It’s Spring!

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“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.” ~ Rogers Hornsby (legendary 2nd baseman from 1915-1937, .358 career batting average)

Waiting For The Ball, by Clinton Helms

Waiting For The Ball, by Clinton Helms

There’s a moment that comes, long about February, when the need for the spring becomes more than just a gentle, sweet longing.  It becomes much more urgent, almost primal.  As though you’ve gotten so chilled to the bone … there’s no telling if you’ll ever thaw out.

It’s in that moment of urgency that you know that finally – finally! – you can begin to count.

Five, four, three, two …

Not the days ’til spring.

The days ’til Spring Training.

For those whose calendars failed to remind them, pitchers and catchers report in Florida and in Arizona on Monday.

And, while February 11 isn’t spring. It’s close enough.

Because baseball is there to remind you that spring will come, despite the cold and the snow and the dark.

Here in Virginia, it’s still winter. Sure, there’s no snow on the ground (sorry, New England) and today was almost pleasant (apologies, North Dakota). (And by pleasant, I mean I bundled up snuggly in a wool sweater, extra long scarf, and fully buttoned winter coat, but the kid playing outside at the grocery store was in shorts and a tee shirt.)

But, it’s still winter.

Photos of Minor League Baseball, by David Deal at the Arts Center in Orange

Photos of Minor League Baseball, by David Deal at the Arts Center in Orange

Until, you walk into a room filled with baseball.

And, the sun is shining through the windows at just the right angle, and you swear it’s the bone-warming sunshine that comes in May. And, the room is brighter and more golden than any room you’ve been in for months. And, you look all around and you’re surrounded by spring … and summer and baseball.

Even here, in Orange, Virginia, where the Orioles Spring Training camp is – by Mapquest’s calculations – 14 hours and 40 minutes away, and the first day of spring is farther still.

Even here, like even everywhere, baseball brings the promise of new life and the hopes of spring.

This week, the Arts Center in Orange, in downtown Orange, Virginia, opened a warm and sweet multimedia exhibit called Spring Training.  All things baseball, by a talented group of local artists.

Right here, in my little town. Baseball.

If that don’t beat all.

And, it made my heart jump alittle. And I felt the promise of springtime seep through the lining of my coat, through the scarf and wool sweater.  Right into my bones.

Finally. Warm again.

“That’s the true harbinger of spring, not crocuses or swallows returning to Capistrano, but the sound of a bat on a ball.” ~ Bill Veeck (20th-century baseball owner & innovator)

For some, baseball is history …

Ball Park Blessing by Susan Harb

Ball Park Blessing by Susan Harb

For some baseball is youth …

By John Strader

By John Strader

“Don’t tell me about the world. Not today. It’s springtime and they’re knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.”  ~ Pete Hamill, journalist & author

For some, baseball is memory …

Memories, by Chee Kludt Ricketts

Memories, by Chee Kludt Ricketts

For some, baseball is a game …

Venus Flycatcher by John Strader

Venus Flycatcher by John Strader

For some, baseball is religion …

By Susan Harb

Baseball Candelabra by Susan Harb

For some, baseball is life …

"A Very Long Season" by John Corrao

“A Very Long Season” by John Corrao

“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” ~ occasionally attributed to Yogi Berra (Legendary Yankee, #8) … and sometimes to an 8-year-old kid.  But, hey, let’s give this one to Yogi.

You should wander your way to Orange and check out the Arts Center.  (Lots of cool other things besides baseball, too.  Yes, there are other things besides baseball.  A few things anyway.)

SPRING TRAINING

On Exhibit at the ARTS CENTER in ORANGE

129 East Main Street, Orange Virginia

February 7 thru March 30, 2013

Monday thru Saturday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.

No charge, although donations are gratefully accepted

www.artscenterinorange.com

All images are the copyright of the artists.  Images used with the kind permission of The Arts Center in Orange.  A special thank you to Laura Thompson, Arts Center Executive Director.

Ball in Hand, by David Deal

Ball in Hand, by David Deal

Remembering Earl Weaver … & Thinking About My Dad

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Many years ago, long before I came along, my dad ran a string of gas stations in Los Angeles. He was very good at his job. He ran a tight ship.

That laser-like attention to detail and exacting perfection didn’t change over the years. He demanded a lot of himself, and, by turn, everyone else.

One day during those gas station years, late ’50s or so, Mickey Rooney – yes, that Mickey Rooney – came to my dad’s station. And, apparently, Mickey Rooney didn’t adhere to the “good customer” rules that my dad expected.

A “Do you know who I am?” led to a “I don’t care who you are.” Rooney, the story goes, expected free service on his car, simply because he was famous.

A scrap of some kind ensued. (I’m biased, but I’m gonna go with my dad on this one. Because really … a Hollywood star kicks up a stink with a gas station guy? I’m just going to assume the Average Joe was the good guy.)

From then on, Mickey Rooney was not spoken of in our home.

So, it was with a bit of sadness – no, sadness isn’t right; let’s call it You MUST be kidding eye-rolling – when I read a tribute to the legendary Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver, who passed away on January 19 at age 82, that described him as “Mickey Rooney in a uniform.”

You’re comparing a baseball legend to this guy who picked a fight with my dad because he was expected to pay for service like everyone else?

The Earl of Baltimore was a baseball genius.

But, he was also a scrappy, crabby, cranky, irascible, chain-smoking, argumentative firecracker, who might be best known for all the times he tangled with umpires, kicking dirt and getting ejected from 98 games.

He was a tough-as-nails perfectionist who demanded a lot of himself, and, by turn, everyone else. Kinda like my dad.

Earl Weaver is, on the one hand, a big ball of everything I usually find unpleasant about the game.

Crabby, loud, vulgar. Extremely vulgar. Did I mention the chain-smoking? (He was ejected at least once for smoking in the dugout.)

But, he is also a lot of what I find wonderful about baseball.

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Help The Milwaukee Brewers Get Dressed!

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Three things you should know about me …

1) I’m not really a Milwaukee Brewers fan.  About all I know about the Brewers is that they were, at one time, an American League team, and that at some point in the late 1990s, Orioles non-legend Ben McDonald pitched out the end of his career there.  I also know that they began their life as the Seattle Pilots (which in the late 1960s enjoyed its one season as a major league team, but is forever remembered thanks to Jim Bouton’s bawdy book Ball Four, which my dad finally let me read when I was 30).

2) I have a degree in political science.  This shows itself whenever there is an opportunity to vote.  Voting is my democratic right.  I will vote for anything.  Primary.  General Election. I will vote for American Idol.  If I’m sitting in a meeting and someone says, “It’s time for lunch, let’s take a vote, pizza or sandwiches?” I get very excited.  I take my duty seriously.  If there is an opportunity to vote, I will vote.

3) I think baseball uniforms are oddly, weirdly cool. I think the Seinfeld episode about changing the Yankees’ uniforms from polyester to cotton (and featuring Zen Master Buck Showalter) is Gold, Jerry,  Gold!  Watch the moment here.

Zen Master Buck Showalter wasn't always the Orioles Manager ... once, long ago, he was on Seinfeld and he also some other teams ... including the Yankee- something-or-others.

Zen Master Buck Showalter wasn’t always the Orioles Manager … once, long ago, he was on Seinfeld, and, oh yes, he managed a little-known team called the Yankees.

So, if you give me the chance to vote on which fan-designed Milwaukee Brewers uniform will be worn by the team this season …

Oh sweet heaven, this is the best January ever!  So, the deal is this …

Three fans designed uniforms …

Brewers Ron from Maryland

Ron from Maryland’s Design

Nicholas from Wisconsin's Design

Nicholas from Wisconsin’s Design

Ben from Minnesota's Design

Ben from Minnesota’s Design

I’m ready to vote.  I’m going with Ron from Maryland.  I’m so glad you asked why.  I like that throwback Milwaukee Brewers logo.  I like that bright blue.  I like that Ron included socks. And, I like that Ron is from Maryland — maybe he’s really an Orioles fan just killing time until Spring Training.  Good enough for me … Vote Ron!

(Ben from Minnesota? You were a close second. But you lost me with the Texas Rangers cowboy font on the back. Plus, the cap.  Is that a toaster?)

To vote, just visit the Major League Baseball website, which you can do by clicking here.  You have until January 22.

After you’ve voted, go ahead and read Jim Bouton’s Ball Four about a crazy, raunchy season in baseball. (Unless you’re a 12-year-old … in which case, please wait until you’re 30.)

ball four

Bears Don’t Hibernate. Neither Does Baseball.

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My husband informs me that bears in Virginia do not hibernate in Winter.  He works at the Wildlife Center of Virginia, so he oughta know. 

It’s a sad day when bears let you down.

I have relied on the wisdom of hibernating bears when encouraging my Yoga students to quiet their practice in winter and in honoring my own circadian life rhythms. 

Bears hibernate in winter, I figured, because they are smarter than we are.  They know the value of rest.  They know that cold, dark winter days demand that they slow down and refuel.  These resting bears became a powerful role model for how we all should care for ourselves in winter … carbo-pack and hibernate.

Now, I find out that this hibernation thing is a big bear hoax.

This bear cub was in the Wildlife Center of Virginia's care. Wide awake ... no hibernating for him.

This bear cub was in the Wildlife Center of Virginia’s care in 2012.  Wide awake. Thanks to WCV for this photo.

As long as Virginia bears find the weather comfortable and ample trash cans to paw through, they’ll just amble through their winter like the rest of us.  Still, they hunker down in ugly weather.  So, while they may not hibernate, they do know the value of slowing down. So, hibernation aside, I guess they’re still smarter than we humans.

I was looking forward to a bit of baseball hibernation this winter. 

162 games is a long regular season.  It’s a reliable, irrefutable fact.  Eighty-two basketball games in an NBA season.  Sixteen NFL games a season.  These are, apparently, games for the short-winded and the short-attention spanned.   

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“Let’s All Go To The Lobby”

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Lobby2

Do you remember how they used to have intermissions when you went to the movies?

Yeh, me neither. But, I’m told they did.

What a brilliant idea!

And, what a wonderful way to spend an intermission – head out to the lobby for something popcorn-y or chocolate-y or chewy or sweet.

Why can’t I get daily intermissions like that?

Don’t we all need a break in our day? Don’t we all need to head out to the lobby for a treat?

Here’s where sports excel. Extremely civilized break time.

Baseball’s Seventh-Inning Stretch … sure, a bit paltry. But, a nice idea. Love “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” (almost as much as I love the “Let’s All Go To The Lobby” jingle). 

But … here’s a random aside, as long as we’re talking baseball.

I may bleed Orange & Black for the Orioles, but I can’t think of a more miserable way of spending my seventh-inning stretch – my delicious break time – then standing around while they play “Thank God I’m a Country Boy”. (I am, for the record, neither “country” nor “boy”, so I’m not sure why they insist I sing it at every game.) 

And, while we’re on the topic of baseball’s seventh-inning stretch, rumor is that the Yankees include a long, ponderous version of “God Bless America” during their stretch just to make the opposing pitcher sit and wait a little longer. I’d like this a lot better if the Orioles had thought of it first.   

Anyway, I hope your team has a better stretch time (and I invite you to tell me all about it in the comments).

Half-time at basketball and football games are ok, but still a bit chintzy.

Hockey does all right. Two luxuriously generous breaks between periods, and nothing to do but watch the Zamboni slide around, suck up the blood, and smooth up the ice. Very Zen.   

So, anyway, I wrote up my to-do list for this past weekend. The stupid thing was three pages long. THREE pages (double-spaced, but still!). That list didn’t even mention Christmas and all the additional things that are expected of one during this “peaceful” season. So, not only did I not decorate, or write cards, or wish anyone “Merry Christmas” … I didn’t even have time to put those tasks on my list.

Needless to say, I got very little on the list accomplished. So, I’m far behind, tired, and yes, a little annoyed by doing too much and achieving too little.

And, that’s what brings me back to the need for daily intermissions.

Yoga is great in that respect. We sit and breathe. Think of it like sitting and watching the Zamboni slide around (but without any hockey bloodshed). 

Sit. Breathe. 

That’s it.

That’s the daily intermission. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Whatever you got.

Breath goes in. Breath goes out.

You can try it now. It’s pretty easy.

Or, you can take the next 39 seconds and watch this video and one of the greatest songs of all time … and, yeh, go get yourself a treat. You deserve it.

Oh, and by the way, writing something for you WAS on my “to-do” list this weekend. I’m a day late, but I’m checking it off the list anyway.

Breath goes in. Breath goes out. Breath goes in. Breath goes out.

Lobby4

The NFL Knew. And They Covered It Up.

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If a big food corporation sells a contaminated product that makes people sick, they’re forced to remove the food from the shelves. If people actually died? Well, that could be criminal … or at least a top story in the news.

Same with pharmaceuticals. Car companies. Toy manufacturers. Anyone, really, who runs afoul of the Consumer Product Safety Commission, the FDA, or even just riles up the local consumer action reporter at the evening news, has a lot of explaining to do if their product is dangerous.

So here’s what I don’t get.

How can the National Football League (NFL) endanger its players – knowingly – and still be not only the most popular sport in the country, but also the most profitable?

I loved football. Growing up, I was diehard for the 49ers. Oakland Raiders, too, but mostly ’9ers. I still have my Ronnie Lott bobblehead. My husband is from Colorado and a Broncos fan. Occasionally, I will say “55 to 10”. That’s all. Just “55 to 10.” He knows what I mean.  (Click here if you don’t.)

But, in recent years I’ve become increasingly disturbed by the growing violence of the game. The collisions seem uglier than usual. The game is becoming more about the train wreck, head-on-head, smash-ups. (And, this was even before the news broke this year about the New Orleans Saints’ “bounty hunting” – where players received financial bonuses based on the severity of the injuries they inflicted on opponents. The more serious the injury, the bigger the payoff.)

I started to lose interest in football, initially, because I was falling for baseball, and something had to give. Baseball seemed so much more athletically graceful. So much more strategically interesting. So much less ugly and brutal. So much more fun.

Oh sure, I thought football and I could still be friends. Even though I was in love with another game.

But, I finally had to break up with football.

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I’m Thankful The Thanking Is Nearly Over

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I am thankful that Thanksgiving is nearly over. Only a few more daily “I am thankful for …” posts on Facebook and Twitter.

I love my friends. I don’t mindlessly “friend” every person who bumps their grocery cart into me. I’m a selective Facebooker.

But, even so … the string of daily posted thankful messages can wear. When you’re thankful your manicurist convinced you to try “Berry Naughty”, well, really? Really? 

Deep down, I guess I am thankful for these thankful posts, even the seemingly frivolous ones — as they’re much better than the mean-spirited and loud political ones of the past few months.

First, there are the thankful people who have lived amazing lives … recounting their adventures, day by day. “I’m thankful for my time in the Peace Corps when I built a road for an isolated village in Paraguay.” “I’m thankful for my mother who marched with Martin Luther King, Jr.”

But, even amazing lives peter out as the month goes on. What began as “I’m thankful for the people I met when I worked in an orphanage in Nepal”, by now has become, “I’m thankful the grocery store had Panko crumbs this afternoon. Dinner is saved!”

I love the spirit of these messages. But, there’s also an underlying sense of failure for the rest of us. I haven’t lived an exciting life. I haven’t done amazing things. Now, I just feel bad. Put on the spot, I’m really just thankful that my husband cleaned up Smokey Jo’s hairball this morning, allowing me a few extra minutes of sleep.

There’s another kind of serial thanker out there: The person who has decided to thank family and friends, by name, every day. This is a brilliant marketing strategy. We all tune in daily – hoping, expecting – that we will be named next.

I’m beginning to lose hope with one longtime friend, who has mowed through three, four people a day, and has now taken to thanking the birds who stopped by the feeder outside her kitchen window.

I’m thinking that perhaps I could draft up a nice little something about me that she could post. I could remind her of all the reasons why she ought to be thanking me, including that I have now saved her the trouble of writing up something about why she is thankful for me. I guarantee, your house finches will not be so thoughtful.

I am thankful. Honest, I am. I am thankful for every moment, at least I try to be. So what if I don’t feel the need to share every detail with the world? Because, when you’re so vocal in your thanks for the things in your life, you may be hurting someone else because they do not share your good fortune.

Grateful that your home survived Superstorm Sandy? Of course you are. But, remember that someone near you was not so lucky. Don’t revel. Don’t gloat by saying you’re thankful that your candidate won, saving the world from certain destruction. Conversely, don’t pout by saying you’re thankful that, while your candidate lost, God will save the world from certain destruction.

See? It’s hard to be thankful and humble at the same time. At least on the Internet.

This Mutts cartoon was published in 2002. It’s one of my favorites. See more wonderful Mutts cartoons at http://www.muttscomics.com

But, I’m thankful for you.

Even if I don’t know you. If I DO know you, you have enriched my life in the flesh. But, even if I’ve never laid eyes on you, you’ve been kind enough to read these words from time to time. And, that is a very generous thing to do.

Really, I’m thankful for you.

My dad was a North Dakota farmer. But, he remembered most fondly his time in L.A. in the 1950s where he ran a string of successful gas stations. When he died, I found this photo and a letter from the corporate head recognizing him for having the cleanest, most efficient stations. His love of Los Angeles and L.A. sports never left him.

Six years ago, my dad died. On Thanksgiving Day. 

A friend said, “Your Thanksgivings will never be the same.” But I disagreed. My dad knew that I loved Thanksgiving (and the Macy’s Parade and the Rockettes. Oh, the Rockettes!).

He wouldn’t want to take that joy away from me.

My dad gave me my love of sports. Although he preferred the Rams (L.A. and St. Louis) and the Lakers (L.A., but not Minneapolis).

He would root for the Dodgers, if pressed, but he never quite understood my love of baseball. “You didn’t get that from me, kid.” But, he was all about sports, so I probably did.

For years, he would, in the name of economy, save his copies of Sports Illustrated and mail them to me – often with little snarky comments written in the margins, and pictures of his favorite NBA players circled in Sharpie. Sure, just getting me my own subscription would have been cheaper. But, not nearly has special.

So, I’m thankful for my dad.  And, for baseball.  And, for the off-season, which is a nice time to catch up with life, and start that beautiful longing for the next game.

And, you.  Don’t forget that I’m thankful for you.

“Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.” ~ The Buddha

Yoga vs. Zumba … Baseball vs. Football

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I’ve had a few Yoga students leave me for Zumba, the Salsa-Aerobic workout.

I admit it. It hurt my feelings.

What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with Yoga? Why go? Stay. Stay.

I think that Yoga vs. Zumba is similar to my feelings about Baseball vs. Football.

Yoga is … Serene … Mindful … Toned … Disciplined … Careful … Graceful … Strong. Yoga is bathed in a long, rich, and often-quirky history.

Zumba is a nice work-out to some sassy music, but that’s it as far as I can tell.

(But, then I’m biased. You’ll have to check out the Zumba Girl’s blog — Football, Zumba, Life … (and she)? —  to get the other side.)

Baseball … Football … same thing.

I see baseball as this graceful game of strategy, and mindfulness, and strength, and focus. A game that treasures its own long, rich, and often-quirky history.

Football has some strategy yes, but isn’t the point really to just smoosh the other guy a little harder than he just smooshed you? (And, history is often lost, except for the occasional throwback uniform like this cute little Steelers number last Sunday … click here.)

As a massage therapist, I can tell you that I’ve had to work my way through a good number of Zumba injuries in my clients over the years. Yoga, a few, yes, not many. Likewise, I’ve got a few clients who still suffer from aches and pains from long-ago (sometimes decades-old) football collisions. Again, baseball? Ok, a few.

In an earlier post, I explained why I boycotted baseball (and even my beloved Orioles) for several seasons … disillusioned by the widespread use of PEDs (performance-enhancing drugs). I’m back now, although I know that, sadly, the drugs are still there.

Now, I am boycotting football and have been for the past couple seasons. (Sorry, beloved 49ers.) The distressing violence of the game, the ignorance over the long-term damage of head-to-head collisions and concussions, finally made it unbearable to watch.

But, I know I’m the minority.

The World Series hit a televised record low this year.

Really? You all missed Sergio Romo … Barry Zito … Pablo Sandoval! It was good (unless you’re a Detroit fan, then, not so much). And, you missed the free Taco Bell tacos for America … awarded when the Giants’ Angel Pagan stole a base. (I also missed it, because there’s no Taco Bell nearby).

Today on National Public Radio, Frank Deford discussed the decline of Baseball, the rise of Football. (Sadly, no discussion of Yoga vs. Zumba.)

Here it is. He’s much more eloquent than me. Hope you listen!

NPR: The American Pastime Fades In Popularity

What’s wrong with Baseball? Why go? Stay. Stay. Just 111 days until pitchers & catchers report.

Hurricanes & Yankees

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They should have named the Hurricane A-Rod.  Then it wouldn’t have hit anything.  ~ “Hurricane Sandy” joke making the rounds on Twitter yesterday.

Sandy Alomar, by the way, batted .273 during his 19 years in the major leagues. (Alex Rodriguez – A-Rod – of the Yankees is at .295 for his career, despite his icy-cold bat, and benching, this post-season.)

I’d hate to be a New York Yankee. No one likes you. Not even your own fans. I’ve never heard fans so quick to boo, heckle, and denounce their own players. They heckle better than anyone. And, they do it without throwing garbage and beer bottles out into the field (hear that, Atlanta?).

Did you know that the Yankees tagline is “Heroes Remembered. Legends Born”?

Yankees fans are sort of funny about their team. When they win, they’re still not happy; it should have been bigger, it should have been better. Their record 27 World Series victories? Too few.

When they lose (and they do lose from time to time), it’s as though they rival the Cubs in futility. It’s as though they will never win again. Every loss is a hollow cry of despair.

And, really, they have no idea.  NO idea.

When the Orioles lost Game #5 of the American League Division Series in early October, it was well past midnight before they got back to Baltimore. They were met at the stadium by hundreds – hundreds – of loyal fans (layered up against unseasonably cold weather) who showed up to say “Thanks” “Good Job” and “We love you.”

It’s a wonderful moment. You can watch it here.

I wonder if the Yankees came back after losing the pennant to Detroit to find their cars torched, their apartments ransacked, and their supermodel girlfriends gone?

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Swing Like You Mean It

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Hitting a ball just once is not enough for Hunter Pence. How about hitting a single pitch three times?

San Francisco Giants outfielder Hunter Pence comes from a world I don’t understand.

No, not the National League.

When he was traded to the Giants this summer, I quickly realized that Hunter Pence is from another planet … where the energy is so plentiful and so intense that its inhabitants need no Starbucks or Monster drinks to thrive. In fact, a double espresso or a Red Bull would likely cause spontaneous combustion.

Hunter Pence is like a pinball in a machine gone crazy.

When Hunter Pence swings at a baseball he doesn’t really swing. He slashes, chops, sweeps, hacks, oh hell, just make up a word … ok, he scaswables at the baseball. Over and over and over.

He swings like he’s been covered in cobwebs. He swings and swings and swings. He drops to one knee as he swings. He spins himself around. He swings at the air as though the air has done something to irritate him. He is crazy mad at the air.

Just go over to YouTube and search “Hunter Pence warm up swing” and you’ll see things like this.

So was it any surprise that Hunter Pence hit a single pitch not once, not twice, but three times with a single swing of the bat last night?  No, not crazy by Hunter Pence standards.

But, what was crazy is that the bat broke as it hit-hit-hit the ball, and the ball still went fair. It was a hit. A hit that drove in three runs.

If the St. Louis Cardinals had a sinking feeling about last night’s Game 7 last chance, it had to come with that single improbable, impossible, insane swing of the bat.

It’s pretty cool to watch. Here it is in super slo-mo. Click here

But, you probably ought to see the entire thing unfold in real time. And, you can do that here.

But, was it fair?

Well, thanks to my Husband/Editor who — as a joke, I think — got me a baseball rule book, I can tell you that there is, in fact, a rule for just this sort of Hunter Pence insanity.

I turn your attention to Rule 6.05 (h) in the “comment” section.

(The comment section isn’t even really part of the official rules. It’s where the rulemakers explain what they meant in the official rules. See, Hunter Pence has his own world going on here that the rulemakers have to explain separately from the rules that apply to everyone else.)

Anyway, back to explanation: “If a bat breaks and part of it is in fair territory and is hit by a batted ball … play shall continue and no interference called.”

So, yeh, hit the ball as many times as you like, Hunter. In fact, the rulemakers also allow you to hit the ball with your bat and then with your batting helmet and still be fair. So you see, the rulemakers were trying to come up with every potential Hunter Pence at bat that they could in formulating this comment section.

With an at-bat like that, which resulted in 3 runs, well, you know the Giants were going to win.

And so, 9-0 later, they did.  And, the Giants go to the World Series.

By the way, I bleed Orange & Black … and that is for the Baltimore Orioles … the team that taught me what baseball is all about. The Orioles are MY team.

But, there’s a little orange and black that I save on the side for the Giants. My dad was really more into basketball and football.  But, he enjoyed some good times in L.A. and so, if baseball was his only option, then a Dodgers fan he was. It seemed only fair, to us anyway, that I cheer for the Dodgers’ rival.  A little Giants fan was born.

And, so I guess I have some World Series games to watch.