8.15.2004
"Speed from first-to-third? You can't teach that."
What is one to do when all the beach balls have been confiscated, or inadverdently hit onto the outfield warning track? How about a garbage bag? How about two garbage bags? The bleachers at Fenway Park can be such an ugly place. But then, between the stray elbows and swears, one witnesses something as impishly simple as people positioning themselves to volley and spike an inflated trash bag, and the profound idiocy of our third base coach and manager don't seem so bad after all. The third bag, though, was just plain gratuitous.
A young relation, on the far-away, hope-it-comes, but-only-if-you-do-well-in-high-school possibility of living on his own: "I can't wait to live by myself. If I had my own apartment, I'd...I'd...it would be awesome. I'd just sit around naked, eating cereal."
A young relation, on the far-away, hope-it-comes, but-only-if-you-do-well-in-high-school possibility of living on his own: "I can't wait to live by myself. If I had my own apartment, I'd...I'd...it would be awesome. I'd just sit around naked, eating cereal."
