Blame it on the Rain – and the Yankees

I blame the rain.

If it had stayed clear on Saturday night, the Yankees would have played the Angels.

And I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my computer on a Sunday night knowing I need to send my column off to my editor as soon as possible – and finding it hard to keep my eyes on the computer screen.

But here I am, secluded in my office, where I meant to put nose to grindstone.

And then came stadium noise. Joe Buck. Tim McCarver.

I looked up. And there he was.

Andy Pettitte, breathing into his glove, setting and releasing.

I’ve got the perfect line of sight from my desk – just to the right of my computer screen. I barely have to move, just shift my eyeballs away. It’s a good thing I learned keyboarding at good old Delaware Valley, where my friend’s older sister was the teacher who forced us to type with cardboard covers over our fingers so we couldn’t cheat.

Hunting and pecking just wouldn’t do in this situation.

I could kick my husband back out into the living room where cartoons should technically be over for the night, the 4-year-old in the bathtub.

But there is no pre-school on Mondays, and all that bathing is not exactly good for fine, fragile blonde hair.

Besides, if I send him out there, we’d subject her to two parents screaming.

“What inning is it?”

“Wait, what’d they just say? Was that fair or foul?”

The last thing a child needs is her parents in a shouting match, right?

So you see my predicament.

Really, it’s for my daughter’s sake that I told him to settle in, to leave the TV tuned to channel 5, the sound up just enough that the dog chasing her tail won’t drown out the oh so important details.

What was that, a strike?

Oh no, Abreu just took a base. You must excuse me, I can’t … keep . . away.

Blame the rain. I am.

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