tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119074362011-09-08T15:12:32.915-07:00Ned Baxterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06141262623333335056noreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11907436.post-1112578235362498602005-04-03T18:30:00.000-07:002005-04-03T18:30:35.363-07:00Baseball.<br />It’s not me, never has been unless you count an unexplainable attachment I had as a child to my “Reggie Jackson” jacket. The jacket was pin striped, I had never seen a baseball game and wouldn’t have recognized Mr. October. I probably swung a few sticks, but I was more likely to swat at monsters than fastballs.<br /><br />But, I live in Boston. It’s opening day and I’m buying into the eternal rivalry at least for a Sunday evening. I even dreamed about the team. We were playing indoors and using a tennis ball, but the characters were in place. Damon was goofy. David Ortiz was …. big, very big. And I felt about as insecure as an occasional office softball player might, faced with the task of going up against the Yankees. It wasn’t a fan’s dream. It was the dream of an anxious mind. So, I’m here tonight, watching as much because it’s been a lazy but sweet weekend, and I’m happier to let it slide into Monday.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11907436-111257823536249860?l=buildingblogging.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Ned Baxterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06141262623333335056noreply@blogger.com3