He was Mr. Automatic, so I left the living room and went to bed. "They can do it," Cindy in her naiveté tried to convince me. I would have nothing of it. It was Game 7 of the 2001 World Series. ...
Not much of a player in his nine years in the Bigs, Papa Garagiola found a home in the broadcast booth, where his warm, folksy demeanor these days makes you feel like your grandpa is sitting next to you, calling the game. Except unlike my grandfather, Garagiola shares first-hand stories of old timers like Yogi Berra and Stan Musial.
Well, my formerly hapless D-backs are hanging in there. Eight games above .500 and just four games behind the NL West leading Giants, winners of last year’s World Series. It’s fun watching budding sluggers Justin Upton, Chris Young, and Miguel Montero, and young dart throwers Ian Kennedy and Daniel Hudson all come into their own, guided by manager and former Fall Classic hero Kirk Gibson. But I have to say, I’m a little irritated that I’ll be losing more of my blow money.
I love that my boys are interested in baseball. At three and almost two, they’ll turn anything into a bat. Cindy prefers to give them paper towel rolls, the cardboard part that will itself yield to whatever they might hit with it—instead of the opposite. Sure, they like to play with balls (ball may have been for both of them their fourth or fifth word), but they also like watching baseball too, something the women in my house are loathe to do. I was watching a game earlier this week and was reminded about a difficult aspect of parenting: discipline.
Despite the cold temperatures and yesterday’s flurries, today marks the beginning of summer for me: Major League Baseball’s opening day