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Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I swear. Today is already off to a shaky start, so I might as well treat it like I usually treat my days, i.e., as if there are an endless supply of them, so who cares if I let this one sort of slip from my fingers. Yesterday my plan for today was to wake early and write with the ferocity of a coked-up Lawrence Taylor hitting a tackling sled, write like words were the only way to extinguish a grease fire climbing my clothes, write like Jack Kerouac ascending a clattering typewriter solo to heaven. But when I actually got up today I first checked the status of my Strat-O-Matic 1970s league team, then checked that I was able to pick up new Bears starter Adrian Peterson for my fantasy football team, then checked results from my two fantasy basketball teams ("I can’t keep up with all your fantasy worlds," my wife recently said as I stared at one or another of my rosters), then I tried to write about Tree Rollins, of all things to start the first day of the rest of my life writing about, then I gave up, then I started thinking about getting ready for work, then I started envisioning the long commute, the many hours at my job, the long commute home, the two beers and pile of food for dinner, the Thursday night comedy lineup, and unconsciousness. Today is shot. But tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I swear.
My sentiments are the same as this when it comes to physical fitness. Especially so having just gorged at the Thanksgiving dinner table. But if I get up at 5am to work out, then the dog will have to go out then, and if I want to work out after dinner, it cuts into quality time at home, and more excuses, and then I have another Ring Ding. Bring on the Christmas cookies.
The records show Mickey was a pretty good hitter for a utility infielder. The year this card came out he had a career high in RBI (21) and had a plus-.700 OPS. Not too shabby.
rgds
will
As to the actual doings of the day after yesterday: I once again got up early with the intention of writing about Wayne "Tree" Rollins, and again I failed to write about Wayne "Tree" Rollins, but I did get some words down about something else. It was a decent failure, as failures go.
Here's the Rickey deal:
December 5, 1984: Traded by the Oakland Athletics with Bert Bradley and cash to the New York Yankees for Stan Javier, Jay Howell, Jose Rijo, Eric Plunk, and Tim Birtsas.
(footnote: Plunk also came back to the Yankees when they shipped Rickey back to Oakland in '89)
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