What's that smell?

Why, it's baseball, you ninny. That's that smell.

This just in from Darren Rovell: At opening day in Wrigley Field today, among the wares for sale were three Wrigley Field colognes. One was called Dirt, one was called Ivy and one was called Leather.

And at this point, reasonable people are no doubt asking, "Why would anyone want to smell like dirt, Mr. Blob? Even as a joke?"

The obvious-if-not-entirely-serious answer is because there's no dirt quite like Wrigley Field dirt. It's the most dirt-smelling dirt out there -- a manly scent not unlike Irish Spring, of which women reportedly have said "And I like it, too!"

But I digress.

Truth is, I don't know why anyone would want to smell like dirt, even Wrigley dirt. Ivy, OK, I can see that. And I can almost understand leather, although even if it's the intoxicating scent of a new baseball glove, I can't see it mixing well with a romantic evening.

HER: What's that smell?

HIM: It's Old Catcher's Mitt. Now with Neatsfoot oil!

Something like that.

No, the idea of Dirt by Wrigley Field, Ivy by Wrigley Field and Leather by Wrigley Field only gets the Blob wondering why there aren't other Wrigley Field fragrances. I mean, think of the possibilities ...

1908 Can Suck It: A delightfully intoxicating mix that combines the clean scent of autumn rain, the brisk snap of a W-flag-snapping breeze, Old Spice (for David Ross) and champagne. Unavailable since 2016.

Olde Old Style: The pungent fragrance of spilled beer takes you right back to all those summer nights in the left-field bleachers working on your eighth Old Style and yelling  at the Cubs bullpen to for God's sake get somebody out. What extremely hazy memories!

Bleeping Damn LaRussa: A spicy fragrance, equal parts bile and disgust. If losing to bleeping LaRussa and the bleeping Cardinals AGAIN had a scent, this would be it.

Day Game In July: A heady mix, redolent of hotdogs, beer, peanuts and armpits, because it's 98 degrees and the fat guy sitting next you has taken off his shirt.

June Swoon: A sourly familiar scent that reminds you of the time Rizzo slumped and Bryant suddenly couldn't hit the ball out of the bleeping infield. Also, OUR BULLPEN IS STILL DAMN WORTHLESS.

Bartman Nights: The fierce, hot essence of ear steam mixed with a subtle tinge of creeping dread as you realize this is how we're going to lose this time.

And last but not least ...

It's Our Year: The bright, candy-coated scent of rainbows paired with the clean-linen smell of fresh hope and a nostalgic whiff of new grass.

Available every spring.