There are few things that will bring damnation to a man’s soul quicker than forgetting the birthday or anniversary of someone you love. I’ve heard tales where men were burned at the stake when they realized too late that they forgot to recognize their wife’s birthday or somehow spaced off the fact that it was their anniversary. My experience has been that women fall within two camps. The first type will drop subtle hints to their absent-minded spouse to help them jog that memory and make a shoestring catch saving an extra base hit. The other type of woman will give absolutely no indication that an event is coming up. They hope to catch the husband in a pickle where he runs back and forth between bases before being tagged out and has to face the wrath of the manager.


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One of my favorite scenes from the movie Back to the Future is when Doc Brown is standing at the clock tower waiting for Marty McFly to return from the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. They are under extreme time pressure if they hope to send Marty back to 1985 using the lightning strike to the tower. I mean where else are you going to get 1.21 gigawatts especially in 1955. So here is Doc Brown pacing back and forth looking at the various time pieces he is carrying. Each time he looks at his watch he mutters, “Damn!” and continues pacing. This is pretty much how my entire week is going to go.


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The number of entries on Diary of a Diehard was quite consistent for nearly two years then suddenly at the end of the 2008 season they ground to a halt. Over the off-season my email inbox was littered with equal amounts of get well cards and messages questioning what was going on. In the immortal words of Mark Twain in a letter to Frank E. Bliss in 1897, “”It has been reported that I was seriously ill–it was another man; dying–it was another man; dead–the other man again…As far as I can see, nothing remains to be reported, except that I have become a foreigner. When you hear it, don’t you believe it. And don’t take the trouble to deny it.” I would love to come up with an incredible tale where I found the secret to time travel and have spent the better part of the off-season travelling through time looking for the exact origin of baseball and if it did indeed evolve from rounders rather than been the invention of Abner Doubleday. The problem with that theory is that if I really had a time machine I would be able to go back in time to the end of the 2008 season and resume posting without interruption. I seriously hate when logic ruins a perfectly good blog entry.


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