Don Negus

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.

Old people are nothing if not nostalgic and that goes double for yours truly. I mine my rough and rowdy past for all it's worth, panning for gold in the rivers of my memory, seeking out gnarly nuggets of high adventure which I scatter on this page every week for your edification and enjoyment.

Because my wife has a thing for cowboys. Let's just say there were at least a half dozen rodeos in town every year and I was married to the hottest blonde in the county. We'll leave it at that.

Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all A moment in the Sun It's a-gone and you can tell that one goodbye Oh, put me in Coach . . .