I arrived home today and was greeted with this: a Happy Birthday banner from Angie and the kids. Saying it made my day would not do it justice: Ciera and her Mom had written some really sweet things about me, and Rakes had told his Mom what to write for him.
"Thank you for playing baseball, soccer, kickball, football, basketball, tickle monster, and the claw with me Daddy". Think I have to worry about him wanting to be in ballet class some day?
My actual birthday is tomorrow, and while I'm not doing cartwheels about turning 37, I'm not gonna go out and buy a Corvette, put highlights in my hair, or start pondering the great mysteries of life either.
I've got a wonderful wife, 3 beautiful children, a roof over my head, food in the pantry, and Red Sox baseball every night: I'd say I've got it pretty good. Growing older in age doesn't bother me: it's growing old in maturity I want to avoid. According to Angie, I'm in no danger of that happening anytime soon.
Sox win 7-3 tonight. For my birthday, all I ask is a Schilling win vs. Pettitte. And he drills Slappy between the numbers for his bush league play of rolling through 2nd base and elbowing the Munchkin: first the girly slap of Arroyo in '04 and now this: he is without a doubt the biggest peckerwood this side of Billy Martin I've ever seen. Like little Russell used to tell Rudy on "The Fat Albert Show": Alex, you're like school on Saturday: No class.
Forget between the numbers: I hope Schill puts one in his earhole.
I can't WAIT to read the NY Post tomorrow.
She’d Pick Me Every Time
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