Spring has sprung; that much is now certain. The ladies have appeared on Bascom, Frisbees have flown, classes have moved outdoors, and the surest sign of all: baseball is going on for real.

This is renewal. Anyone who walked around in short sleeves this week after spending a winter in Wisconsin without respite to a tropical clime knows as much, knows the newness in drinking the air around here on the first day over 70.

We tend to be big fans of New Year’s resolutions, and we wonder why they never work. I don’t know about you, but I feel anything but renewed the morning of Jan. 1. Being all for self-improvement, I’ve become a fan of spring resolutions as I made a few modest ones last year and they stuck. I actually shed the pounds.

This year, I found some new motivation.

* * * * *

A well-kept, well-spoken gentleman stopped by the office, inquiring about the possible publication of an op-ed piece. We chatted for awhile, five minutes perhaps. Then boom. Then we finished up, we shook hands and he left.

I stopped by my old place of employment over spring break and met the lady who had replaced me: educated, experienced, well-spoken. “So nice to finally meet you … Hope you find it rewarding … Did you have any questions … Boom … Yeah he’s a great guy to work for.”

I had a phone interview for an article this week that went something like this: Facts, question, response, question, response, boom. Facts, question, response.

All victims of the conversation bomb that never stops being awkward, if only for a second. Shock isn’t the way to describe how we react anymore, and that might be a bad thing. Individually, I took the booms in stride. Nothing I hadn’t heard before.

But taken together, over the short span of about a week, coming from people I hardly knew or was addressing in a formal situation, the whole became greater than the sum of the parts. Once I started to listen for them, the booms turned into BOOMS. And I began to realize I’m responsible for a few too many booms myself.

* * * * *

I still remember the first time. Perhaps an odd childhood recollection; I must have been about five. For most of us, it was probably on a rap CD stolen from our older brother’s older friend, Vanilla Ice or some such thing.

For me, it was my first Cubs game, a doubleheader against the Mets in Wrigley on a hot July afternoon. We lost them both, Game One after proverbial Cub-killer Howard Johnson took it yard in the 12th. Needless to say, a group of 60-something Cub-curmudgeons should have tapped out the Budweisers around the bottom of the 10th, because as our bullpen buckled, a surprisingly coherent and colorful tapestry rained down ever harder on my innocent ears with a persistence equaling their peanut shells and beer splatters raining on my freshly bent cap.

Growing up a diehard Cubs fan is a little bit like being perpetually 15 years and 364 days old. You’re just hanging on tomorrow, because it’s bound to be better. God in His infinite love wouldn’t have it any other way. Then you fail your test, reschedule two months later, and fail again and again and again. This has been doing on since 1945, since Gabby Hartnett, Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, ’69, Rick Sutcliffe, ’84, Will Clark’s triple in ’89, the hijacking of Greg Maddux, Don Zimmer, Mark Grace.

Put simply, it’s like beating your thumb with a hammer.

Needless to say, I, too, in short order, learned to boom the boys in blue. Who wouldn’t?

* * * * *

In the past few weeks, my six iron, my midterm, my computer, my last column, a washing machine, and far too many of the random occurrences of life have been assailed by my lips. And, every time, I wonder when I lost the ability to do better.

John Wayne didn’t need it. Kirk Douglas didn’t need it. Brando didn’t need it. Paul Newman didn’t need it. They made what might now be called some of the most tasteless, brutal, unenlightened and unrefined cinema in history. They also made some of the best.

Dean Martin didn’t need it — and he managed to circle the bases. “Mack the Knife” wasn’t exactly G-Rated. Tom Petty didn’t need it, and there wasn’t a drug or bedroom act he didn’t reference. If they can live without it, so can I.

Anger towards another human being doesn’t warrant it. If the anger is at its base temporary or unfounded, the reference is so strong as to be inaccurate. If the anger is genuine, legitimate and deep, the reference is so base as to be inadequate.

So I started to think enough was enough. No more booms.

If I smack my thumb with a hammer, I’ll more than certainly have some choice appellations for the hammer, the nail, the Craftsman Corporation, the sawhorse, the guy walking by with his dog in my peripheral vision who made a distracting jerky knee movement and his great aunt. Again, who wouldn’t?

But I don’t really need the boom, at least not in public.

A couple days ago, I swore off the booms for good — or at least I vowed a realistic reduction. The sun was shining, and the Mets took a 15-2 walloping at the hands of my boys in blue. Spring had sprung.

And I didn’t even need them just now. Found about a thousand suitable substitutes without much difficulty. No da–es, no st*rs, no &*$% throughout a piece devoted entirely to the subject.

Feeling confident, resolved and ready to kick the old habit, I put the column away and started sifting through the news. Feet on the desk, sports page, box scores. Sammy took an 0-fer and the bullpen collapsed in the late innings.

My resolution struck out looking on the ceremonial first pitch.

Damn Cubs.

Boom.

Eric B. Cullen ([email protected]) is a sophomore majoring in political science and history. His latest rap album is rapidly climbing the charts, sans a parental advisory warning.