We had just gotten engaged. Or can’t you tell?
It was September 25, 1989. Stephanie and I were headed to Shea. On a chilly Flushing evening, the Mets would eliminate themselves mathematically and I would require sit-and-sulk time, just enough to turn our stroll back to the LIRR into a brisk trot.
And she married me anyway.
I’ve been happily, nay ecstatically married since 1991, but let’s pretend for just a sec that eight years ago I dated 25 lovely ladies. Some I fell for badly. Some left me spurned. A few were just kind of there. Now let’s say, to continue our hypothetical, that as they scattered to the wind and […]
I love Duaner Sanchez. I'll vote for Pedro anytime he wants to run for anything. And this article by Ben Shpigel is enormously hopeful, though “enormously hopeful” is the norm for February stories about injured pitchers.
(Seriously. When's the last time you read a spring-training story in which the pitcher said, “I'm way behind schedule, instead […]