This is what happens when I can't watch the Red Sox.

Maybe it's because I just turned 40 and the prospect of my first ever prostate exam is staring me dead in the face.

Or it could be that my baby girl, who is all of 11 years old, along with my lovely wife convinced me today that she could get her ears pierced. (Those 2 are crafty; they let me take the boys to the pool for 6 hours and catch me in a heat-stroke related moment of weakness to get me to consent).

Personally, I think I just like to hear things that are familiar and listening to the dulcet tones of Dick Enberg as he calls the Padre/Blue Jays game in the background as I type this gives me a happy.

I can remember him and Merlin Olson calling NFL games for NBC when I was a kid and I'm a sucker for Vin Sculley call the Dodgers games. Baseball, more so than any other sport, embraces it's history. Jack Buck, Vin, Ernie Harwell in Detroit, and Red Barber and the Brooklyn Dodgers just to name a few.

In a world that seemingly skews younger and younger it's sort of nice to have a game called by a guy not looking for the next big catchphrase that'll wind up on ESPN in the morning. (Chip Carey is the exception to this rule; he actually used the phrase "He got him with some Kentucky Blue Gas" to explain a strike out over the weekend. I don't wish bad things to happen to people for the most part, but if he got ran over by a Zamboni tomorrow it wouldn't hurt my feelings).

All I know is I've spent the last 2 hours watching old professional wrestling interviews on youtube mixed in with some Sanford and Son episodes, the Red Sox have the day off, and I spent multiple hours in the sun with Rakes and Trot and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt to show for it.

Now, Get off my lawn. I'm going to bed.