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No, wait. Don't fret (or celebrate, as the case may be). I'm not going anywhere. The people at YES haven't cut me from their online roster, and I haven't decided I've lost my swing with the word processor and need to step away. Nor has anything rotten happened to me on a personal level, although, let me tell you, there's a thing or two about the book publishing business that's seriously gotten under my skin.

What's so hard about doing my current column, then? Okay, I'll end the suspense.

The hard thing is I've got to shut up for a change. A couple of weeks back, in my season opener, I asked for spring training stories and reports from you, The Reader, promising to post the best of them in this space &151; and I got a bunch. A bigger and better bunch than I anticipated. Thus, there's no room here for me to tell any baseball-related stories; rant, rave or complain; make some feeble attempt to amuse, entertain, or provide insight; or serve as tribal angst-eater for Yankee fans in exile.

I said that I'd turn this week's column over to you and your spring training reports, and I'm sticking to my promise-and thanking each and every person who wrote in while I'm at it. If your story isn't among those chosen for the column, you can be sure it was read, enjoyed, and appreciated.

Thus, with a crack of an imaginary bat reverberating in the background...

Our leadoff hitter is Kim C. from New York. I not only enjoyed Kim's account of a manic, borderline-crazy trek to Tampa through the heart of a late-winter storm, but really loved the first line of her accompanying email, which reads "My sister and I are UGE fans of yours." Yeah, I am definitely susceptible to flattery.

Kim began with a quote that had no attribution, so I have no idea whether or not it was original. But I think it's neat, and I'm using it. Go Kim.

**

In religion and spirituality, a pilgrimage is a long journey or search of great moral or social significance. Sometimes the journey is to a sacred place or shrine of importance. A person who makes such a journey is called a pilgrim.

Friday, March 16:
It's 8:30 am, and I'm sitting on an American Airlines plane listening to the pilot talk about flight delays due to snowy ice chips and "operations being shut down". The disappointment among the Pilgrims is palpable. All I can think about is how much planning went into this year's annual spring training trip to Florida... for some reason more so than any other year. For months we have been through a series of logistical changes involving hotels, flights, reservations, game tickets, schedules. It was a calorie-burner.

We are Yankee fans. Some of us a bit more externally passionate than others, but we all have the calling. Each year we look forward to a silly little trip to Tampa, Florida. A way to break the gloom of New York winters and give us a much needed reminder that spring is so close within reach. We savor the sight of seeing our pinstriped Captain lead his teammates onto the emerald field.

It's magical. Some of us fly, some of us drive, some of us stay a night or two or more.... but every year without fail the pilgrims meet to watch a few baseball games together in the sun.

So now there are ice chips? Big deal. Can't the pilot fly around them? Apparently not. After the two hour delay the flight is officially canceled and the airport is shut down. Do we go home? Or do we come up with Plan B?

After a mass exodus from LaGuardia and a few quickly concocted rental car/airline phone calls, we now have one-way plane tickets out of Baltimore. The flight is in five hours. "No problem, I can make Baltimore in five hours easily," I say as my eyes wander from window of the car rental area to the golfball-sized snowflakes that have now started to gracefully fall. "You know what? Can you change that 2-door compact to an SUV?"

As we start driving south we begin to feel replenished, like all hope is not lost. But apparently every other New Yorker holding Florida-bound plane tickets has the same idea we do. The traffic is overwhelming; the weather is adding wrinkles to an otherwise perfect Plan B. Hours are clicking by-as well as car accidents-and I now quietly say a prayer to the baseball gods that we can make the 5:00 pm flight.

At 4:15 we're approaching the airport in Baltimore. A cell phone rings-it's two more pilgrims that grabbed an Amtrak train out of NYC to meet us there. The voice is shaky but direct. "The flight was canceled."

We all exhale as it sinks into our brains that Plan B has failed us.

"Okay", I say. "Let's go with Plan C."

My sister reminds me there is no Plan C.

We pick up our two friends-one of whom is on crutches from a recent fall-as we speed away from the airport. We point the car South on 95 as we begin making simultaneous phone calls on five different cell phones. The car sounds like a successful night at a Jerry Lewis telethon. In order to get to Florida we have to not only accomplish driving far enough South to find an airport unaffected by the storm, but find FIVE one-way plane tickets to Tampa.

Delta, US Air, Jet Blue..... Charlotte, Richmond, Raleigh Durum. It's spring break and St. Patrick's Day all in one long weekend. Flights are completely booked. This, coupled with the fact I now realize I have all the game tickets for a total of 12 pilgrims meeting in Tampa, causes me to begin twitching and talking to myself.

I make a phone call to a friend stuck late at work.

"Don't ask me any questions... just log onto Expedia-dotcom and find me five one-way tickets to Tampa!" She finds them. My heart double-beats. We have Plan C! Five seats out of Atlanta, Georgia!

Everyone in the car shrieks, and I mean shrieks, "ATLANTA?? Kim, that's ten hours away!" It's now 7:00pm and I have been driving eight hours.

"It's the only way!" I scream like a crazy person. "I need your decision right now. Either you're all in, or you're out."

There is a moment of silence. Then another. Then I'm unanimously directed by the pilgrims to instruct my Expedia-perched friend to click "Confirm" next to the $1,500 e-ticket charge.

It's Tampa or bust. Forget the US postal carriers, this is dedication. As we stop, choke down local grub, and give a new meaning to the words "fast food", we are back on the road realizing we have exactly eight hours left to make it to Georgia.

We reach Atlanta just in time to make our 7:00 am flight, after drinking as much Starbucks coffee as you can legally consume without a doctor's prescription. As we board the plane, I actually have tears in my bloodshot eyes.

At 8:30 am we land at a sunny, cheerful and promising Tampa airport. We race to the hotel where other pilgrims await us. We shower and head toward Legends Field.

I can actually see the finish line. We made it. We really made it.

After I bump into Rudy Giuliani in the Yankee gift shop, it dawns on me this is some kind of special year. Electric and powerful. A season of greatness, perhaps? As Pettitte takes the mound, the stadium literally explodes. Kids are cheering and smiling in the sunshine, adults are discussing the pitching staff over cold beers...

Call me, crazy but my Pilgrims have a glow about them that I know I won't quite be able describe afterwards.

The Yankees lose the game, but somehow it doesn't matter. We've accomplished our mission. The universe didn't beat us. The Yankee determination we all know and love propelled us forward, against all odds. So we, the Pilgrims, have won...

And more importantly, our season has officially begun.

**

Next up is a piece by Jennelle J. from Provo, Utah. True, it technically isn't a 2007 spring training story because, well, it's about Jennelle's experiences at an '06 preseason game. But she touched my ticker with her love of dad, Mo and baseball, and in this space we're flexible-meaning we make up the rules as we zip along.

Jennelle, please:

Last year I was in Arizona for the last two games the Yankees played before the regular season started.

To be honest, I'm a relatively new fan to baseball - I spent most of my early growing up years dreading the Saturdays of double headers. In fact the only time I remotely enjoyed baseball was when it was playoff time-and then only because it became a family contest as to who could correctly pick the winner of the World Series. Plus it meant that baseball was almost over-not to mention time spent with the family. It wasn't until I went to a game several years ago with my father at Yankee Stadium that I realized what a wonderful and exciting thing I had been missing all those years.

Back to the spring training/exhibition games... my dad and I had gotten to the ballpark early to try to get some autographs. I was watching BP when he got my attention and said that Mariano Rivera was signing autographs along the right side of the outfield. So I made my way into the mosh pit and proceeded to get smashed, scrunched, pushed, and even stepped on-literally. I was starting to wonder if it was worth all the discomfort I was experiencing just to get someone's signature on a baseball-keep in mind that this was my first-ever autograph attempt. But I stuck with it.

Mo was trying to sign stuff for the kids before he worked his way through the adults &151; I'd had a great deal of respect for him before, but it deepened in that moment. As he was working his way through outstretched arms filled with baseballs and anything else people wanted signed, I began to worry, "What if he signs mine, and when he goes to hand it back to me I drop it and someone else runs off with it?"

Given that I can be a bit of a klutz at times, the thought wasn't anything out of the ordinary for me.

With all the fans seeking his signature, I knew there was a possibility my baseball wouldn't end up with his signature on it. So I tried to patiently wait and convince myself that I wouldn't be disappointed if it didn't happen. Some fans were practically begging for Mo to sign whatever they had in their hands. I just stood there, arm outstretched, hoping that my baseball would be the next one he took.

After what seemed like an eternity, I felt the ball being taken out of my hand. Because of my position in the crowd, I wasn't entirely sure that it was Mo who took it.

And then moments later, the ball was returned with his name staring back at me.

I don't think I ever clutched anything so tightly in my hands.

When I finally worked my way out of the mosh pit and got back to where my dad was waiting, he asked if I got my autograph. I must have been grinning ear to ear because I really didn't have to say anything. I was like a little kid in a candy store with an endless supply of cash. I couldn't recall another time in my adult life when I'd been that giddy. I showed him the ball and then put it away - mainly for fear of someone seeing it and trying to rip it off.

Then dad asked me why I was shaking. I hadn't realized that I was. But I'm sure it was from the sheer disbelief that I was now the proud owner of a baseball signed by a future Hall-of-Famer and one of the best closers in baseball.

For several days I proudly wore the bruises I received from being stepped on. I did try to get other autographs that night, as well as the following day. I was unsuccessful.

However, I know full well that even if that one autograph is the only one I ever get, it's definitely not a bad one to have.

**

Our third offering is by John R. from Connecticut. John really knew how to play me-he not only praised this column but my Tom Clancy's Power Plays novels. Plus he wrote what I felt was beautifully descriptive scouting report on presently-and I hope very briefly-sidelined pitcher Chien-Ming Wang.

Ready Johnny? Good:

I live in Connecticut and had the opportunity to go down to Tampa for a few days, a nice getaway from the wonderful New England weather (I am thinking about suing Al Gore for fraud-where is his global warming when you need it?)

Scouting report for the Yankees: I went to the first spring training game, the one that Wang pitched. He was impressive. We had seats along the first base line (the stadium down there is wonderful) and the thing about Wang is you can actually see the movement of his pitches when he is on the mound. You can see the late drop. You can see that sink. And for anyone who is worried about Wang's strikeout totals, in the first spring game of the season, sitting fairly close to the field, you could almost feel the sting through the hands of the batters when they hit a Wang pitch. It sounds heavy coming off the bat.

There was a smattering of boos for A-Rod in the first game, nothing that made any real noise, but it did send the message that the third baseman is going to be facing an uphill battle. Even fans defending A-Rod were doing so with little emotion. You get the sense some people just don't want the man there at all. I'm sure that will all change if he has a huge season/postseason, but right now there will be no slack for A-Rod.

One thing that's striking when you get up close to the players is how big they are. Derek Jeter is a BIG MAN. I was shocked.

The really interesting moment was the Phil Hughes outing. He looked a little lost at first, but his stuff is just electric. I don't know what his fastball was being clocked at, but it looked like an A+ fastball that was really getting up there in a hurry.

What was more interesting was the fan reaction. Everyone knew who was on the mound. It was like a few thousand scouts all watching intently, commenting on location and movement of the ball.

Hughes punched out the reigning MVP of the league on a nasty pitch on the inside part of the plate that completely fooled him. He was impressive without even being impressive.

Besides that, it was wonderful to sit in the stands with a short sleeve shirt, feel a cool breeze pass by every once in a while, have a hot dog and a beverage in the stands, and talk baseball.

After my first time at spring training, I can say there really is nothing like it. Now back in Connecticut, dealing with subzero weather, I am always waiting for the spring training games to come on just to get a little feel of those 70 degree days, those warm breezes, and the crack of the bat.

If you get a chance to go to spring training in the future, I would recommend it.

**

Kevin N. from Tampa (via somewhere in Georgia via New York) not only wrote several lengthy spring training reports, but started to feed me a running blog about the games he attended over the past week or so. Kev's a longtime reader of this column who's as ridiculously over-the-top about the highs and lows of a typical Yank season as I tend to be. For example. Here's an excerpt from Kev's first entry:

Sunday Blog
Detroit 9 - Yankees 5

I will be doing one of these every day this week as I go to these last games... Jerome, we are in trouble after game one for the week. Now listen to Kev about twenty-four hours later:

Monday Blog
Yankees 5 - Phillies 1

What a difference a day made. Kei {Igawa} looked unreal. Very good. His control was good, he was placing his pitches very well, he never got into any real trouble, and he had nasty stuff that kept Philly off tilt. Much better than the reports I have read recently. The game was also much better played. A nice return to some normalcy. Torre had the starters in for most the game well into the 8th. For a while I was getting concerned about the hitting, but even that came around. I know it still is only Spring Training but I expect some things from the team, and they showed me what I expected.

Hmmm. Do we notice a pattern emerging here? Sunday, the Yanks lose. Kev is unhappy. Monday, they win. Kev is sounding quite optimistic about the upcoming Yankee season. On Tuesday, even though the Yanks fell to the Twins 4-3, Kev remained in fairly decent spirits because: We had the game in hand until Chris Britton took over... But then Kev's Wednesday blog came along. Uh-oh, check out the score:
Houston 12 - Yanks 2

No Comments other than we stunk. Sat by the bullpen and that was more fun than the game. We have issues.

Kevin, my deepest sympathies. As I said, you are scarily similar in psychological and emotional makeup to the writer of this column.

Now, finally, here's an endnote by Chelsea from Massachusetts. It's got nothing to do with spring training, granted, but I already admitted to playing fast and loose with the rules here. Truth be known, Chelsea's another regular reader and frequent correspondent who's stuck to her guns being a Yank fan in Red Sox Country despite all sorts of harassment, some presumably in good fun, and some that's been pretty mean-spirited.

Chelsea's essay, incidentally, is from her college application(s), and in my opinion ought to qualify her for the first school on her list. But then, I know what my opinion's worth. And when I forget, The Wife reminds me. Okay, folks, I'm gone. Thanks again for playing along with my spring training idea, it was fun. I'll see you all after Opening Day.

Heeeere's Chelsea:
"Get out of here, you Yankees fan!" a strange man yells at me as he dashes by with a grocery store cart.

A few aisles later I hear another middle-aged man behind me say, "How can you wear that around here." I turn around and look up at the dark blue hat that sat upon his head with a deep red Boston Red Sox "B" on it. I couldn't help but smile as he walked away disgusted by my New York Yankees' Mariano Rivera shirt.

Yes, I do exist. I am a diehard Yankee fan living in the heart of Red Sox nation or otherwise known as Massachusetts; and believe me, the moment I step out of my house wearing anything depicting "New York Yankees" or showing the interlocking "NY", I become well aware instantaneously that I am in enemy territory.

However, I can not imagine being a Yankee fan anywhere else than Massachusetts during the Yankees-Red Sox series where the rivalry reaches astronomical heights. Red Sox fans have a certain vibe during these games; an if-we-can-beat-the-Yankees-then-we-can-conquer-the-world attitude. Yet, as soon as our paths cross that feeling swiftly changes to a, how can I put this gently, a much more negative feeling.

Nothing feels better than when you can proudly represent the team that you are passionate about Being a fan of any sport on rival grounds can unquestionably let loose the rebel inside anyone. My rebellious side just happens to be wearing pinstripes and a dark blue New York Yankees hat.