Yes. I know. I haven't been keeping up with my wonderful writing, and I only have one excuse:

EDITING! Dammit!

As I'm sure you've heard over at Dickie Cronkite that our seven hours of "Tuesday fun" are, in fact, very painful. This isn't hyperbole, my friends. It's truly awful.

It's like being locked in a room with the most annoying person you've ever met all day, with nothing but your wits to keep you sane. And if you've got my wits --- it's a rather hopeless situation. My performance in editing has been more turbulent than Cronkette's flying adventures. Up and down and up again. Hopefully, we can end on that note --- the ups --- hopefully...

Editing for me is like facing a pitcher with a good fastball. Some days, you'll rake him. Others, when you're a little tired or worn out, he'll make you look like an idiot. And I swear it's not his stuff that's so baffling. It's his consistency and his perserverance to blow you away that'll kill you. And last week, I felt like he was reaching back and giving me a little extra - kind of like Walter Johnson in the twilight of his career. Just when you think he's had enough, just when you think you OWN him, he rares back and fires three straight 98 mph heaters right down Broadway - and you've got NO chance of touching him. He's throwing gas.

But, if you keep a good attitude, and go out there with the confidence that you can knock his old, sorry ass out of the park, you've got a fighting chance. I did today. I saw the first pitch and knocked it out of the park. Let's just hope I can ride that confidence into the playoffs (read = home stretch in the class). The season is long, and everyone gets in a slump, but as long as you can fight off a string of bad luck better than Doug Mientkiewicz and more like Manny Ramirez, you'll be sitting pretty when it's time to vote for an MVP.

I've positioned myself to have a chance in the waning days of the season. Best of all, I'm healthy and I'm starting to see the ball really well. Let's hope there's a little gas left in this old tank.

WHEW? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

Oh, sorry. That was an exremely long-winded diatribe of how editing is somehow related to baseball. It may not have been effective or cogent, but what the hell. I did what I could -- I went out there and gave it my best.

And sometimes that's all you can ask for.

We'll see you tomorrow. And know that you've better got your 'good stuff,' or this old man might take you into the upper deck.