Predictions for 2009 based on No statistical evidence

My ill informed, totally based on what my gut tells me picks for how every team will end up are coming this weekend, so be ready to be wowed. Remember, I was the guy who had the Tigers running away with the AL Central last year so don't take the mortgage payment to Vegas based on what idiocy comes out of my mouth.

Tonight, I'm looking at my magic 8 ball and giving my ill informed, totally pulled out of my rear end picks for individual players this coming season.

AL MVP: Youk. As much as I love The Munchkin, Youk really should have won this thing last year. Without him in the 4 hole after we jettisoned Manny, there is no way the Sox get to game 7 of the ALCS.

NL MVP: Manny. Even though his grandmother will die twice in the month of June, his hamstring will cause him to miss every start made by Randy Johnson and Jake Peavy, and he'll forget he has a game at least twice he'll STILL hit 40 bombs, drive in 135, and hit .325.

AL Cy Young: Beckett. Can you even begin to fathom how utterly pissed off he is about how last year unfolded? I've got $20 that says he hits a mascot in the head in his second start.

NL Cy Young: Cole Hamels. Only because I've got him on my fantasy team and I really want to beat Tom Miles this year.

AL Comeback Player of the Year: Kevin Millar. Even though he had a good year in Baltimore last season, I hope my man hits 30HR, 100 RBI, and .300, only not against Boston. The Canadian media has no idea what it's in for.

NL Comeback Player of the Year: Eric Hinske. I'll always love the big guy for treating Posada like a tackling dummy a few years back.

In addition to random predictions, I've got a few things on my wish list for the 2009 season of MLB:

Dustin Pedroia charges the mound after Joba Chamberlain drills him in the ribs, chokes him out, then does the John Cena "You can't see me" gesture afterwards.

Joe Buck asks Beckett how he feels and 60 obscenity laced seconds later the FCC is in full blown panic mode and McCarver is quietly sobbing in the corner.

Joe Morgan FINALLY say's something idiotic enough that it sends John Miller over the edge and they cut away to commercial with Miller beating Joe about the head with the microphone.

Ken Harrelson loses his voice. Permanantly.

Griffey Jr. hits 40 HR's and retires a hero in Seattle.

Slappy comes back, hits a single, and can't run to first base.

Josh Hamilton has another year like he had last year.

Barry Zito remembers he's one of the best pitchers of the past decade.

CC Sabbathia goes on the DL with the cause being "Injured spleen at the all you can eat buffet."

Finally? Hank fires Joe Girardi on April 10th with the Yankees in last place with a 2-2 record and replaces him with Yogi Berra citing "The need to return to Yankee Pride" as the reason.

5 more days.

#7 in your program. #1 in my heart

Thanks to Mother Nature raining out his game on Saturday combined with Monday being my day off, I got to go to Rakes soccer game tonight and help coach.

He scored 2 goals, and due to the fact Ciera was manning the video camera like a champ we actually got footage of one of them.

She didn't get it on film, but when he finally got back to the sideline and flashed a million dollar smile and a thumbs up my way?

It got a little dusty on that soccer field tonight.

I'll be a blithering idiot by the time he starts T-Ball next month.

Now I Know Why My Dad Looked So Stressed All The Time

We left the house at 3:50 this afternoon to get to the Aquatic Center for Trots birthday party; Halfway there we realized we'd left his life vest AND my swim trunks at home.

I bet you never knew a mini-van could do 0-60 in 4.7 seconds.

On the fun filled slalom back home, while I dodged in and out between blue hairs on the way to the grocery store and idiotic teenagers cruising around on a Sunday afternoon, Ang and I had a spirited debate on exactly whose fault this was while the kids, clearly traumatized by the arguing, fell asleep.

Tires squealing, we hit the parking lot of the Aquatic Center, pulled up to the front door, and proceeded to offload enough supplies to feed the 81st Airborne. Amidst a din usually only heard on an aircraft carrier or feeding time at the zoo, all three kids attacked the pool like it owed them money.

Angie, proving again she's the brains in the operation didn't bring her swim suit, so it was up to me to wade into a pool with around 55,678 thousand kids swimming, and I'm going out on a limb, peeing into the very water I was standing in. I should mention here that swimming in a public pool ranks right up there with licking a toilet seat and eating out of a dumpster on my "Top Ten Things I Hope I Never Have To Do Again" list.

Finally, mercifully, the life guard blew his whistle for break time and we finally got to do this....



I'm not going to go into the multiple times Trot went under the rope headed toward the deep end or the fact he got back in the pool 4 times AFTER they blew the break whistle and I had to threaten him with bodily harm or the hilarious sight of the 250 pound life guard holding the back of his life vest as I sprinted around the pool to catch him as he headed toward the 12 foot part of the pool.

Once was enough for me.

As I drove home with chlorine in my eyes, Trot babbling about Mickey and Batman fighting, and Rakes hollering he didn't get a tattoo in his gift bag I had one thought rattling around my brain.....

He's only 3 years old.

How in God's name am I going to do this for the next 15 years without ending up in the hospital, the shrinks couch, or the morgue before it is all over?

Next up?

Ciera, 8-18-09.

Please God, don't let it be a Jonas Brothers themed event.

3 Years Doesn't Last As Long As It Used To

Tomorrow, my baby boy turns 3 years old. Used to be time went by like you were waiting for a pot of water to boil; ever since we had the kids life goes by like you're on the Expressway doing 105 mph and you can't wait until you get to the next exit.

Yeah, he's still peeing in his pants and banging his head into the wall like the kid from "Parenthood" for no good reason, but he's growing up. He speaks in full sentences (almost), occasionally remembers to let you know he needs to go poop, and can eat an ice pop and MOST of it ends up in his mouth.

He's obsessed with Mickey Mouse, loves when you read to him, and asks me everyday when "ball game" is coming on again. He's now 3 going on 13 and I'm looking for Doc Brown and his time machine so I can go back 3 years ago and make it all slow down.

One day he's the size of a football and sleeping on my chest and the next he's strutting around the house wearing nothing but a smile and singing the theme song from "The Backyardigans" at the top of his lungs. Before I turn around he'll be in kindergarten, Rakes will be in 3rd grade and Ciera will be a freshman in High School.

I've only got one question; why does it seem like it takes so long to get to the point where you are happy and content and raising a family and once you get there it goes by in the blink of an eye?

At least I've got the Red Sox.

Happy Birthday, Trot Matthew.

Your Dad loves you more than you'll ever know.

More Than Words

Forget the phrase "I'm just looking."

Or "I pooped in my pants, Dad."

And especially this from Ciera: "I think Clay is really cute, Dad!"

Regular season baseball is just around the corner. Followed closely by me, wide awake at midnight during some game between the Sox and the Blue Jays cursing at my tv and wondering where Cito Gaston has been during the last 14 years.

Baseball.

Is.

Coming.

::Snoopy Dance::

From the Mouths of Future Delinquents

As I entered the house around 7:40 tonight I sat down to eat my dinner. In between shoveling bites of pork chop and rice in my mouth, answering Ciera's question of "What's a pill box, Dad" from the book she was reading and Trot telling me 398 times he wanted a snack, somehow the following conversation between Rakes and I actually took place.

Rakes: "Dad, we don't have to go ANYWHERE tomorrow!"

Me: "That's great, son. What are you going to do?"

Rakes: "Nothing! And Mom says we can stay in our pajamas ALL DAY!"

Me: "Sounds like a great way to spend Friday, buddy."

Rakes: "YEAH! And just think; You'll be at work ALL DAY!"

Rakes: "Dad? Why are you crying?"

Sweet Home Alabama do I need some baseball.

Just Because

While Ang was upstairs shredding documents (I can't tell you what or I'd have to kill you. It's sort of like in "Goodfellas" when Ray Liotta's wife was flushing all that coke down the toilet; you're better off not knowing) Trot somehow managed to get past the child proof door knob, open the garage door, and end up at the next door neighbors house.

Thankfully he didn't do any major damage and she marched him right back home. However, due to this plus the fact I'm about ready to kill the next person who tells me my prices are too high combined with tonights episode of LOST blowing what is left of my mind?

I've got nothing.

So I figured you can't go wrong with then Baltimore Oriole Kevin Millar openly rooting for the Red Sox to win the 2007 World Series.

Even though your a Blue Jay now, I gotta hope Theo and Co. are keeping the light on for your return as bench coach or designated "Make Papi laugh in the dugout guy", Kevin.

Whatever way it turns out, I figure it's a Win/Win.

It's Hard To Say Goodbye

Far better writers than me like my friend Cyn at Toeing the Rubber , Red at Surviving Grady, and your average 3rd grader have said it better, but I couldn't let the Era of Schill end in Boston without chiming in with my usual blathering combined no factual evidence to back it up.

I'm one of the few people I know who actually like Schilling for more than his baseball skill set; whether I agreed or disagreed with him, it was always sort of refreshing in the era of A-Rod's and Jeters that a guy on such a big stage would just speak his mind to a guy with a microphone like you or I only would if we were alone in the back yard chopping wood. From politics to his opinion on steroids to whether he thought Dunkin Donuts was better than Krispy Kreme, Curt had an opinion and wasn't afraid to share it.

Throw all that in with his ability on the mound, his sheer will to win, and the way he shined in the post season (Career 11-2 post season record with a winning percentage of .846 ranks him #1 in MLB history. Yes, HISTORY. Choke on it, Rocket.) the guy was a breath of fresh air in a business comprised of cliches and egomaniacs.

Don't get me wrong; to say that nothing would make you happier than shutting up 50,000 people in Yankee Stadium requires a bit of an ego. And I've never seen an athlete who loved the sound of his own voice any more than Schilling. There is, however, a big difference in Schilling talking and most other athletes; he brought it, every single time.

If I'm John Henry, there is a statue of the picture I used in tonights post going up right next to the one of Teddy Ballgame outside Fenway Park. He came to Boston barking about coming to help win a championship, and by God if he didn't do just that.

Twice.

There's an old saying that I'm not sure who came up with, but "Nature Boy" Ric Flair is the first person I remember saying it, so he gets the credit.

"It ain't bragging if you can back it up."

For 20 years he did just that.

Godspeed, Curt.

And thanks.

No Gibleys Were Harmed In Making This Picture

We took The Three Stooges, plus Cousin Jerry and one of Rakes little buddies to Chuck E. Cheese today where random chaos ensued.

First thing that happened was Trot not quite getting the whole "I need to stamp your LEFT hand", then him not seeing anything. Had to take him under the purple light to let him see he actually had a stamp and someone wasn't yanking his chain.

The next few hours went by in a haze of greasy pizza, screaming kids, and more noise than you'll hear in your average invasion of a small country. Mixed in was a sighting of Chuck himself where Trot, upon seeing the giant mouse with the over sized head, spent the rest of the time we were there yelling "Dad; Where did Maisey go?"

Seems like the little hooligan was confusing Chuck with his female counterpart Maisey from all our books we read. Try explaining all THAT to a 3 year old with potty training issues hopped up on pizza and caffeinated soda.

Throw in Rakes and his buddy playing in the Germ Fest known as The Maze, Ciera and Cousin Jerry going through tokens like Grant took Richmond, and me and Ang just trying to hold on for dear life and you've got yourself a typical visit to the Chucksters.

We left with 4 slices of un-eaten pizza, 3 new sippy cups, a crappy plastic worm, and some suckers to go along with the heartburn, beaten up ear drums, and several frayed nerves. After a trip to the fabric store to get Angie the apparently mystical clear thread (I have no idea what this is. Just that she had to have it and the place we went is the only place not named Karachi you can get it) we were on our way home until Rakes uttered the following.

"I left my wallet in the maze, Dad."

Mind you, this "wallet" is nothing more than a business card holder with old credit cards in it. Except for the Belks card that IS current that I stuck in my drawer because I never use it. As I repeatedly told Ang on the way back to the Hotel California of Pizzarias I never expected him to put it in his pocket and leave it in a toy at Chuck E. Cheese. Seriously; who would?

Naturally, it wasn't there, Ang had to call Belks and cancel the card, and I'm left wondering why in God's name nobody ever put any of this in one of those stupid "This will help you answer any problem you'll encounter in raising your children EVER" books I had to read back in the day when we were young, dumb, and totally unaware of what raising these little monsters REALLY meant.

Tomorrow, I'm writing a letter to those people who write "Parenting for Dummies" and demanding my money back.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

I'll admit when I suggested to Ang that we take the kids to the lake this afternoon I wasn't thinking with my head but with my heart. I saw the picture perfect Carolina blue sky and the 68 degree weather and my first impulse was to spend the day outdoors and together.

It never crossed my mind that 4,798 other people would be thinking the same thing when we got to the playground by the lake, or that Rakes bringing his "laser gun" would cause every other kid on the playground to want to take it away from him. Have I mentioned Rakes inherited the classic Little Man syndrome from me in which he has no problem talking trash to anyone in his space and would have willingly submitted to being thrown into the lake before he let some kid he didn't know play with his gun?

After 15 tension filled minutes of watching Rakes shoot the other kids, Trot yelling "You can't have my brothers gun!" and Ciera laughing her head off I managed to convince them if we went on the nature walk around the lake we might see a bear.

Mind you, there hasn't been a bear sighting around the lake since the first of never, but it was enough of a promise for the hellions to quit terrorizing the other children and hit the bricks.

What followed was a Griswold-esque experience of wandering the trails backward while travelling roughly 2.5 miles to cover maybe 1 full mile. We had walking sticks attacking trees, Trot JUST missing a head on collision with what the owner told me was a dog but I'm fairly certain was a midget pony, and Rakes collapsing to the forest floor and muttering "I can't go on."

Throw in Trot falling down over a tree root every 15 feet, Angie attempting to set the World Record for Fastest Time Around The Lake While Wearing Dress Shoes, and the always popular "Rakes and Trot Pee at the Same Time while Crossing Swords" and you could say we had a full day.

Always looking at the glass being half full, I'm proud to say nobody got lost, the lake is still there, and other than a few discarded walking sticks and some freaked out fellow hikers we had a good day.

Tomorrow?

Chuck E. Cheese.

I'm tempted to tell Ang to call them in the morning and let them know I'm coming.

And Hell's coming with me.

But I figure the Mouse has heard it all before.

First thing tomorrow morning I'm headed to the sporting goods store to buy a cup.

Travolta has got NOTHING on Rakes

After viewing this picture is it any wonder I'm spending a perfectly good Saturday night watching Team Korea treat Team Venezuela like Joe Pesci did with that dude in the bar in "Goodfellas"?

I've dropped hints all winter long, but if the regular season doesn't get here soon I'm more than likely going to walk into the nearest Arby's, drop trou and yell "Give me the #5 combo and make it snappy!".

Putting the cherry on top of the sundae, I'm taking Rakes and several of his closest troublemakers to Chuck E. Cheese on Monday followed by a trip to the indoor pool the following Monday for Trot's birthday party where I'll more than likely spend the whole time worrying about some little booger eater dying while I'm trying to keep MY kids off the high dive.

So it should come as no surprise I spend most of my time away from work sitting in front of the computer, muttering under my breath and growing new gray hairs every 3.7 seconds? The rate I'm going I'll look like Howard Hughes by April the 23rd.

Topping the whole night off is the fact I'm listening to Joe Morgan, Steve Phillips, and John Miller call the Venezuela/Korea semi-final game for the WBC. This is the listening equivalent of someone scraping their nails on a chalkboard while screaming at the top of their lungs and getting kicked in the gibleys by a drunk mule all at the same time.

If you'll excuse me I'm going to be spending the next few hours tearing apart the medicine cabinet looking for that Percosat left over from my sinus surgery a few years back.

Oh yeah; Tek hit a HR from the left side of the plate yesterday.

So all isn't lost.

I Can See the Light at the End of the Tunnel

I left home at 8:30 am and got home at 8:15 pm.

Spent the day trying to convince people who don't have the money they ABSOLUTELY needed to buy furniture and the more it costs the better.

Trot's mouth looks like he just got out of the cage with Chuck Liddell, Ciera is going to dance in a Cotillion with me in April (Odds are 50/50 I cry), and Rakes is having a sleepover tonight with his Cousin Jered. I'm 38, look 58, and feel 98.

But even though I won't get to actually see the game?

Thinking about Beckett stomping, snarling, and cursing at the sky while pitching in a meaningless game tomorrow against the Marlins gives me a happy.

Only 16 days: 16 hours: and 20 minutes from Opening Day.

Not that I'm counting.

Who Comes Up With This Stuff Anyway?

*Image courtesy of I have no idea*

I've been taking a lot of quizzes and notes on Facebook; so far the MLB player I'm most like is Ichiro, Calvin Coolidge is who'd I'd be most like if I were the President, and apparently I want to live in Finland in my retirement.

Rakes could take these things and get better results for me. Pedroia is my player, Lincoln is my Prez, and by God I want to live on that island off the coast of New England that lady who wrote "The Perfect Storm" lives at.

Not only that, I want the Red Sox on my tv until I die, a lifetime subscription to the USA Today, and Al Roker off The Today Show and living in obscurity from now on.

While I'm at it, can I get Joe Morgan fired, Chris Berman a muzzle, and can somebody write "George can bite Beck's tweeter" on the bathroom wall at the new Yankee Stadium?

Where is the Facebook quiz for all THAT?

In explanation for all this, Trot fell off the bar stool tonight and busted his lip and bruised his 3 top front teeth while Ang was at Wally World. I thought the boy had busted his teeth, Ang left her cell phone IN THE BASKET CHARGING and my Mom more than likely committed 7 moving violations getting over here.

I feel like I just spent 24 hours straight on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

On a related note, I'm still taking applications for that Nanny position since Tex hasn't committed and I haven't lost enough sense to offer Rich the job.

Yet.

Hump Day Mutterings

To start with, Josh Bard can't catch a break. Brought in a few years ago to catch Wake he looked like a guy trying to catch a butterfly with a pair of tweezers. One Doug Mirabelli motorcade later and he was on the beach in San Diego wondering what in the world just happened.

Fast forward to this spring; the Sox bring him back, he hits around .400 and STILL gets released. Either George Kottaras is going to catch Wake or Theo has that old dude who caught Joe Niekro on speed dial and Senor Bard is hoping somebody still has a need for a back up catcher who twitches whenever a knuckleball is tossed.

Like my good friend Josh Blue said earlier, Wakefield is where all good back up catchers go to die.

On the other hand, LOST was EPIC tonight, Team USA is trying to mount a comeback, and Rakes managed to not set the house on fire today. And while who knows what tomorrow brings, I've got a positive outlook.

Is it Opening Day yet?

Maybe Rakes IS spending too much time on the PS2

Forget that dude who gets on YouTube and imitates all the different batting stances of MLB players.

Rakes can do the entire line up of his Batman game from the Play Station.

I'm not sure whether I should be proud or worried.

Boy has got some moves, though.



By the way, that position for a full-time Nanny is still open.

I'm just sayin'.

If it was easy, everybody would do it.

After picking Rakes up from pre-school today, he and I went to the local grocery store to pick up some lunch meat.

As the automatic doors opened up, Rakes threw out his arms and yelled "Thank You!" at the top of his lungs.

He then proceeded to poke through a pack of sausage, rearrange the cottage cheese section, and spend 10 minutes picking out which pack of gum he wanted.

NOW I understand why Ang is reluctant (to say the least) to go shopping with 1 of them, not to mention all three.

I am proud to say that I didn't have to re-enact the scene in Mr. Mom where Michael Keaton yells out "Earl, we were never ON isle 5!"

It's not the amount of time that matters. It's what you do with it that counts.

After church today, I did the following.

Updated my Facebook status.

Watched 2 hours of the Phillies/Cardinals game on the MLB channel.

Spent the hours of 3-7 watching "Wyatt Earp" while Rakes asked me approximately 13,597 times who was the bad guy.

Made an omlette.

Watched "Amazing Race" with Ciera and Rakes.

I'm now on the computer watching the USA/Netherlands WBC elimination game.

Tomorrow?

I'm debating on whether I should get out of bed before 10 a.m.; right now the smart money would be on NO.

Another Reason Why I Need Blood Pressure Medicine.

As I got Rakes ready for bed about 2 hours ago, the following conversation took place.

Rakes: "Dad, Trot's willy is a LOT smaller than mine."

Me: "He's only 2, son."

Rakes: "I can take mine and stretch it out, Dad. See?"

Me: "Don't do that, son. You'll hurt yourself."

Rakes: "No I won't, Dad. My willy is like playdough."

I need 8 hours sleep, a stiff drink, and a frontal lobotomy and it doesn't have to be in that order. Thank God I've got 2 days off, I can sleep in come the morning, and the Red Sox have a Spring Training game at 1 tomorrow.

I'm ignoring the fact Pedie left the WBC with a strained oblique and I've decided I'll deal with that in the morning.

Serenity now.

Insanity later.

#19 in your program. #1 in your heart.

Had my live draft for one of my two baseball fantasy league's tonight, and with my first pick?

I took The Commander. Partly out of sentiment and partly out of the HUGE hope I have that he has a rebound year.

The draft was big fun; random insults, curses, and offers of beers for players, which I'm pretty sure is against the collective bargaining agreement.

All in all? I've got a pretty good team with a bunch of guys I'm praying don't break down before the All-Star Break.

C: Chris Iannetta
1B: Prince Fielder
2B: Dan Uggla
3B: Melvin Mora (I concentrated on pitching so Melvin was the best I could do)
SS: Yunel Escobar
OF: Bobby Abreu
OF: Jeff Francour (Gamble pick: I figure he can't be worse than last year)
OF: Jose Guillen (Another gamble: it's 50/50 he's not suspended by the third week)
UT: Jason Giambi (Hoping you really CAN turn back time)
BN: Jim Thome
BN: Mike Jacobs
BN: Jack Cust
BN: Chris Synder
BN: Luke Scott
SP: Beckett
SP: Cole Hamels
RP: K-Rod
RP: JJ Putz
P: Carlos Zambrano (Please be healthy. Please be healthy. Please be healthy.)
P: Randy Johnson (He's older than Methuselah. I went WAY out on a limb here)
P: Derek Lowe

While I loathed both of them when they were with the Yankees, you can't go wrong with Giambi back in Oakland and Abreu getting 20 HR, 100 RBI, and 100 runs. And if my pitching can stay off the DL?

I'm a 5 ft nothing force to be reckoned with.

Who do you love?

Driving home from work tonight I was listening to a spirited discussion between the host(can't remember his name) and a gruff old school Red Sox fan about Billy Buckner and Manny Ramirez.

Without boring you with the details, it basically boiled down to this; the host said in 15 years when the 2004 Red Sox team comes to Fenway to celebrate the 20th anniversary of that life changing World Series win that Manny would get cheered just like Buckner did on April 8, 2008 when he threw out the first pitch of the new season. The old dude, in so many words, told him he was off his rocker and 10 minutes of idiotic arguing later it got me thinking.

We shower Pedro and Trot with standing ovations on one hand and throw dollar bills at Johnny Damon for taking the Evil Empire's money and bolting to New York; which just makes me wonder.

What in the world is going to happen when a guy who quit on his team, demanded a trade every 3 days and got into a fight with his teamate in the dugout yet helped his team win 2 World Championships while pointing, laughing, and high fiving fans in the outfield the whole way?

This year? He gets bood out of the park; in fact, I'm gonna say for the next several years he's not exactly going to get welcomed back with open arms. 15 years from now? I got no clue.

I can say this with almost 100% certainty. It won't make me ALMOST tear up like Billy did.

Nirvana isn't just a band.

It's Wednesday night and I'm dead in the middle of the work week with 3 more days to go until a day off.

Team USA is getting beat 5-3 by Venezuela with K-Rod on the mound and I'm being subjected to listening to Joe Magrane do the color; this is ALMOST as bad as Joe Morgan. Almost.

Ciera is apparently hitting puberty at the age of 10, Trot is still trying to figure out this whole going in the toilet thing, and Rakes is reminding me, bit by bit, of why my Mom would lock herself in the bathroom for 30 minute intervals when I was a kid.

Opening Day is still over 2 weeks away, Jack Bauer is on the run, and Megapalooza seems like it's happening so far in the future I can't really get a grip on when it is so I'm looking for a happy place I can hide in for a few hours.

Found it.

Speak softly and carry a big stick.

*Image courtesy of yahoosports.com*

Mikey 2 Bags got a hit today in Spring Training.

This in and of itself may not seem like that big of a deal. But for anyone who had to endure watching Scenic Lowell limp around the bases for the last month or so of the season, grimacing from the pain he was in due to a torn labrum in his hip?

It's almost as good as watching Roy Hobbs knock the cover off that ball in "The Natural".

By the way, this is the same thing Slappy McBluelips is dealing with right now.

Just one more example in a long list that God has a sense of humor.

A Day Off From What?

Ang, in her quest to land a teaching job by this fall, spent the majority of the day running here and there trying to get everything she needs while I spent the day watching Frick and his ever present running buddy Frack.

Don't get me wrong; this is a good thing. After 6 years of one income taking care of a family of five I'm ready for some relief. Especially considering I make my living off of commission.

But after Trot pooped in his pants (no diaper), poured a Danimal out all over the bar AND the kitchen floor, 2+ hours of playing outside where my allergies were screaming "NOOOOOO!" followed by helping coach Rakes soccer practice tonight (have you ever tried to get 11 5 year old kids to all listen at the same time?) I was pretty sure I was in Stage 5 of the famous Popeye disease of "I've had all I can stand and I can't stands no more".

Until I went to say prayers with Rakes and he wrapped his arms around my neck, said "I love you, Dad" and wouldn't let go for the next 5 minutes.

Stinking kids; just when I think I'm out?

They pull me back in.

Of course he got out of bed 3 minutes later, which got Trot out of bed about .2 seconds after that so I had to threaten both of them with bodily harm and a week without the Play Station.

But it was a sweet moment while it lasted.

Only 73 more days until I fly to New England for the Megapalooza.

It's 50/50 odds I stroke out before then.

Yes. These two guys really are your MVP candidates.

*Image courtesy of the Boston Herald*

Pedie had a double, Youk hit a home run and I can go to bed a happy man.

For all of the cluster mess that Bud Selig has created as Commissioner of Baseball, the man gets a big thumbs up from me for coming up with the WBC.

Meaningful baseball in March?

Brilliant.

The Sports Equivalent Of Hitting The Lottery

*Image courtesy of Yahoosports.com*

Team USA beat Team Canada in the WBC today, with Youk hitting a bomb to help contribute to the win.

As I type, Team Venezuela is playing Team Italy on my television, Pedroia is somewhere spouting off at someone and The Commander, at least in my mind, is stomping around his house yelling expletives at the top of his lungs about A-Rod, Joe Maddon and his whacked out glasses, and why it's so hard to find Captain Crunch Peanut Butter cereal at the grocery store these days.

Have I mentioned how happy I am that baseball is back?

Almost Banned From Wendy's

In the middle of another exciting day trying to convince someone to buy something they don't really need, Ang, Heckle and Jeckle stopped by my job today to take me out to lunch.

After a nerve shattering trip across the busy parking lot and ordering our lunch while Trot climbed OVER the barricade in line while Rakes went UNDER it(Ang was getting catchup and napkins while I was hyperventilating thinking about the horde of germs they were putting on their hands) we picked our table out and sat down.

I'd like to now apologize to the nice little old lady who was trying to eat her lunch and read her romance novel one table over; when Trot came your way it wasn't his intent to startle you. He just wanted to say hello.

I somehow managed to eat all my food while at the same time trying to help Rakes find all the items in the "I Spy" puzzles on the side of the bag while telling Trot to get in his seat approximately 1,368 times. And I'm not even counting Ang's contribution to this situation.

After 20 minutes or so Rakes had to go to the bathroom so he and I left Ang in a cold sweat and Trot merrily eating his fries and talking at the top of his lungs about Mickey, Minnie, and "Doofy".

Rakes did his business, informed me that he didn't need to wash his hands because "I didn't touch anything besides my willy, Dad" and we headed back to the table.

We passed Ang and Trot heading TOWARD the bathroom with Trot hollering "I pooped, Dad" and Ang looking like she was ready for the nice people in the white uniforms to come and take her away.

15 minutes later we were headed back toward my store with Rakes full from his frosty, Ang somehow being as cool as the other side of the pillow, Trot going commando and me realizing how the guy who runs the drunk tank at the local police station feels at the end of his shift on Saturday night.

I have no idea how she does this everyday without an IV drip of Vodka.

The Day My Binky Died

Anyone who has read this train wreck on a semi-regular basis over the last few years knows how I feel about Manny Ramirez.

I love the guy.

He's Pablo Picasso with a bat. He makes doing the hardest athletic thing I can think of in hitting a baseball look effortless; I never saw Ted Williams play but I can't imagine he made it look any easier than Manny although I'm sure he did.

Yeah, he makes Lucy from Peanuts look like a Gold Glover in the outfield, but he could play the ball of the Monster better than anyone not named Yaz. And he isn't exactly Lou Brock on the base paths, ignores the third base coach like we ignore the Moonies at the airport, and you can read War and Peace in the time it takes him to pimp one of his moon shots at home plate. But there was always something about Manny that made you smile.

Whether it was going into the wall to pee or mugging for the camera in the dugout or pointing and grinning at the dugout after sliding into second like a deranged elephant Manny always seemed like he got it; he was playing a child's game for a millionaires wage and he could give two rips what people thought.

Turns out he didn't.

"Hey, sometimes it’s better off to have a two-year deal in a place that you’re going to be happy than have an eight-year deal in a place where you’re going to suffer."

8 years, $160 million dollars, millions of fans who adored you, 2 World Series championships, and a World Series MVP is suffering? Every time he lolly gagged to first on a ground ball, had his Grandmother die, or said he couldn't play because his knees hurt I excused it.

He was MANNY.

So what if he fought Youk in the dugout, pushed the travelling secretary down and quit on his team in 2006. Somehow, someway I found myself defending someone who probably didn't deserve it.

After today? I'm done.

Funny thing is I'm not even mad about it.

I'm just sad.

I knew I should have been a doctor

After working a grand total of 20 hours the past 2 days I've sold the whopping total of $136.80.

Granted, this is not quite the norm but it still has left me with a twitch in my left eye I can't get rid of and wondering if drug smuggling would have been a better career choice.

Throw in the fact that I was practicing the Fox Trot with Ciera in her room tonight in advance preparation for her upcoming Catillion, Rakes wanting to watch "The Marine" with me again, and Trot calling me "Pawpaw" about 57 times tonight and I'm pretty sure there is a rubber room reserved for me as we speak.

As far as the blog goes? I've got absolutely nothing when it comes to anything creative for a post tonight. Consider the fact I was googling "Dukes of Hazzard Plot Summaries" and that should give you a pretty good idea where my head is at tonight.

So I leave you with this.

Al Bundy is my hero.

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

*Image courtesy of Yahoosports.com*

Tito looks like Pedroia just beat him at cribbage, Theo re-signed Manny, or he heard me yelling at Trot about pooping in his pants again.

However, my man can rock a pair of eyeglasses like nobody this side of Bono.

On the home front I was greeted at the door by Trot, wearing his Mickey Mouse footie pajamas and uttering "I didn't eat my torn, Dad". Took me a few tries but I finally figured out he didn't get desert because he refused to eat his last bite of corn.

Something tells me I need to buy stock in Mylanta.

Angels Making Snow Angels

When Rakes was about 5 months old he reared back while Ang was burping him and knocked out the bridge in her mouth.

Over the last 5 years this thing has popped out more times than Octomom has had kids. We've resorted to going to the UNC School of Dentistry for the past 3 years and after getting it fixed a year and a half ago we thought we were finally done with it.

Until she popped her mouth on the nightstand last night while trying to find the phone in our bedroom which I'm pretty sure Trot has stuffed into a air vent and it busted loose.

Again.

So it's not a shock to think that the busted bridge combined with the kidney stones/bladder infection mixed with Trot treating his pants like a litter box would result in her lying in the snow on her back making snow angels and giggling like a mental patient.

They can see her tomorrow at 1. Ciera will be at school, I'll be at work, and my Mom will be watching the boys. Best case scenario?

I've got a happy wife and a $2,000 dental bill.

I don't want to think about the worse case.

How is it not Opening Day yet?

A Picture Tells A Thousand Words

*Image courtesy of Yahoosports.com*

As I type this it's 10:25 pm, I've seen 2 baseball games completed and the third between the Astros and the Mets is unfolding in the background.

Outside it is snowing to beat the band and we're supposed to get around 7 inches, which around here is like a blizzard to my friends in New England.

Meanwhile I'm dealing with a wife with possible kidney stones and 3 kids cooped up in the house begging me to take them sledding sometime tomorrow. Throw in the fact 24 is a special 2 hour event tomorrow night and I'm walking the tight rope without a safety net.

But taking into account all that?

The fact I found a picture of Mike Lowell throwing a baseball around has got me in a state of bliss I wasn't sure I could find so quick.

Opening Day is a little more than a month away.

Life is Good.