Don Negus

Ah yes, trout fishing in America, that’s right up there with riding motorcycles asone of my favorite pastimes, maybe even a “tetch” higher (living in the Sierra as we did for a number of years, I was able to do both …

If there are any soulless commies out there who are tired of reading about fishing, rest assured this is the last column I will write on the subject (at least until Opening Day several weeks from now).

No fishing stories, motorcycle tales or fretting about neo-fascist stoats massing on the perimeter this time around, just good old heartwarming family fun.

Who knows why I love baseball so much? Maybe it's because while I played football and basketball many times growing up, baseball is the one sport that I came close to excelling at. I was a helluva little hitter.

Childhood is a magical time in our lives when anything and everything seems possible—that a blythe spirit could slide down our chimney with presents every 25th of December and that a magical rabbit brings eggs and chocolate every Easter (his method of ingress is never mentioned).

If you have become tired of listening to me prattle on about how professional, how noble and how caring America's health workers are, then you might as well stop reading right now and go check out the box scores or the newest pronouncement by the Drain Commission.

Suppose you were an idiot and suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself. — Mark Twain

See what I did there? I'm writing this on Mother's Day and tying it in with how I came to establish my vaunted cowboy cred, which is the theme of today's little screed.

I probably watch “The Lone Ranger” now just as often as I did when I was a tyke in Oneonta, 70 years ago, maybe more, I have a lot of free time, you understand.

When we left off last week I was explaining how I had come to revere America’s indigenous people from an early age.