The Dangers Of Poetry

On July 17, I wrote you a poem.

I hadn’t written poetry since, oh, since Junior High. It wasn’t very good poetry, but the words rhymed, so I’m not sure why you expected anything better out of me. The words rhymed. It was a poem.

On July 17, I wrote you a poem and six hours later I was sick.

Sick, for real, with a 101 fever and chills and visions of this finally being the end and well, I had a good run. (I occasionally overreact in cases of high fever. High fever panic commences for me at about 98.9.)

The New York Times, 4/6/1925

On April 5, 1925, Babe Ruth collapsed with a fever, infection, and an abscess in his gut. But, not before hitting two home runs in a spring training game. He’d been running a temp through spring training and didn’t rejoin the Yankees for eight weeks.

I am here today, recovered after 16 days with an obnoxious summer virus, to tell you five truths about illness.

One. Babe Ruth clearly was much tougher than me.

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Why Do You Think They Call It A “Walk”-Off?

When Seth Smith joined the Baltimore Orioles this season, I learned that fans from his last team – the Seattle Mariners – called him “Dad.”

This was because, I was told by one Mariner’s fan, Smith’s “exactly the kind of guy you want looking after the kids …”

And, because he was once seen after a game doing this …

(Don’t roll your eyes at the fact that Seth Smith does the exact same stuff that you probably do all the time and no one tweets about you. That’s just the way it’s gonna be.)

Anyway, Smith’s an Oriole now, and he did two dad-like things last night I wanted to make sure you knew about.

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