I’ve always been local when it comes to prognosticating the weather. Punxsutawney Phil and his handlers can eat their hats. Duxbury Digger, the woodchuck in my back yard, spent the day snoozing away under overcast skies. One peek out of his hole, no shadow, and back to bed. We’ll have an early spring regardless of the weather in Pennsylvania.

Groundhog Day has ancient roots, and one root explained on Wikipedia shows why seeing his shadow would mean six more weeks of winter weather, while not seeing it calls for an early spring. The Celts of Ireland, Scotland and elsewhere thought that the Cailleach, the hag-goddess who controlled the weather, would stir herself on a fine day to gather more fire wood for a nice long winter, but on a cloudy day would just roll over and go back to sleep. Her wood pile would run low sooner, and she would fire up the springtime instead. I like the notion of a deity who can be both powerful and lazy to suit the weather – or shape the weather. Spring is coming sooner than it seems. The buds on my lilacs already show highlights of green in their deep red bulk. The sun is greeting me earlier each day. I’ve already bought fresh basil to plant outside, a rooted plant now filling my kitchen with healing and hope. The Red Sox equipment truck will leave Fenway on Feb. 11, just three days from now. Pitchers and catchers report for spring training on Feb. 19. Less than two weeks away, and the truest cure for Patriot disappointment will be upon us.

I know that Patriots fans like me are aching. I ache especially for Danny Woodhead, the impossibly tough and capable athlete who shows men of ordinary size that we are not watching Titans who bear little resemblance to us, we are watching ourselves. I suppose that’s part of the pain. Who among us hasn’t lost points by making a desperate effort to escape the inevitable? Tom Brady’s misbegotten effort to avoid a safety (2 points) against the Patriots, in fact, insured the points for the Giants. Brady’s desperation bomb to the convalescing Rob Gronkowski could have meant a miracle win for the Pats. Instead, the Giants simply won. The myth of Eli Manning’s power to control end-game events proved stronger than the myths of Brady, and Coach Belichik.

The Cailleach, in her lazy wisdom, simply rolled over in her bed, and counted on the coming spring to sooth, heal, and invigorate us with the warming fragrances of basil, lilacs, and neat’s foot oil in our baseball gloves.

The Red Sox narrative for this year will lie close to my heart. Have the privileged slugs been purged from the ranks? Has a remnant been spared to make the Red Sox clubhouse culture alive and strong? What is Tim Wakefield’s future? The Patriots Super Bowl defeat compares to the Red Sox historic collapse last year like death by hanging compares to witnessing the death of a planet. Can it really be happening? Can no one stop this? The Super Bowl, at least, is over in a matter of hours. The 2011 Red Sox took forever to die, and whined about it along the way.

But baseball is a different game. It is sprinkled with Danny Woodheads, men who look like the rest of us – tall, short, fat, skinny, and in-between. The season is 162 games, not a mere 16. There is time to make changes, relax, and hope for success. The game is untimed, and offers the fans chance to make a sandwich along the way, between the moments of high drama. In one form or another, it is played by real men and women of all ages all summer long. Baseball is still free of the need for full-body armor. Seen from the air, its fields prove to world wandering Americans that they are home again.

Punxsutawney Phil, from west central Pennsylvania, is probably a Pirates fan, as he lives and sleeps 90 miles from Pittsburg. He is surely a baseball fan, too sleepy for the football, hockey, and basketball seasons. But when it comes to prognosticating, I’ll check with Duxbury Digger, my own woodchuck. He knows the lay of the land around here, and he’s bound to be lively and strong for the Red Sox opening day on April 5. By then, my basil will be soaking in the outdoor sun, hiding from Digger, and filling the air with fragrance and luck.