Somehow, it’s always interesting.
Even amid a quiet time and a dizzying array of releases listing the athletes at three colleges who have distinguished themselves academically in many intertwined ways. I appreciate any and all news, regardless of how much coffee it takes to edit.
Besides, I get out when I can unpark myself from this cockpit. The plane I fly is typewritten and less dangerous. It can be dangerous, though.
I saw a kid, with none away and the bases loaded, hit a ball over the right fielder’s head that became a 1-run single. The runner on third base reluctantly scored. The runner on second played it halfway when he should’ve tagged, the runner on first tagged when he should’ve played halfway, and the upshot was that three runners hovered nervously in the vicinity of second base, and the dual wonders were that (1.) only a run scored and (2.) it wasn’t a triple play.
Life is a 1-run single.
I’m not even going into the 1-7-4-3 double play. Readers cannot be expected to withstand two rambling paragraphs in a span of three, at least not today.
The British Open is almost the perfect background for writing. If only all the announcers were British.
Mysteriously, my wi-fi put me on Airplane Mode, even though the house is very much on the ground.
I think I know who’s winning the British Open but don’t want to spell his name.
I have just about decided to avoid completely the Olympics because so many people are demanding that I watch. The Olympics, to be performed vacantly in Tokyo and thereabouts, is going to bankrupt the world, apparently. The local NBC news team is selling the Olympics like RVs and camper trailers. My phone is in on the act. I’m expecting to find that my TV won’t show anything but the Olympics unless I opted out by last Tuesday, Tokyo time, which was the previous day.
If you can’t take photo galleries of kids playing baseball, you just can’t take pictures. You haven’t the gift.
That’s satire. Come to think of it, most of this is.