*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*
One minute I'm out to dinner with Ang and Jr is texting me it's 3-2 Orioles.
Next thing you know we've picked up the kids, it sounds like Space Shuttle Endeavor is attempting to land in my living room, and the Sox are back ahead 4-3.
In the time it takes me to put the boys to bed, do my "Post-Putting the boys to Bed Yoga" (which involves Qualudes and copious amounts of Boone's Farm more than any actual, you know, Yoga) and slip on my smokers jacket and pipe, it's 11-3 Sox, JD goes opposite field yard and Brian "Thank God Tito Isn't Anything Like Ozzie" Anderson has one as well.
I realize it's the O's and also realize me, Rakes, Trot, and a drunk hobo from Jersey would have a good shot at hitting against that 'pen, but still; 9-1 in the last 10 games and cruising toward the Wild Card slot with 4 against Kansas City and 3 in Gotham next weekend looming.
I'm not conceding anything other than Youk is hands down the sweatiest man I've ever seen and Trot couldn't find the toilet if you gave him a map.
I want the AL East, home field advantage, and President Obama to issue an Emergency Presidential injunction stating Tim McCarver and Joe Buck can't be within 50 square miles of any form of MLB Playoff coverage this year.
And until Tito tells me otherwise?
I'm Keeping the Fair.
Lunch with My Dad
1 week ago