My brother and his son recently outlined plans for a trip to Boston’s Fenway Park to see St. Louis take on the Red Sox in interleague play.

Bill, one of my older brothers, is a Cardinals fan. His son, Brandon, backs the Sox.

Knowing that I’m a Cards’ fan, too, they asked me to tag along. Getting the OK from the boss (it was all right with work too), I said to count me in.

Between deciding that I’d go and saying that I’d go, the trip was expanded to include a stop at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, too, since the House that Ruth Built will be demolished after this season, as well as a stop at the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.

I thought about pointing out that the Nationall Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum was in Cooperstown and that the Soccer Hall of Fame was in nearby Oneonta, N.Y., but I was afraid our weekend trip — which had already been expanded to five days — could mushroom into a week-long trek. Afterall, Bill was already noting that the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame was along the route to Boston in Springfield, Mass.

But we decided the trip was ambitious enough and passed on Springfield. How could it be any better than the Indiana High School Basketball Hall of Fame in New Castle? That was my rationalization, anyway.

We enjoyed the football hall of fame, although Bill likely got more out of it than me. He’s a longtime Packers fan, and I’m a longsuffering Vikings fan. The shrine room was impressive, although I’ll argue the shrine at Cooperstown is more so. And if Cooperstown had a bust of Joe Namath, I’m sure it would look like Joe Willy White Shoes, not Soupy Sales.

Boston was pretty cool, too. We took in the Boston Commons the first afternoon in town, Friday, and I headed to the North End that night for a closer look at historical places, such as the Old North Church where Paul Revere saw that two lanterns signaled the arrival of the Red Coats by sea, while Bill and Brandon sought out Fenway.

On Saturday we boarded the USS Constitution and then went to the ballgame. The Cards won, 9-2. I tried to control my glee for Brandon’s sake. I probably didn’t succeed very well.

Stopping in the Bronx on the way home, we sought out Yankee Stadium for a tour. The guide, Ritchie, led us around the ballpark, including stops in the memorial garden (where Yogi Berra didn’t look like himself, Joe Namath or Soupy Sales), the Yankees’ dugout and the press box. I got goosebumps, there was so much history there.

I’m hoping this trip will rekindle my love for baseball, something that likely started when another big brother, Richard, took me to my first Cardinals game at Busch Stadium in St. Louis. What had once been a burning passion for baseball was all but extinguished with the 1994 strike that not only shortened the season but also canceled the World Series.

Again, I’m hopeful, and I appreciate being asked to tag along. It’s a trip I’m sure we’ll long remember.

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Have you been outside for lunch today?

It’s a beautiful afternoon, far too nice to spend the rest of the day in the office, but here I sit.

What a change from just a few days ago, when it was chilly, windy and snowy.

We’ve all heard the saying about Indiana’s weather (probably more times than we care to remember): If you don’t like it, just wait a minute and it will change.

 That’s how it seemed Saturday.

We went from a gray, dreary morning with lots of snow falling and blowing around to a wonderful, sunny afternoon. Shoveling the drive of its 11 inches of snow didn’t seem so bad. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. My shoulder muscles still smart.

 But today? What a gorgeous afternoon. It makes me even more ready for next week — spring break with our girls. Seymour and Crothersville schools are on break next week, and Brownstown and Medora are off follow week. We’ll likely do something over break, but any real long trip is out this spring, partly because of the price of gas.

 Is that having a similar impact on you and your family?

 Back to the weather, though. This beautiful afternoon also rekindles those feelings for baseball that I often think were lost forever with the 1994 strike. I know; I need to get over it. But every time I try to get ofver it, something else happens. The Clemens spectable is the latest example.

But what a day. Before long, mushrooms will be popping up from the ground. Another wonderful part of spring in Indiana.

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I’ve been home the past three days nursing a case of the flu.

One thing I’ve learned is that daytime TV really stinks, although I did enjoy watching “The Longest Day” on Tuesday.

Today, however, I’ve been watching the congressional hearing on steroids and baseball.

I don’t know if Roger Clemens used steroids or whether he’s committed perjury. I’m not real sure that I care, except for the reporting that there’s evidence youngsters — even children in middle school — are using the substances, endangering and in some cases ending their lives.

While many sports fans and others are focused on what’s being said in Washington as I peck away at my keyboard, my mind keeps wandering to what the folks at Indiana University will be telling us sometime today about men’s basketball coach Kelvin Sampson.

The Associated Press reported this morning — I posted in online from home at TribTown.com — that the NCAA claims Sampson misled IU officials about the self-reported recuiting violations involving three-way phone calls.

I’m eager to lean more about what the NCAA has found and what IU officials have to say in response.

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As a longtime baseball fan, I have mixed emotions over Barry Bonds breaking hammerin’ Hank’s home run record Tuesday night.

Part of me says those who keep track of the sport that’s provided me with so many joyful memories over the years should place an asterisk beside Bonds and this record. Take a look at video clips from when Bonds was a Pirate and today. That growth isn’t natural.

But part of me also says baseball made its own bed. It could have stopped Bonds years ago. It could have stopped McGwire and Sosa. But it wanted the fans to watch. It wanted the fans to buy tickets, file through the turnstiles, buy hot dogs and beer and popcorn and pretzels and jerseys and all the other jazz they hawk out at the old ballgame.

And let’s face it, baseball needed something after flipping off fans like me with the 1994 strike. Yes, I’m a longtime baseball fan, but I’m still ticked about the ‘94 strike that not only prematurely ended the season but also skipped the World Series. Skip the World Series?

No, baseball — including Bud “The Slug” Selig — made this mess and baseball allowed it to fester. Baseball allowed McGwire and Sosa. Baseball allowed Bonds. Only when Congress decided something was wrong did baseball pull off its blinders. And what business does Congress have in meddling with baseball, although that’s another diatribe entirely.

One last point on Bonds.

Regardless of his transformation from a slight Pirate to a hulking Giant, regardless of what he’s pumped into his body or not (and despite his denials and silence, is there any doubt?), Bonds still had to stand at the plate. Bonds still had to have a maginificent hand-eye coordination that a chubby kid on the southside of Indianapolis could only dream about while swinging his Louisville slugger in the alley behind 1550 Hoefgen St. or playing pitch-and-catch against the garage wall.

No, Bonds doesn’t deserve an asterisk.

But baseball deserves better than Barry Bonds and it deserves better than Bud Selig.