — I told her that choosing UNC was a bad idea — my bracket is pretty much toast against everybody else’s. 

All of this is to say that it is now, finally, baseball season. Welcome.

Another campus organization recently released a New York Mets season preview, complete with a discussion of my least favorite person, Juan Soto. In the interest of fairness, then, a New York Yankees season preview is in order.

At the beginning of this year, I did not even know how to pronounce Carlos Lagrange’s name. I vaguely remembered the term “Lagrange” from a calculus class in high school — something about multipliers, maybe? Or series, perhaps? 

Now, though, Lagrange means something to me beyond a concept I hope doesn’t come up on an AP exam. Pronounced “La-GRAHN-hay,” Lagrange is a 22-year-old pitcher in the Yankees’ minor league system. This spring training, he proved that he might be one of the best pitchers in the Yankees’ organization — not just because the rest of our pitching is either injured or incompetent, but because he is excellent. 

The Yankees signed Lagrange for just $10,000 in 2022. While I’d very much appreciate such a signing bonus, $10,000 is approximately five dollars in baseball terms. Since then, Lagrange has proven that he is worth far more.

Lagrange first appeared on my — and everybody else’s — radar on the first day of this year’s spring training when he casually struck out Aaron Judge. Oh, and it was on a 102.6 MPH fastball. Perhaps that happened because Judge is slumping, as evidenced by his lackluster performance in the World Baseball Classic championship game. Alternatively, Lagrange is just that good. Maybe it’s both.

Lagrange has since drawn comparisons to last season’s Yankees playoff hero Cam Schlittler. While he will begin the season with the Triple-A Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders, Lagrange figures to be an important addition to the Yankees’ bullpen down the stretch. 

It feels so far away to think about. “Down the stretch” means August, or even September. I’ll be graduated, off in law school somewhere during what everyone alleges will be the most harrowing semester of my life — a far cry from my senior spring that can only generously be interpreted as “school.” 

Yet in whatever tiny apartment I end up in, I know that when Lagrange makes his appearance in the Yankees’ roster, he will make a parallel appearance on my television. I know almost nothing else about the specifics of how I will be spending my fall, but I do know that much.

My Yankees’ earrings are in hiding. They are collecting dust in some drawer, where they have sat untouched since Oct. 8, 2025. My Judge jersey is in a similar position.

I threw both of them into timeout when the Yankees lost the American League Division Series to the Toronto Blue Jays last year. 

This Wednesday, though, I will at least consider forgiving them. I will give my earrings and jersey a fresh start. I will do the same for Judge, Anthony Volpe, Giancarlo Stanton and everybody else who wronged me last October. 

All of them will — once again — have until this October to prove to me that I don’t need to spend my winter complaining about the injustice that is baseball season. I wish them luck.