The weird thing about My Anything Journal is that I don't remember any of the stuff I described. I don't even know what my seven-year-old self is talking about half the time. But there is one thing I mentioned in there that I've never forgotten. In the current entry, you'll see this cryptic sentence: "In T-ball my friend and I play great in the infield but today is our last game and the manager is going to put us in the outfield."

My 7-year-old T-ball team, PSA (Police Supervisors' Association), had already clinched the championship, when we faced the lowly, and I belive winless, A.J. Carnall in the final game of the season. Note: Like with every job I've had, I started Little League the year after the "good old days" ended, where teams were actually named after Major League teams, instead of local businesses. (With jobs, it's always: "Oh, you should have been here last year. The boss would sleep through the whole shift, and you could come in late whenever you wanted. And they used to leave the safe unlocked, so you could just grab cash out of there if you ever needed some.")

So, my friend (we'll call him Bobby) and I played the two most important positions in all of T-ball: Pitcher (the majority of batted balls roll to a stop in the vicinity of the pitcher) and first base (on the occasion that there's a throw to first, you need someone there who can catch). For the last game, the coaches got together and decided the crappier players would get a chance at the important positions. Bobby and I would play outfield.

"Hit the field, guys," Mr. Plock said to Bobby and I. Despite knowing what he meant, as I'd been warned ahead of time of my one-time demotion, I came up with a little joke that only a seven-year-old could pull off: "The infield?" He laughed, and pointed me toward the vast expanse of Veteran's Park Elementary School's yard.

Despite our scrambled line-up, we whooped poor A.J. Carnall. When we came rushing in, yelling at our coaches "What was the score?" and "How much did we win by?",we were disappointed to hear Mr. Plock's answer. "Twenty-twenty! It was a tie."

Bullshit.

The Ridgefield Press confirmed it that week, but hinted who the true victor was, with this headline: "PSA 20, A.J. Carnall 20; Fun Tie."

I'll give you a tawpic: That game was neither fun nor a tie. Discuss.

I imagine some old man in an easy chair, who avidly followed the T-ball scores in the local paper, opening it up that week and saying, "Holy shit! Carnall put up twenty! On PSA!"

That would be my first and last championship in all my years playing organized baseball.

Jere went on to write this blog. Bobby (whose real name is Bobby) went on to relentlessly make fun of Jere for his lack of speaking in high school, and will one day feel the wrath of a thousand--eh, nah, he'll probably just go on to lead an extraordinarily average life in some suburb and breed more insecure children.

Check out this interview with Larry David. Chan gave me this link and said the thing is a full hour and a half. It can't not be good.

The Red Sox now have one of the Alex Gonzali. It'll be nice if he can play the D he's supposed to, and any hits will be a bonus. That theory worked with Cabby. We should be gold.

Jere's Red Sox ticket buying tip of the day: If at first you don't succeed, click the same thing you just clicked. Post success and/or failure stories in my comments.