My wife loves winter. I hate it. I hate the cold. I hate the darkness. I hate having to layer up like a Siberian fisherman just to walk the dog. (And I live in Alabama. Imagine how ornery I’d be about this if I lived in Maine.) Plus, baseball is dormant.
If the 1982 National League Championship Series were a beer, it’d be lukewarm and flat. You’d either love it — for some unknown reason — or despise it.
I’m the former. I love it.