Sacrilege

If they had the power, MLB and Commissioner Manford no doubt would have me beaten to within an inch of my life for the following heresy as to how baseball works best in the lives of its fans.  But I’m officially at a point in my life that I don’t care.  So, here goes:  It all started when Clare slept over this weekend because her fiancé had to be out of town.  Saturday night, we watched the White Sox and again yesterday afternoon.

Sitting together on the couch as always, we discussed what’s wrong with Tim Anderson’s swing (the consensus—pretty much everything).  We waited for the Sox to get their first hit; a game-tying homerun by Leury Garcia, that didn’t  happen until the sixth inning, and we watched as Matt Davidson launched a two-run walk-off in the bottom of the ninth to stop the Indians’ win streak at nine.  Then we went out and played two games of bag-toss in the backyard.  The father won both bitterly-fought contests.

After dinner came cake, for the day was special.  Happy birthday to Joe Nuxhall and Gus Triandos, and happy birthday to me.  The blessings are infinite.