Eaton Gets Tossed for Hitting Pujols with a Breaking Ball

One of my new habits is hanging out at a cafe in the mall on Sundays while my wife hits the gym. She keeps herself in shape, I keep myself buzzed on double lattes. It’s a good arrangement. It’s also the only chance I get to sit and do what, in my younger days, I referred to as "serious writing."

Now, with mortgages and car payments, and all that other fun stuff that just sort of shows up one day and never leaves, "serious writing" generally involves a checkbook. So for an hour a week, it’s a genuine pleasure to indulge in the fantasy that I have followed my muse and become an actual writer.

I sit in a shady spot out in the courtyard, facing a bookstore. I’m heavily caffeinated and alternately reading, scribbling notes, or just staring into space. That last one freaks people out sometimes, which is cool because it gives me something to write about. It’s like we have this symbiotic relationship going on. Or is it dysfunctional? I always get the two confused. Anyway, nobody gets hurt so I think it’s okay.

The point is (if you want to call it that), writing is one of those things I just have to do. Like skipping the bottom step when descending a flight of stairs. Or screaming while driving through tunnels (although I don’t really do that anymore; some things are more easily justifiable at 20 than at 34). Or singing in a rock band (hey, a guy has to scream somewhere).

It’s what I do. Most likely nothing will ever come of it other than many trees will have sacrificed themselves for my words (we already kill ‘em for toilet paper), and I’ll have sacrificed some of my time for reasons I can’t quite define. The only explanation I can find is the love that I’ve found ever since you’ve been around that it’s what I do. Sounds lame, I know, but that’s the best I can come up with right now.

Baseball, Baseball, Baseball

In which the author tries to recapture his audience…

Adam Eaton gets tossed for throwing a 66-MPH curveball at Albert Pujols in the first inning? What’s up with that? Yeah, Pujols stared at his game-winning homer Saturday night way too long, and he probably had it coming. But a slow breaking pitch? What message can that possibly send? "Hey, we’re really frosted at you showing us up last night, but maybe not that frosted; apologies in advance for this next pitch–with luck you won’t even feel it." How does the umpire toss a guy for a pitch like that? Ridiculous.

Oh well, Eaton probably will benefit from the extra rest. But I still don’t understand what the umpire was thinking there.

Speaking of Pujols, he lost the Home Run Derby to Garret Anderson. Perhaps he was still regaining his strength after that vigorous trot around the bases Saturday night?

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Other items of note:

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Finally, if you know anyone who plays bass guitar, lives in the San Diego area, has professional equipment, is looking to join a rock covers band with gigs, and isn’t a complete flake, would you do me a favor and send him/her my way? Vocals a plus but not mandatory. Much appreciated…

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