A quick note on baseball

A quick note on baseball, because, really, man does not live on paint alone. If you are reading this in England, baseball is just like cricket.

So my friend Chuck and I are planning to go to Citifield (Manoman, the urge to capitalize that F is almost overpowering.) and watch an afternoon Mets game on Wednesday. I'm hesitating to pull the trigger on ordering the tickets, however, because I'm concerned in no particular order by the inclement weather report for Wednesday and the swine flu minidemic sweeping Queens. Anyway, in addition to eating Chinese food in Flushing prior to the game, when I do go to a Mets game I certainly plan on standing in the Jackie Robinson Rotunda and reflecting on the glory of the man.

And then, moments ago, just as I'm thinking about Robinson, somebody named Jacoby Ellsbury, a Red Sock, steals home against the Yankees straight up. If you are reading this in England, don't ask me to explain other than to say Whoa Nelly, it is something one doesn't see every day. Or every decade, if you are a Sox fan, since the last time a Red Sock actually did it was ten years ago. Whoa Nelly.

Me? I don't think I've ever seen it done. And I watch a fair amount of baseball.

The only bad part was the post-facto look of agony on the face of Andy Pettitte, the Yankee pitcher and an admirable player. Posada looked disgusted; Pettitte looked crushed.