Seven months ago, I vividly recall playing hopscotch around my firstborn’s Matchbox cars, enjoying liberal gulps of bottom-shelf bubbly between bursts of tears and fits of raucous laughter, and basking in the confirmation, finally, that God was a baseball fan.

As I toasted the only World Series result in the last eight decades that mattered and pledged to name my next child Mientkiewicz (boy or girl; hey, it beats Moon Unit), I was never more certain that America’s game was safe for the next generation.

Now, as I pry my fingers off the keyboard to take another swig from a two-liter bottle of vintage, generic brand diet ginger ale, I’ve revised my conclusions.

The Almighty is partial to bass tournaments, synchronized swimming, water polo, rowing, firefighting, ice sculpture and any other activity that requires massive quantities of two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen.

He’s also a big backer of Parcheesi, poker (much to the dismay of my Puritan ancestors), procreation and other indoor sports.

Baseball? Never liked it.

How much clearer did He have to be, really? The Man Upstairs allowed the Dodgers to leave Brooklyn, let George Steinbrenner earn his first million dollars, even permitted Barry Bonds to blow up like the Michelin Man for nine years before even the brassiest national sports columnists summoned the nerve to wonder aloud how it happened.

And somehow we still act like we didn’t get the memo. Phooey on us.

Couple this symbolism that’s clear as Bronson Arroyo’s steroid test sample with the obvious second strike that The Great Commissioner doesn’t much care for our rockbound corner of the fruited plain.

If you’re a small-town sportswriter whose livelihood is dependent upon schools’ ability to cram in three hours of outdoor activity, six days a week, well, there’s strike three.

I’m still waiting for the official number from the National Weather Service, mind you, but sources tell me we’ve been blessed with precisely three minutes, 17 seconds of sunlight since April 22. Give or take an hour.

Not saying the deluge has reached Biblical proportions or anything, but if a long-haired, shabbily dressed dude within the reach of my pen starts hearing a voice whispering about “cubits” and an urgent need to corral two California condors, by all means, get to work.

Oh, and if you’re a high school baseball or softball player gazing dreamily out a window between Eastport and the Merrimack River, find a new hobby. Get in some early studying for finals. Take up cross-stitch or duck hunting.

Yeah, this weather reeks. But when some clown in the grocery line regales you with the awkward-silence-filling revelation that “I’ve never seen anything like this,” politely suggest that he stow that bottle of Clorox where the sun doesn’t shine. Which of course means it will travel home affixed to the roof of his car.

The truth, as determined by 17 seasons of wishing I’d brought an umbrella or a heavier jacket to the ballpark, is that this is a typical spring in Maine. It’s all about excessive rain and lousy temperatures. It’s about Class D teams playing tripleheaders on Memorial Day to squeeze in enough games for tournament eligibility. It’s about schools playing home games 25 miles away, where the pitcher’s mound isn’t a sinkhole.

It’s just stupid.

Here’s an idea. Heaven seems more forgiving in fall. Why don’t we flip-flop the spring and autumn high school sports seasons in Maine? Can’t they play football and soccer in this garbage?

It seems to be the only recourse for those of us who love Maine, love baseball and love not having to make an honest living, despite the divine discontent that comes with it.

Also, moving the pastime playoffs to mid-November are the only way little Mientkiewicz will be able to enjoy the sport that meant so much to dear ol’ Dad.

That is, if the world doesn’t end in the meantime.

Kalle Oakes is a staff writer. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].