Category Archives: Sports

The Super Pious Bowl

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Fact:  Church attendance at Catholic Super Bowl Sunday Mass increases by seventy percent.

Fact: Ninety percent of the congregation is only praying for their team on this holy day.

Fact: Much of the congregation arrives thirty minutes early for tailgating.

Fact: Tailgating Christians are eighty percent more likely to attend church if port-a -potties are available within the place of worship.

Fact: Those attending mass possessing front pew tickets, after receiving the blood or body of Christ (communion), arrive to their home twenty minutes earlier than the other parishioners, given that these seats ensure a speedier exit.  They are the first to receive it, and the last to think about what it actually means.

Fact: This is one of the reasons the NFL televises the game at 6:30pm eastern time.  Everyone is drunk and tired, but still willing to watch the game.

Fact:   Eleventh Commandment:  Thou Shall not covet thy neighbor’s far superior home theater system.

 

 

Manti and Lance (Hiding Something in Their Pants)

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Famous, and perhaps nefarious athletes, Lance Armstrong and Manti Te’O have some explaining to do.

One duping and doping us all.  The other, perhaps duped, or making dopes of us all? Doesn’t that sound like a great tandem?  Just picturing Manti and Lance riding into an Oprah Winfrey set on a tandem bicycle makes me interested in those crafty guys.  I swear those two boys are just as shifty as the ones who created Sasquatch.  We’ll all get bored with these subjects, but we’ll also become intrigued with the truth.  I guess you could make comparisons with someone loving the mystery novel genre.  Whodunit?  Well, with Lance Armstrong, we pretty much know who dun it.  That’s why Oprah is so wildly frustrated by this Manti guy stealing her lightning and PED thunder.  Ratings GaloreO, bye bye O.  Poor Oprah.  With Manti though, she has another ace in her hole.  So, let’s not feel sorry for her.  Let’s look at this case as a potential dandy “After School Television Special” for those grizzled enough to remember such masterpieces.

The setting of this made for T.V. movie begins with the terrifying world of cyberspace in general. ( Don’t worry, I’m not writing a screenplay unless I can collaborate with Mad Magazine) With this blog, when I decide to chime in, it’s a slippery and scary ride.  When I write something, I have the choice to press the publish button, or refrain because my writing was dreadful on that day or the last month.  I do, however, when publishing a blog, maintain the power of disclosing whether my writing is fact, fiction, a mixture of both or just plain silly.  But I must recognize that every time I press that button, anyone in the world can read it.  Think about a student submitting a paper to his or her teacher and making that teacher promise not to let anyone else read it, or they won’t submit it.  That’s shrewd.  For any student who may not be proud of what they’ve done, it creates a very scary world if the teacher doesn’t hold up to that bargain.  Criticism can be an ugly toenail.  You race on-line, hope to finish first, but be prepared to finish last.

It looks like this Manti character wasn’t as cautious……….but there in “lies” the mystery.  Did someone else create his girlfriend, or did HE create this fictional love?  Or, were many others involved such as Colonel Mustard, Mrs. Peacock or even Professor Plum participating as well?  Hopefully, time will tell, because we know, none of them, including Lance will tell the true story, even if he brings a bucket of  PET’s (performance enhancing tears) to Oprah’s set.

The internet is like the wilderness, my friends.  We don’t really know what or who is out there teasing us with these elaborate hoaxes.  And, they can hurt.

 

 

The Mighty Quinn (21)

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It’s sad to say that I was twenty one once, and only a few guys remember me on that day.  One of them isn’t me.  Still friends with the other guys, I don’t believe a word they say about January something, but if they are stating the truth, I’m glad I wasn’t there.

I think it’s sort of funny.  I’ll bet there are billions and gazzilions of stories recounted by others regarding a twenty first birthday.  This may have been part of the inspiration behind the “Hangover” movies.

My nephew, Quinn, just turned twenty one yesterday, and I’m proud to say that I’m proud of him. After a reminder from my brother, I called my nephew and wished him a happy whatever. (Unless it’s my mother’s or wife’s birthday, I believe you should only have one….when you are born.) This story has a happy ending, because he has won.

Quinn was a good boy and I have witnessed him become a man.  It wasn’t always easy, but the story is quick.  At the age of about six, Quinn began his wrestling saga, or dramatic explosion for the likes and dislikes of his thirteen uncles and aunts. Shortly into this adventure, he was demoralized and beaten by a girl, perhaps four years of age, on a wrestling mat.  My brother and I were equally demoralized witnessing this crushing event held at the Spokane Coliseum amongst five thousand others.  Tom and I were both old enough to drink the pain away, but we couldn’t forget that Quinn had to wait fifteen more years to drink that pain away.  Losing to a girl?  That’s as crazy as seeing a name like Romney or Sasquatch on a Presidential Ballot! Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait until he was twenty one to forget, which is why I have the utmost respect for this man.  He decided, at a very early age, and much to the dismay of one Homer Simpson, alcohol is the not the cause and solution for all of mans’ problems.  He made this strange and oblong decision to train his body, harnessing his horse from within, while sweating, and suffering through thousands of practices, rather than abusing the drink….unless it was Gatorade.   Quinn never lost to another girl (on a mat anyway), and at the age of seventeen, became a two time state wrestling champion…. only wrestling boys I might add in the state of Washington.  Tom, my wife and many others didn’t miss a second of any of those matches in that Dome.  Quinn may not have been a formidable gladiator at the Spokane Coliseum, but he never lost a championship match at the Tacoma Dome.  And, just like many stories must end, it took a girl to provide the inspiration and perspiration to do it.

Quinn received a college wrestling scholarship, but has since chosen to join the Armed Forces to help maintain our freedom.  Just one more reason to respect him.

Game Seven (Classics Never Die)

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I’ll do my best at some play by play.  The NLCS (National League Correctional Series) wait…..I just got out of there……I mean the National League Champion Series is currently being played.  That’s baseball to those meatheads watching their fantasy knuckle heads get concussed.

Steroids . . . they do a body good.

The San Francisco Giants are displaying their October costumes.  Orange and Black.  They have worn them for years, but it seems appropriate while approaching the Fall Classic.  Hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals, Mark McGuire did not receive the “it’s not Halloween” memo as he is clearly posing as someone who is not currently taking steroids.  Ding dong.  “Trick or treat”.

“You look strangely thin, young man.  Who are you supposed to be?”

“Mark McGuire.”

“Oh that’s cute…..let me inject this Milky Way into your butt.  You’ll have biceps, triceps and acne for years.  Just don’t tell your wife.  She’ll be concerned about your shrinking baseballs.”

The opening ceremony was just as painful as expected.  Whoever butchered the National Anthem needs to know that free and brave are separate words…….in some particular order.  I give up.

There is a guy named Scutaro playing for the Giants.  He used to play for the minor league team, The Sun City Muppets.  His abilities have far exceeded those of puppets without legs.

Residential Nazi, Matt Holliday, seems disgruntled.  Let’s go to a commercial break.

Five hour energy drink?  I don’t need one.  I’ll take a scooter O for the road.

Scooter just lined one into right field for his second hit.  This Muppet can really hit.  Now a cartoon character known as Kung Fu Panda (Pablo Sandoval) just came to bat and lined one into left field putting runners on the corners.  Excuse me, second and third.  Another fictional character posing as Buster is at bat.  He looks like he’s twelve years of age, but his mom says he’s almost twenty, and he hits you just like puberty.  You just can’t determine when he’s going to embarrass the pitcher.

The bases are now loaded with Scooter at third, Kung Fu at second and Buster posing as himself at first.  Where is number 8 when you need him?  Number 8 just cleared the bases.  I can’t keep up with this.  Where is soccer when I need him?  This game is too fast. I need a zero zero tie!  Baseball is supposed to be slow and boring.  I’m switching to Monday Night Foolsball.  I need a Hank Williams Jr. Fix.  Who is playing?

I’ll catch up in the seventh inning stretch.

Wait, the football game broke into another fight with helmets and face masks.  Boring.  Men breaking their knuckles on plastic head bowls doesn’t impress me.  This pitcher hitting for the Giants with the bases loaded does impress me……until……we have to wait….he struck out.

My wife just called me so I have to act like I’m putting the sheets in the dryer.  I use fans and “I can’t hear you” noises to distract her.  She thinks I should be writing, doing laundry and watching baseball at the same time.  Who is the crazy person in this family?  It ain’t the dogs and cats.  They are currently folding clothes.  Stupid, but not crazy.

Seven to Zero in favor of the Giants.  If my mother is watching The Waltons right now, I will be forced to not send her a Mother’s Day Card.  She loves The Waltons more than baseball.  That’s certifiable.  They are a fictional family for crying “Goodnight Johnboy” out loud!  What decade is this?  My mother just informed me the Waltons are painting their house!  What color?!!  I don’t care!  Back to the game.

Commercial Break:  Cialis.

Here’s something interesting. Oh dear.  The Giants are warming up another character.  He is in the bullpen, but the only name we’ve heard or read about comes from a Monty Python Movie.   They call him, “Tim”.

As a former betting man, I will bless or irritate the  baseball betting Gods by writing, “it is over”.  Catastrophically more disturbing, since the baseball game looks as though it’s over, I have lowered myself and degraded my principles by changing channels, not to the football game, but the Presidential Debate.  Did I just capitalize that as though they were proper nouns?  I’m going back to the game I love.  Not the political games I hate.

My wife is watching ABC, and I am fighting her over the foreign policy remote.  This is ridiculous.

God Bless America, God Bless Concussions, God Bless Baseball, and well, soccer, I will just pray for your sport to grow arms.  That will be a miracle.

On the Seventh Day, God Created a Blowout, and then He skipped the eighth day due to a rain delay, and on the ninth day, He created Baseball.

Genesis:  10 13 73

The Truth and The Washington State Cougars (college football amateur hour)

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The Washington State Cougars:  Are you sure you still belong in Division 1 Football?

This blog is going be just as random and amateurish as the game I witnessed last night.  I offer my sincere apologies for thinking my alma mater would show up.   Actually, they did arrive exactly the way I never wished to imagine…..wearing colors representing losers. I’m supposed to be a semi-educated man.  Where is my brain when I need it the most, and why do I have any expectations for this program?

As the great Nancy Kerrigan stated, “why why why?”, I have to admit those words came to mind as I watched opening college football amateur hour last night.  WSU.  Need I write more?

I should have titled this “Set Low Expectations”  That way no one gets hurt.  “Sir, put the remote control and your bat down and step away from the T.V.”.

Last night, my wife and I were driving back to Seattle feeling somewhat hopeful.  We wished to make it back home from a business trip to watch the first, and for me last, game of our alma mater’s college football season.  Sometimes I forget, this is a recipe for a crimson and gray debacle.  We weren’t necessarily convinced that Washington State would win the upcoming game, but with a new coach and a new year, we were hopeful that they wouldn’t embarrass themselves.  Again……these are indeed low expectations.  Losing 30 to 6, against a solid team known as BYU,  even growing up a Catholic, I’m considering converting to a team which wins.  BLASPHEMY!

I’ll make this brief.  Graduating with a degree from Washington State University provides a sense of personal fulfillment.  Knowing the Cougar’s football team will remain terrifically and embarrassingly dreadful FOREVER gives me a sense of relief.  I only threw one wiffleball bat during the course of last night’s game.  Then, I reminded myself, or perhaps it was my wife reminding me of my immature behavior resembling the Cougar football team.  I officially waved the white flag at halftime, because I remembered when I cared.  Giving up is somewhat of a virtue.

Much like throwing a colossal F bomb on a golf course after you lose all your balls, it makes you feel a little better.  Then, you move on and accept you’re just not good enough to play the game.  I don’t golf anymore and my career of being phony is over.  I wish the WSU cougars could accept that fact.  My wife (also maintaining a degree from Washington State University) isn’t over it quite yet, but I have been for years accepting the truth regarding a load of boys in Pullman, Washington wishing to compete in football.  Tossing bats, cats and remotes during a college game only causes marital friction, and that’s a fact son.

Here’s the exact fact.  If you wish to root for any team in the great state of Washington, make certain you have an even greater pain tolerance for losing.   I don’t anymore, and that’s why I write softly and carry a wiffleball bat instead of the Louisville Slugger required to bash in that television screen while wasting a night thinking, just for one tenth of a second, my alma mater may succeed.

This was written with a bit of writer’s Incredible Hulk anger, so forgive me if it sounded as such, but writing is far more therapeutic than injuring a television when my skin turns green.

A little side note:  Our house guest, ironing his University of Washington Husky shirt last night, thanked me for not tackling him during the course of this epic disaster of a football nightmare in our living (and Coug dying) room.

F the Cougs.  End of Story.

Unfair Weather Fan (Waiting to Inhale a World Serious)

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Waiting is not a virtue.  Punctuality is.  I’ve been waiting 35 years for the Seattle Mariners to deliver a World Series.  The lack of punctuality existing is clear, and even the lack of a World Series they haven’t bestowed has become irrelevant.  I’ve waved the white and blue flag, surrendering my allegiance to this group of players.

Returning from a four day vacation to Los Angeles, the city of Angels and baseball, leaves me with a dull impression on my mind.  There were indeed Angels in Los Angeles, and they were sitting right next to me at Dodger Stadium, also known as “The Chavez Ravine”.   The Angels may be a team in LA, but the Angels on this night were my wife sitting with me and my two friends, Trevor and Marshall.

Trevor, and his father, Marshall, were hosting this baseball party lasting from the first inning rib Trevor grilled at his home, until the ninth inning at that glorious ravine.   It was a fabulous night amplified with cheering at the proper moments, sighing at improper moments, and happily devouring peanuts without even recognizing your belly was already full of the magnificent ribs provided prior to the game.  We ate those peanuts like we were mad at them.  Watching the Dodgers and rooting for them from the tender age of I don’t remember, this was significant and winning nostalgia.  (Their triple A club….”The Spokane Indians” was located five minutes away from our home in the mid seventies.  This is why I followed and worshiped a team that would eventually deliver a boy a World Series.)

Fast forward to the year 2012 where I recently sat with my friends at The Chavez Ravine.  The Dodgers won, and now, I, once again, love the Dodgers and the city.

So, thanks to those friends and true men who love and respect the sport (Trevor and Marshall) for reminding us of how much fun the game can be.  Some people, owners, and Generally Stupid Managers forget.  I never do forget.

P.S. Go back and read this as though it was the voice is Steven A. Smith from ESPN.  He’s terrifical, magical, and glorious.  See . . . Frank Caliendo Impersonates Stephen A. Smith

 

The Best and Worst day of a Boy’s Life (the cub scout eye test)

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This is a story about a young, naive baseball player; One who was too young to have recognized the sadness this wonderful game could provide.

I was playing pool on a Friday night with one of my best friends, Andy,  when I got the call.  The call was from my father.  That always made me a bit nervous.  It turned out to be the most exhilarating moment of my life.  My father called me to tell me a Chicago Cub’s scout had flown into Spokane and wanted to meet me and my father at a local hotel.  I remember looking at my friend, Andy, and he could tell I was bursting with happiness.  He said, “what the heck?….What’s going on?”  I told him the Cubs are in town to see me.  (One of the many great things about my friend was when I told him that, he looked like he was even more excited than me).  He said, “well let’s get your ass to that hotel……you really are on your way to the show.”

My father and I met this scout at the hotel, and at eighteen very young years of life, my hopes of making it to the major leagues were shattered.  I’m a pretty good judge of reading people.  That scout gave me his official Cub’s card and looked me up and down like I was a race horse or on a trading block.

I had terrific baseball stats, but I was not a tall or big boy.  It was then when I realized my destiny was not to get to that top level of play.  This is extremely scary to a boy who thought, with great confidence, it’s not if I’m going to make it, it’s when I’m going to make it.  Well, I didn’t even come close.

The second eye test was through a view finder.  He asked me if I wore corrective lenses.  I said yes.  STRIKE TWO!  The interview ended with this.  “We’ll keep in contact with you”. That was strike three for me.  Even at eighteen, I wasn’t really a dummy.

The car was silent on the drive home.   I was the kid who slept with a Dodger’s batting helmet on my head.  I had a baseball bat glued to my hand since I was about four years old.  I could emulate the swing of every major league player since 1977.  So, what was terrifying me was the thought of “What the hell am I going to do now?”  What are my other options?  Do I become a Cowboy or an Indian?  I knew my dream was over.

Draft day was strike four.  Many friends and relatives were questioning me as to what round I would be drafted.  After meeting with that scout, I knew.  But, many loving people payed  attention to that day of drafting, and my name was never mentioned.  I disappointed many people who thought that’s where I belonged.

I did receive a scholarship to play college baseball, but I knew that was not where I belonged.  I succeeded one year and failed miserably the second.  Officially, my baseball career was over.  I think I cried, but I can’t truly remember.

Let’s set this record straight, I did NOT belong to play at that level.  I have no excuses.  I was good, but clearly not that good.  Dozens of times, people have asked me, “why didn’t you make it?…..what happened?”  Now, the usual response of an ex-hopeful professional athlete is something along the lines of,  “Well my shoulder went out on me”, but I always tell old friends, ” I just wasn’t good enough”.  That’s the truth.  No excuses.  This is a physically and mentally tough game.

Writing is even tougher, but that’s all I have left.  That and a nice wife, and a very fortunate life.

After many years, I couldn’t watch a ballgame.  I felt betrayed by countless years of swinging a bat.  I have since forgiven the game and have become a teacher of baseball.   My only remaining sadness is that my wife never saw me play centerfield.  Fortunately, we go to many ballgames and I enjoy describing what a player should do in certain situations.  I quiz her on how to execute the next play.  “What should he do here….bunt, swing away…..make certain he is unselfish and hit a sacrificial fly?”  It makes this game fun again.  Even our dogs appreciate the countless fly balls I hit them for retrieval.

I’m lucky I didn’t make it.  I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Take me out to a ballgame….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Diamond in the Rough (The Painfully Slow Evolution of a Baseball Team)

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There are four measurements on a diamond: cut, clarity, color, and carrot.  There are four measurements on a baseball field: hitting, throwing, running and catching.  Both are measured in terms of perfection when it comes to a ring or the baseball field.

Talking to a scientist the other day, he informed me that a piece of crap, or a piece of coal, can turn into a diamond with enough pressure and time after several thousand years.  This was sad news.  Immortality is not my business.  He also informed me that diamonds are extremely costly.  I already knew that, but I questioned him further by asking why diamonds are just as expensive as going to a Seattle Mariner’s Baseball game.  He laughed at me and replied, “That’s why they call the field a diamond…..it’s really expensive, because it’s a place to witness perfection.”  Still shaking my head in disbelief, just like a child asks questions to an adult they can’t possibly answer, I asked “Don’t the Mariners play on a field then?”  My business is asking rhetorical questions.  My scientist friend knew he could not answer this question.  Therefore, I answered it for him.

Here we go.  “You see, scientist friend, when I grew up, I played on baseball fields.  These fields were plagued with weeds and gigantic rocks almost resembling erratics from the Great Missoula Floods.  The stands were filled with angry fathers not volunteering their time but volunteering their mouths during a game littered with nice kids, but crappy ballplayers.  There were these unusual ladies also showing up giving little advice, other than, “who is in charge of the treats at the next game?” Later on, I found out they were mothers.  I found it strange they didn’t even watch the game.  They did their nails, gossiped, and spoke evilly of their estranged husbands.  But, what baffled me the most was when their son struck out in four consecutive at bats on twelve consecutive pitches, the mother would hand him a soda, or a drumstick or a fruit roll up and say, “Wow, you were terrific today!”  Now if you say that to a real ballplayer after striking out, it adds kindling to the campfire.  It might smell good, but it still burns like hell.  So, the only proper thing to do as a real ballplayer is to toss the soda over a fence, beat one of your other crappy teammates with the drumstick and refrain from strangling your mother with the fruit roll up.  Then you head home and sneak a beer out of your father’s hidden stash in the basement.

Mr Scientist seemed to be getting bored with my explanation, so he wanted me to reach my point.  So, I told him that diamonds are supposed to be beautiful.  Since a field represents a little league ballpark, a baseball diamond should be saved for when you make it to the big leagues…….you know, like the guys I used to watch on T.V. and admired since I left the womb.  Those guys deserved to play on a Baseball Diamond.  The Seattle Mariners have a dynamite field, but let’s not go too far as to refer to it as a diamond.

I’ve been watching these guys play for 35 years.  If it takes another one thousand years to see them in the World Series, I’m clean out of luck.  This chunk of coal doesn’t have that much time to see a diamond, unless it’s on my wife’s finger.  I see that every day.

With all this being written atop my soap baseball box, I’m on my way to go see a chunk of coal on a baseball field at Keep me Safeco Field.  I’ll purchase a ticket, buy some Cracker Jacks, a dog and a beer, financing the diamond earrings the players will wear after the game and, hopefully, not become too embarrassed by the mothers and fathers misunderstanding the process of how long it takes a coal turn into a diamond.

That’s how much I love the game.

 

 

Offense or Defense? ( Dr.Jeckle and Mr. Craig)

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The noun, “Gentleman” is used far too haphazardly in this crazy world.  These days, gentlemen seem to be a diamond in the buff… much like sasquatch;  When you witness one, it’s usually a fuzzy story and your camera phone doesn’t work properly at that moment.  They are extremely difficult to discover.

Each day, I witness men not opening doors for old bags, and when you do find the elusive gentleman, he is often times not rewarded with a simple “Thank you”.  This is why chivalry is dying, but not dead.

I am a part time gentleman and half time asshole.  When I open a door for a woman going to the theater, or even a man delivering ice to a grocery store, I hold the door open for them.  If they don’t give me a “thanks” or merely a smile, I bellow to everyone who can hear me within the continent, “YOU’RE WELCOME!”  That’s when the gentleman becomes an asshole.

For years, I’ve searched the world for this elusive full time gentleman, and at one point, I had given up hope.  Today, I found him.  Just like a Sasquatch can be referred to as a Yeti, this man is also known as the original Mr. Nice Guy.  His name is  Mr. Craig.

He coaches and teaches at a shitty school in Spokane, Washington.  He is amongst a handful of wonderful teachers and coaches at that school.  And by handful, I mean about four.  The rest of the teachers don’t have opposable thumbs, so a handful of crap is what I should have written.

Craig was coaching a Junior Varsity basketball game with very little significance to the players and the rest of the world.  Craig, as a former athlete and current competitor, enjoys winning.  However, that soft touch gentleman always gets the worst of him.

Nudging him on the bench in an extremely close game, a usually reserved boy named Marc would not leave his coach alone.  Marc’s elbowing routine amidst a very tight game was not allowing Mr. Craig to coach.  “When am I going to get in, Coach…….When am I going to get in the game?”

In his usual easy manner, Craig replied, “Alright Marc, you are entering a tight game, so you need to remember what I’ve taught you at practice, ok?”

“You betcha, coach.”

Craig patted him on the back upon entering the game, but knew his team was going to lose.  Craig didn’t really mind the losing part, but he did mind that when Marc entered the game, Marc did not know if he was on offense or defense.  These are times when gentlemen develop rage after countless hours of coaching and teaching.  I call it the Jeckle and Craig Syndrome.  When this young man was supposed to be playing defense, he  thought he was playing offense.  When he was supposed to be playing offense, he assumed he was on defense.  Jeckle left the gymnasium and Craig showed up, screaming, “YOU ARE ON OFFENSE!”.

They lost the game, but it wasn’t Marc’s fault.  Craig left the gym and the gentleman returned to tell this young man he did his best.  The gentleman silently left in his car transforming into his alter ego.  Craig drank several beverages that night but has a spot in both Heaven and Hell reserved by Econo Lodge.

I still haven’t found Sasquatch, but I have found the elusive gentleman.  You can look him up on the website “GFRO”.  It’s similar to the “BFRO”, also known as The Bigfoot Research Organization. The acronym “GFRO”represents a group of people who believe gentlemen indeed exist. It’s the “Gentleman Friendly Research Organization.” I swear to you, THEY exist.  They’re just hard to find.

 

 

Mariner Jet Lag (it’s raining in seattle?)

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Once again, I am on the same jet lag wave length as my wife because of my love for baseball and pure hatred for (I’m not going to provide them the decency of using proper nouns or capital letters) the seattle mariners.  This organization has made me feel as though I was on a twenty two hour flight back to India.  I’m exhausted watching the AM games in Japan, and my wife is currently filing divorce papers regarding the alarm clock issues.  Nothing makes any sense.  My wife and I were just fine before the mariners chose to play in a country (a country who once upon a time, bombed us in the island of Hawaii).  Now, we are at athletic odds because she can’t understand my desire for the great game of baseball, and our new time zone, even in the US of A.

Don’t call me unless it’s at two AM.  If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m either napping, or talking to my Japanese Lawyer.  He’s awake at two PM, where it is apparently the land of the rising sun.  Perhaps that’s why seattle decided to fly twelve hours and play twenty four hours of baseball……..to find that rising sun.  I haven’t seen it for a week.