I am a special fan of pitchers' duels. Zero-zero with 2 down in the ninth—then Boog Powell (old Baltimore Oriole) hits a walkoff home run and Dave McNally racks up a one hitter. That'd have been my idea of heaven. On the other hand, I enjoyed the heck out of the Red Sox game I attended last Wednesday. Sox won. Fine. (I'm an A's fan—still. Mostly.) Sox won big. 18-5. But what was a kick, to this fan of pitchers' duels, was a game with 37 hits! Twenty-three for the Sox, 14 for the Twins!
But neither the Red Sox nor the Twins nor Boog Powell is the topic of this Post.
Susan and I and my stepson Ben were in the sun behind home plate on Wednesday in Fenway for the Hit Parade. The temperature in the shade was well over ninety—edging toward triple digits. And the humidity was as you'd expect from a waterfront city in July. That is, it was hotter 'n stickier than hell—with room to spare.
I have decided that such hot weather—and accompanying high humidity—must be the norm this summer. How did I reach this conclusion? Simple. By reading recent sets of Comments. I love them one and all, and that's the truth—but I must say that there must be a lot of folks, certainly not all, or even most, suffering from the blistering summer heat and accompanying Houstonian humidity. That is, there are those who are cross. And those who are angry. Those who are sarcastic. And those who favor ad hominem attacks. Those who border on (border on?) rude—woulda merited a face slap from my Mom. And those who can't resist another gotcha, call it a "gotcha gotcha," added to their string of prior gotchas.
(Our rules of open discourse will not be suspended by invoking any special Heat Index Clause in the Patriot Act—hey, fall is coming, the temperatures will fall, and doubtless civility will rear its ever so dull head once again.)