Searching for Billy Bob Thorton

He looks like Leon Spinx. Only he's not African American. And he's 6.

I also just noticed that somewhere along the way he's picked up the Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson move of arching one of his eyebrows.

As he clutched the zip lock bag that contained his tooth all through "Survivor" and asked me upteen times "How much do you think I can get from the Tooth Fairy for THIS bad boy, Dad?" two separate thoughts kept rattling around inside my head.

One?

It really is astonishing how much more patience I have when there is a Red Sox game on in the background during the soundtrack that's my life.

Two?

If they ever re-make "Sling Blade", Rakes could win the role of the kid hands down.

It wouldn't even be close.

Mr. Kotter's got nothing on Crabby

*Image courtesy of Kelly O' and www.sittingstill.net*

Welcome back, Jon.

We've all missed you.

Now, will you please have a talk with The Commander before his next start?

Thanks, bro.

::fist bump::

He's Radioactive. That explains a lot.

Rakes, ever since he could walk, has been on a never ending quest to do things people tell him he can't accomplish.

When his sister told him he couldn't ride a bike with no training wheels at the age of 2 1/2, he promptly asked me to take them off and with the exception of one wreck he was flying all over the street that same day.

When I told him I was going to throw over hand to him for the first time and let him know it was OK to miss but to just keep trying, he took the first ball I threw him right back up the middle and right off my gibleys.

Or the ever frequent "Rakes, don't do that or you'll hurt your brother!" uttered by myself, Ang, and Ciera on a daily basis that he never seems to hear as he puts yet another bruise on his brother. THIS one? Not really proud of him on, but at least he's consistent.

I'm guessing some kid on the bus told him that he could NEVER be a Superhero 'cause tonight he showed me his newest accomplishment.

Apparently, he wants to be Spider Man when he grows up.

Notice the look of complete utter joy on Trot's face in the background.

He'll be shimmying up the drain pipe by the weekend.

I do have 2 items of good news to report. First, after last nights Beer League Softball game the Sox won 13-12 in which approximately 137 hits happened between the 2 teams, the boys won 2-1 in a game that saw Buchholz go 8 fantastic innings and the winning run was courtesy of a bases loaded walk to Scenic who was pinch hitting for Papi.

Try saying THAT 5 times really fast.

Secondly? Rakes has learned to read. Read a 56 page book to me all by himself and the only word I had to help him with was ready.

Looks like all those nights I read to him while he asked me 589 questions and seemed to be more interested in whatever snack he was devouring at the time actually paid off.

Go figure.

Bowling Shoe Ugly.

After he gave up 8 runs in 4 plus innings, I'm more convinced than ever that an alien from the planet Yankeeituso has taken over the body of Josh Beckett.

It's 13-10 Red Sox, bottom of the sixth inning, the game is already 3 hours and 15 minutes old and I just spent the last 5 minutes slamming the freezer door on my head.

Through no fault of his own, Tito has infielders playing the outfield, Wake is now in the bull pen, our starting 3 pitchers are all over the place, and Tek, yes TEK is hitting the cover off the ball.

Throw in MDC being our best pitcher out of the pen so far and it's like that bizarro world episode of "Seinfeld", only it's about baseball instead of nothing.

I'm not even going to go into the fact that Trot has to go #2 everywhere except WHEN HE'S AT HOME; we went 5 places today and I was tempted to take the kid to the doctor to get checked out for Montezuma's Revenge. We haven't been to Mexico but the way that kid gets around I wasn't going to take any chances.

Batten down the hatches; I think it's gonna be a wild ride this year.

It ain't how you start. It's how you finish that counts.

"But, at the same time, you can be realistic about it and recognize that we haven’t been worth a [expletive] so far."

Theo Epstein

"How it will be defined is how we handle frustration. Are we going to be tough? Are we going to dig ourselves out of it? Are we going to make excuses? We’ll find out. This is a time for us to show what we’re made of. I believe that.’’

Terry Francona

8-11 to start the season and Theo and Tito are a little testy.

Throw in Rakes and Trot getting up at 4 a.m. and that makes three of us.

All that said? I got a feeling that come October I'll be looking back at April like I look back at trying to potty train Trot.

It was at times ugly, messy, and down right disgusting.

But in the end?

It all came out OK.

Can you buy Tranquilizers over the counter?

To think that when he was in his mother's womb I had visions of him being a doctor, a baseball player, or even the President.

Now I'm just hoping it's a few more years before he figures out he can light his own farts, make a potato gun from scratch, or decides to attempt a Jeff Hardy Swantan Bomb off the roof onto the trampoline in the backyard.

His Grandmother takes him to the movies to see that Dragon movie in 3D and he's more excited about the set of redneck teeth he got out of the vending machine. The one good thing?

Trot didn't go. Otherwise I've got TWO raving lunatics running around with hillbilly teeth, which I'm fairly certain are going to end up in his pocket at some point next week when he goes to school, which invariably will result in his teacher giving me a call at work to let me know he's coming home on Yellow.

I won't get into it all, but suffice it to say I'll be getting a rambling explanation about how it wasn't his fault and some poor kid is going to get thrown under the nearest bus while Rakes tries to save his own bacon.

And we're only in Kindergarten.

In the good news department, the Red Sox just beat the Orioles 7-6 and I only lost 2 years off my life tonight, thanks to a 7-4 lead morphing into a 7-6 win that was cemented by a Paplebon dance through the raindrops in the top of the ninth.

Think I'll have Ang call the local ER and let them know if the wins stay this classy over the next week or so I'll need the Lido Suite sometime in the near future.

This is EXACTLY how I look in the morning.

*Image courtesy of bostonherald.com*

It's going to be a race to the finish on who strokes out first, me or Tito.

He's got the Boston Media, starting pitchers struggling, and everybody with a pulse in New England calling for the head of David Ortiz.

I've got Rakes and Trot.

Far as I can tell it's a dead heat.

3-3 in the bottom of the 8th, bases loaded and 2 outs with Adrian Beltre on deck.

I'll be in the backseat of my car if you need me.

Maybe I should finally buy a lottery ticket.

I gotta admit when Ang informed me she was going to be a chaperon on Ciera's 6th grade field trip to D.C. I was momentarily filled with dread at the thought of being alone with the two demented boys in that picture.

One looks like he's ready to shiv you, only he's wearing dinosaur pajamas and the other one looks like he just had a lobotomy and is wearing cowboy boots without socks. Don't tell me you wouldn't feel just a TAD nervous about being by yourself in a house with the two of them?

Thankfully, my wonderful wife arranged for Trot to spend the night at her parents house so it was just me, Rakes, and "Survivor" with a check on the Red Sox game every 2.3 minutes, much to his annoyance.

Haven't heard anything from the girls in Washington so I'm hoping Ang is keeping every one of those puberty addled lame brain boys away from Ciera and according to the schedule they'll be home around 9 tomorrow night.

Basically, Ang has Ciera, my in-laws have Trot, Rakes has been asleep for over an hour now, and I've had the game on with nobody needing ANYTHING all night.

Other than the fact the boys lost this whole field trip thing is working out pretty well.

Something tells me I'm gonna end up paying for all this good Karma someday soon.

No Rest for the Weary.

Trot, in his seemingly never ending quest to send me over the edge, doesn't like to go to bed. Every night, without fail, he gets up at LEAST 3 times. Doesn't matter if he's had a nap or stayed awake, been outside running for 6 consecutive hours or cooped up indoors with nothing but the PS2 and the toilet to keep him entertained, or drugged with Percosat when I just can't take........

Forget that last part.

Bottom line is the kid views bedtime like some deranged game between myself and him and the goal seems to be for me to completely blow my stack. Tonight, after putting him back down twice I thought I was in the clear and called my Mom to make sure she wasn't packing her bags and moving to Mexico in the morning due to watching my future rabble rouser the last two days.

After apologizing profusely for his various transgressions this afternoon, I hung up and went upstairs to get on the computer.

And there he was. Fast asleep on his stomach, Teddy Bear laying underneath his arm, with his head positioned just around the corner so he could see the tv.

I'd like to think he wanted to watch the Red Sox game. I'd like to think he just doesn't want to be away from us. I'd like to think he doesn't go to bed just so he doesn't miss anything that might happen.

But I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me by making my head explode.

I think Stephen King wrote a novel about this once.

Never. Gets. Old.

*Photo courtesy of Kelly O' and www.sittingstill.net*

Man, was it nice to see this last night.

If you'd told me that Darnell McDonald would have been the hero I'd have said one thing; who in God's name is Darnell McDonald? Home Run to tie it and a wall ball to walk off in the bottom of the ninth and all of a sudden the sun is shining in Red Sox Nation again.

And not for nothing? One of the first guys out to pound him into oblivion?

Big Papi.

*Editors Note: I may have been wrong about Papi being there but I was SURE I saw him. Man, do I hope I was right.

5 Game losing streaks got nothing on us.

I've gotta admit, as parents to three children Ange and I occasionally miss stuff.

Usually it's Trot, but that is only because he won't sit still for more than 5 seconds at a time. Every now and then Ciera will go into panic mode because we forgot it was hat day or something and yeah; Trot has ventured off to pre-school more than once while going Commando but if he's not complaining? I'm sure not checking to see if he's got his underoos on.

Bottom line? We make mistakes like everyone else. Like Ange letting Rakes and Trot watch LOST the other day when Desmond ran over Ben or when I let Ciera watch "WWE Raw" and now she wants to marry John Cena or that time I said the mother of all curse words after almost cutting off my pointer finger on Christmas Day...... Forget that one. I'm still pretending it didn't happen.

All that being said, we somehow didn't realize when Picture Day for the Kindergarten class was.

'Cause if she'd known he was getting his FIRST EVER PICTURE taken at school I'm pretty sure Ange wouldn't have allowed the following to happen.

There is my first born son, wearing the rattiest hoodie he owns with a split lip courtesy of a right hook by Trot and his hair looking like he's channeling his inner Kramer.

With every fiber of my being I wish I'd had the video camera working when he tried to convince his Mom that the pictures looked GREAT.

If the Red Sox would actually win a game sometime soon this would all seem a little bit funnier.

It ain't the 4 Horsemen of the Apocolypse. But it's close.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O and www.sittingstill.net*

4 game losing streaks call for drastic measures like growing a Fu-Man Chu, everyone on the team switching underwear, and Dustin Pedroia throwing everyone hitting under the Mendoza line in JB's wood chipper.

I went the less controversial route of changing the picture in my header to Beckett who is more than doing his part. The aforementioned Elf is hitting somewhere around .950 and The Captain has 3 Home Runs and apparently spent his off season having everyone of his body parts replaced with the same stuff Lee Majors got in "The Six Million Dollar Man".

Tomorrow is Patriot's Day, which means the game starts at 11 a.m. and I need to administer Trot's tranquilizer, er... give him his snack, around 10. Lackey is on the hill and tonight before I lay my head to sleep I'm gonna ask God for him to have a 96 mph fastball and the nerves of a gunfighter. At the risk of getting greedy I'm also going to ask for Carl Crawford to tear a hamstring, BJ Upton to run into the garage door in CF and a breaking ball bounce right up into Evan Longorias gibleys during his first a/b.

In other words, I'd REALLY like to see a win.

'Cause I'm pretty sure Tito is going to flip out otherwise.

My Ulcer say's Thank You for the Wake Up Call

According to Theo, the Red Sox off season signings were going to significantly upgrade the teams defense and pitching.

He could have just signed Tanner Boyle for a carton of Camel Lights and a 6 pack of Coors and gotten the same result.

Baseball is a game played by human beings. And even perennial Gold Glove players make errors. And I'm the first to admit I probably couldn't play catch with the average major league player without dropping 3 out of every 10 throws.

But when you start off the season playing 2 of your most hated rivals in the first 4 series and it looks like filming of "The Bad News Bears Start a Major League Franchise" is underway it sort of crawls all over your nerves.

Although Scutaro hitting that bomb over the Monster sort of helps.

Maybe one day I'll actually get a life and this game I love won't mean so much, especially in the first 2 weeks of a 6 month season.

Somehow though?

I seriously doubt it.

This Rain Delay is brought to you courtesy of Kevin Millar.

Tek has hit his 3rd home run of the year in his second game played.

It's 1-1, bottom of the ninth, and Papi is due up; I'm calling the first walk-off at Fenway this season.

And the game is in a rain delay.

That sound you just heard was my head exploding.

I'm on the verge of turning 40, my blood pressure is borderline high, and Trot is my son.

The odds aren't good.

Home Sweet Home

Look, I realize when I come home from work every night it's not gonna be like it was back in the good old days of "Leave it to Beaver". For one thing, Ang isn't gonna greet me at the door with a dress on and sporting some pearls, Rakes would eat Wally for lunch and as much trouble as The Beav got in I've started to think Trot wasn't actually born but is some CIA invention being tested to defeat terrorism world wide by making them insane.

All I really ask for is no broken bones, appliances, or federal laws and I'm pretty much OK. And while I've usually got some curve ball or another to deal with for the most part I manage to make it from 7:15 to bedtime without losing my mind, cool, or lunch.

All three were in serious doubt when I opened the doors, Ang is laying on the bed wiped out with a migraine, and Rakes utters "I stopped up the toilet but it was Ciera's fault", followed by the following explanation from Ang while Ciera attempted unsuccessfully to give Rakes an atomic wedgie and Trot, for once, was innocent of any wrong doing. That I know of.

Turns out Ciera had deposited roughly 2/3rds of a roll of toilet paper into the commode, stuck the plunger in it as sort of a "Do Not Disturb" sign and closed the door. This was followed up within 3 minutes by Rakes taking the plunger out, doing his business, and then asking "Why was there a plunger in the toilet?"

Now would be a great time to remind anyone reading this I'm a TAD OCD and would occasionally dry heave changing the diapers of these children and here I found myself sweating profusely with a plunger in my hand and the fan on to drown out the expletives that were flying out of my mouth.

Bottom line? Toilet got unplugged and I managed to both eat my supper AND keep it down.

Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Rakes gets LOST. God help me.

Ang fell asleep last night watching LOST and to catch up, watched the last 30 minutes on TiVo today.

While Rakes and Trot were sitting right beside her.

When Desmond ran over Locke in his wheelchair and sped off, these were the following two comments from the Peanut gallery.

Rakes: "Why did he do that, Mom?"

Trot: "Mom, I wanna do THAT!"

So now I've got Trot wanting to get catapulted through the air while riding in a wheelchair and Rakes asking me non-stop questions about a show I've seen every episode of and STILL don't understand. He's already asked me if Santa can bring him the box set for Christmas; how does a 6 year old even know what a box set IS?

These are the things that don't happen when I'm home; the television is on the Red Sox game, they are watching Spongebob or beating each other up with the box from our "Candyland" game or driving me crazy by going to the bathroom and NEVER flushing the flipping toilet while leaving on every light, fan, and electronic device I own, causing my power meter to do it's best impression of Catagory 5 Hurricane force winds.

Whoever in the MLB front office decided it was a great idea to schedule all these day games this early on in the season has got a gibley punch coming their way.

Monday's with Trot

Before I start this post I want to get across 2 points; I love my youngest son and treasure spending the entire day with him every week.

We go to the library or the park, I pack his lunchbox and we go eat with Ciera one week and Rakes the next. We go uptown and pay our water bill and every time he sweetly asks the little old lady behind the counter "Tan I have some tandy?" and she politely says "I'm sorry, sweetie. I don't have any". And he responds, EVERY TIME, with "Oh Maaaaan."

We laugh and play and in general have a great time.

He also will dump an entire box of crackers on the floor and repeatedly walk in it while I'm folding clothes, get into his sisters room and attempt to take apart her television while I'm washing dishes, and if it wasn't for the chain lock at the top of every exit door we have he'd be halfway down the block tormenting one of our neighbors Shitzu's before I could blink.

What I'm telling you is by the time Rakes and Ciera get home from school and I help them with their homework, get snacks, listen to Rakes tell me about how many times he slid down the slide at recess and Ciera tell me about every detail of her day from the time she got to school until walking in the front door I'm twitching like I've got Tourette's and wondering when in God's name is Ang getting home from work.

Throw in a Red Sox game starting at 4 p.m. and I'm ready for a Vicodin drip and a straight jacket. So against my better judgement I let Ciera take Huey and Louie outside to play on the swing set while I had one eye on the game and one eye on them. You can probably see where this is going.......

About the time Big Papi struck out for what seems like the 127th straight time (Jr and I are attempting to halt this early season slump in it's track with a FB league trade: I'm sending him Paul Konerko and he's sending me Ortiz. Never let it be said that Rich isn't a team player.) and I'm wondering how high your blood pressure can really get Ciera comes in the back door and utters "I can't find Trot".

As a parent there isn't anything more terrifying than not knowing where your child is. I make a point to avoid any news/television shows/books that involve children going missing; I just can't take it. However, Trot is sort of like Gizmo from "Gremlins" and I'm pretty sure he could castrate a stampeding bull on Dianabol but my heart still skipped a beat or two.

We found him 4 houses down under my neighbor's trampoline.

Have you ever tried verbally blasting a 4 year old doing cart wheels with his shorts on backwards and no underwear?

To top it all off? Tomorrow is an off day for the Sox.

If I lived in L.A. I'd have a sitcom by tomorrow afternoon.

#45 in your program. #1 in your heart.

*Image courtesy of Matt Stone*

It's one of the 7 wonders of the world that I actually get to watch as many Red Sox games as I do, considering I have 3 children, including one who's main objective is to apparently see me stroke out before I hit 40. Somehow I've figured out a way to maintain 4 separate conversations at once, be a cup filling/snack getting machine, and keep the laundry going while at the same time more or less keep up with the action on the screen.

Any other aspect of following the Sox and baseball is usually achieved after the hour of 9 pm, which is when it's more or less quiet, depending on how many times Trot decides to get up after being put to bed and whether Ange watched Lifetime that afternoon and wants to have a deep discussion while all I wanna do is veg.

Which is why, even though it happened a week ago, I put a picture of Pedro up tonight. Reading the Boston Herald online I stumbled across THIS fantastic story of how one of the greatest players I've ever seen took some time to tell a fading hero that he wasn't quite done yet. All Tek did was hit two bombs in his first start of the season.

I guess I shouldn't expect anything less from a guy who once said "Wake up the Damn Bambino. Maybe I'll drill him in the ass too."

Somebody tell Theo to plant a Mango tree at Fenway and bring Pedro home.

Welcome Back, Captain.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O' @www.sittingstill.net*

I gotta admit; after taking the family out for pizza for dinner and within the first 5 minutes of us arriving Trot had peed his pants, climbed into a booth with a somewhat surprised elderly gentleman, gotten within 3 inches of a newborns face and crawled under an empty table I wasn't quite in the baseball frame of mind.

Upon arriving home I bathed the boys (imagine two wet cats that talk back), broke up two mini-brawls, parked both of them in front of Sponge Bob and settled in. (Ange and Ciera went to get a movie which somehow took 45 minutes. Riiiight.) For 4 innings it was a great pitchers duel between The Commander and last years Cy Young winner Zack Grienke, but in the 5th I got my mojo back.

That was when The Captain went yard.

All of a sudden birds were singing, Trot was quiet (he was raiding the pantry for Gummi Bears at the time) and it felt like 2004 for a few minutes.

Now? It's the top of the 8th, it's 4-3 Sox, and Beckett just gave me the 37th ulcer of my life with a 20 something pitch inning and I'm lighting a candle for the bullpen as I type.

At least it's never boring.

EDITORS NOTE: TEK JUST WENT DEEP AGAIN IN THE NINTH. I THINK I HEAR BELLS RINGING.

Ernie Banks had it right all along.

There is nothing worse than an empty Fenway Park. Other than a Red Sox off day, which today happened to be. Waking up in the morning with a 9 hour work day ahead of you knowing that DO and Remy WON'T be on your tv when you get home is sort of like waking up on Christmas as a kid and finding nothing under the tree.

So instead of watching the boys of summer I spent the evening watching "Survivor" with Rakes and Ciera, kept Trot from setting anything on fire, and continued working on my collection of Yankee voodoo dolls for later in the season. I finished Slappy tonight, adding a pink Barbie purse and a clueless cousin as a bonus.

Tomorrow night in Kansas City and nothing less than Rakes sending Trot to the ER after re-enacting Shawn Michaels and The Undertakers Coffin Match circa 1997 is gonna keep me from parking my skinny rear in front of the tv for 3 1/2 hours tomorrow night.

It's a miracle I make it through the off season without full time therapy.

A little perspective is all it takes. Or not.

At around 11:30 this morning while I was at work, all hell broke loose.

As you can imagine, Trot was at the epicenter of it all.

My boss was at the doctor, the delivery guys and the warehouse manager were on delivery's, the mattress truck rolled up and there was me, TP, and the young lady who answers the phone on site.

4 sets of customers were in the store, I'm elbows deep in alligators and Ciera picks that moment to call and inform me Trot had decided to go all caveman on the office door and walls with a red crayon and a smile.

Mind you, I'm not the most patient of Dad's and may have promised life at military school but what else could I have come up with? Throw in the fact I'm already tossing around tie breaker scenarios in the AL East, Jr is gloating about 6th row tickets behind the dugout and Rakes has suddenly developed an obsession with permanent markers and I'm pretty much a basket case.

Thankfully the magic eraser lived up to it's name, Trot toed the line like Johnny Cash the rest of the day and Rakes decided discretion was the better part of valor or something and we were able to contain the damage.

All that doesn't change the fact that the Sox are losing 3-1 in the bottom of the 10th inning with Fruitbat on the mound for the Yankees.

But it sort of helps all the same.

Is it Roadtrip time yet?

2 down, 160 more to go.

*Image courtesy of WEEI.com*

While watching tonight's 6-4 loss to the Yankees tonight I had an epiphany about the following items.

1. One day Mariano Rivera's right arm is going to fly off his body and land between 2nd base and RF. It HAS to. Only it didn't happen tonight.

2. Really good pitching doesn't happen in week one. See Beckett/Sabbathia and Lester/Burnett.

3. The Red Sox and the Yankees are going to have 16 more grind it out, give Ted an ulcer, and cause me to lose 16.7 hours of sleep over the course of this season games this year. I should be used to it by now but I guess I'm not.

4. Victor Martinez will win the AL MVP this year. And if Theo doesn't come up with a contract extension and Dusty Brown (God love him) is the Opening Day catcher next year I'll spend the month of April 2011 hitting myself in the marbles with one of Rakes lightsabers.

5.. Never, and I mean NEVER douse your soup at lunch with Habanero sauce.

Trust me on this one.

Are we really only 2 games into the season?

Attention FCC: Get your bleep buttons ready.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O' and www.sittingstill.net* (I think)

After weeks of contract talks between The Commander and Red Sox brass, talks about the talks, and me making Rakes promise he'll name his first child Beckett, no matter what his wife says about it, the Sox are making it official at 3:00 pm today.

4 more years for the small sum of $68 million dollars.

Last nights 4 2/3 innings and 5 runs notwithstanding, I'm positively giddy. The pitching staff for the next few years is stacked with Beckett, Lackey, Lester, Buchholz and Daisuke under Sox control. Plus it took off the FA market one of the top 3 pitchers available next season, which means the Steinbrenner boys are going to have to find someone else to throw a bucket full of money at. (How YOU doin', Carl Crawford?)

Personally, I can think of nothing better than watching Beckett stomp and snarl around the pitchers mound over the next 4 years, cursing at himself, the umps, other players, and the guy selling beer behind home plate whose just a little too full of himself. Plus it makes my friend Tex happy too.

I just hope Rakes and Trot don't figure out how to read lips during the remainder of his time in Boston.

'Cause I'm not sure how I'd explain that to their Sunday School teachers.

It's Go Time

*Image courtesy of Jonathon Wiggs/Globe Staff*

It's BAAAAAAAAAACK.

6 months, 1 Christmas, 47 "accidents" by Trot, 3 phone calls from a male not named Dad to Ciera, and 1,398 instances of Ange contemplating hitting me upside the head with a cheese grader later, there will be baseball played at Fenway Park.

Doesn't get much better than that.

And I'm Free. Free Fallin'.

As I stood in my kitchen tonight watching Rakes and Trot decorating Easter eggs while I silently inventoried all my "lucky" Sox stuff I needed to get out of storage (hat, t-shirts, AAA game ball from a Bulls game and "The Great Unwashed (don't ask), Ange was telling me about the Easter egg hunt at church the kids attended earlier in the day.

Amidst the unmistakable cracking of boiled eggs and the two of them arguing like miniature Felix and Oscar's over whose egg was whose and asking me pertinent questions like "Where does the Easter Bunny live?" and " If I hide this egg in my closet will it stink?" Ange was telling me about the conversation she had with her Cousin Eddie (I've mentioned him before) and his wife Julie at the egg hunt today.

See, they are the parents of a beautiful, sweet little girl of about 2 and they recently announced they are having a second child later this year. As they told Ange today about how much the baby's chin looked like Cousin Eddie's (Angie's cousin, not Randy Quaid, although that in and of itself would be pretty awesome) and how much her eyes looked like Julie's and how grateful they were that their little girl was such a great mix of the two of them Ange looked around to see where Trot had gotten off too.

With the look that only a Mother can have for her youngest child Ange gazed upon the following sight.

Trot, standing on his head, feet flapping around 3 feet off the ground while he sticking out his tongue at a little girl in his class who he'd apparently bull rushed out of the way on his quest to pick up some eggs.

I have no idea what that says about myself or Ange and it makes me question whether the hospital made a mistake for about the 5 millionth time but I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has ran out by now and for better or worse we're stuck with him.

At this point I'm fairly certain he may be part Lab.

24 more hours until First Pitch.

Looks like I'll make it in the nick of time.

2 More Days.

48 hours.

That's all that separates me from honest to God, real live baseball on my television again.

To say it's been a long winter really doesn't do it justice. I had to suffer with the knowledge the Yankees won their 27th World Championship in October, deal with the worst holiday sales season since FDR and constantly battle Trot in the Quest for Proper Urination.

We had major snowstorms on three straight weekends after going roughly 3 YEARS without any snow, Rakes stayed on yellow at school for the first two months and Ange went back to teaching at apparently the same school as the one Michelle Phieffer taught Coolio in in whatever the name of that movie was back in the day.

Come Sunday? It's all just dust in the wind; for three hours or more I get to watch the Commander face off against CC at Fenway Park. Yes, it'll be on ESPN which means Joe Morgan will be involved but it's Opening Day so he'll me a minor annoyance instead of his mid-August version that is commonly referred to around here as the 9th sign of the Apocalypse.

It's the first day in the 7 month marathon known as Baseball season. I'll laugh, I'll cry, I'll curse and I'll laugh some more.

All by the 4th inning.

Sweet holy Moses have I missed this game.

My only regret is my friend Andy won't be around to see it unfold, but knowing him he'll figure out at way.

Play Ball.

The Future is Now

*Image courtesy of Kelly O @ www.sittingstill.net*

3 more days until Josh Beckett and the Red Sox open the 2010 season against the Yankees at Fenway Park.

Hopefully no more than 4 more days until the Sox announce the contract extension everyone from ESPN to the guy standing out on Lansdowne Street holding the "Free Mickey Mouse!" sign have been talking about the last few days.

'Cause a pitching staff composed of The Commander of the FU Brigade, Lester, Lackey, Buchholz, and Matsuzaka for the foreseeable future?

To quote the venerable Kenny Bana from Seinfeld?

It's Gold, Jerry!

GOLD!