The Mid-Summer Classic

So, I'm sitting here watching the All-Star Game, also known as The Mid-Summer Classic.

While it isn't exactly true, calendar wise, (summer is officially less than a month old), it's halfway through the baseball season. Close enough, I guess.

The All-Star Game makes me think of being somewhere else. We were always on vacation during the All-Star Game when I was a kid. One year, I saw it in Myrtle Beach. Another, in Hilton Head. Still another in Jackson, Wyo.

I remember the year Tom Selleck hit one deep in the celebrity home run derby. I remember the tragic, terrible year Bud Selig let the game end in a tie. (A tie? In baseball? Sigh.)

My dad and I watched the game together if I happened to be home. Tim Reeves and I have watched a couple together. We've held a few parties at Drew Weaver's parents' house and at the Shelton abode over the years.

Tonight, I'm suffering through sciatica (insert an old man joke here if you'd like), so it's just me, the dog and the TV. That's OK.

What's up with the DH being allowed in a National League stadium for the All-Star Game? Who comes up with this stuff?

As much as I respect him, Mariano Rivera is just a closer. It reminds me of the way Mickey Lolitch answered the question once:

"I was my own closer."

And don't let the door hit you on the way out, Tim McCarver. Can you believe this blabbermouth actually had the temerity to record an album of American pop standards? It still gives me nightmares.

Ah, I don't know. The national pastime isn't what it used to be.

But, then again, neither am I.