Blogger: Providing Quality Technical Support Since...

A new feature popped up in my Google Reader today: Blogs I'm Following, which is supposedly some sort of feature that incorporates stuff I look at in Blogger - I'm assuming my blogroll is involved - into my feed reader.

I don't totally understand it, and my BIF tab currently shows 294 Unread Items while telling me that I have no Unread Items, so I decided to seek some help. Poked around a little, found a couple links that offered assistance, and...well, click on them and see for yourself.

Blogger dashboard
Learn more

If you did it right, you'll find that the first link offers, "HTTP 404 Not Found", while the second tells us, "Blogger Help? What Blogger Help? There's no Blogger Help here. Move along, please."

Moral of the story? Blogger blows.

We're All Connected

I read a story in the Union Leader today about a Goffstown man named Kirk Lang who died in a rollover accident on I-93 yesterday afternoon. Lang was towing a 28-foot trailer behind his 2006 Ford Expedition when a crosswind hit, caught the trailer, and sent the vehicle out of control. He was ejected when the SUV flipped and later pronounced dead at a hospital in Plymouth.

Lang's parents took the news especially hard, the story said, because his brother, Kevin, their only other child, died just over six years ago in a motorcycle accident. He was riding his motorcycle on Queen City Avenue in Manchester when he hit a police cruiser that had pulled over to make a routine traffic stop.

The police officer in the cruiser was Michael Briggs. Briggs was uninjured.

Now, this is just guesswork on my part (because what are the odds that the Manchester Police Department would have two officers named Michael Briggs?), but I'm assuming that this is the same Michael Briggs who went on to become a decorated officer, receiving an award in 2004 for rescuing people from a burning building.

Briggs was killed in the line of duty while investigating a domestic dispute in 2006. The alleged shooter, Michael Addison, had had several prior run-ins with the law, including once in 2003 when he was shot in the collarbone. The first officer on the scene, the first one there to supply First Aid? Michael Briggs.

Like I said, I don't know with absolute certainty that this was the same Michael Briggs. I'm just assuming that it was. And if that assumption is correct...well, the degree to which people's lives are connected sometimes never ceases to amaze me.

My Favorite Movie Quotes, Volume 7

The Usual Suspects (1995)

This is far from my favorite quote from this movie, but I was just watching it on AMC and I had to chuckle. You know how sometimes the bad words in movies are dubbed over with more "acceptable" language? (My all-time favorite example of this? When Die Hard is shown on TV, "Yippee kai ai, motherfucker" becomes "Yippee kai ai, Mister Falcon".) Well, in the scene below, just pretend that all those "fucking cocksuckers" are "fairy godmothers". Yeah. Really. It's almost as awesome as it sounds.

[suspects in a lineup are asked to read a phrase]
Interrogation Cop: Number 1, step forward.
Hockney: Hand me the keys, you fucking cocksucker.
Interrogation Cop: Number 2, step forward.
McManus: Give me the fucking keys, you fucking cocksucking motherfucker, aaarrrghh.
Interrogation Cop: Knock it off. Get back. Number 3, step forward.
Fenster: [laughing] Hand me the keys, you cocksucker.
Interrogation Cop: In English, please?
Fenster: Excuse me?
Interrogation Cop: In English.
Fenster: Hand me the fucking keys, you cocksucker, what the fuck?

My Favorite Movie Quotes, Volume 6

Legends of the Fall (1994)

(Note: I have seen parts of this movie approximately 547 times since we changed our cable package about six months ago. It is on ALL THE TIME.)

One Stab: Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy, or they become legends.

And a special bonus quote that ties in with "they live by what they hear", no matter the consequences:

Susannah: Were you going to say goodbye? Tristan? How long will you be gone?
Tristan: Not long. A few months.
Susannah: I can make it better for you.
Tristan: No.
Susannah: If we'd had a child or if I were pregnant, would you still be going?
Tristan: Yes.
Susannah: Just give me a chance.
Tristan: Don't do that.
Susannah: Look at me. Please, look at me. I'll wait for you. However long it takes. I'll wait for you forever.

Too Bad Buck O'Neil Wasn't Here To See This

Watching Josh Hamilton launch homerun after homerun after homerun in the Homerun Derby tonight, all I could think of was a story that I first read in Buck O'Neil's autobiography, "I Was Right On Time" and later in Joe Posnanski's "The Soul of Baseball." Neither book is nearby at the moment, so I'll try to paraphrase as best I can.

As a boy, Buck was hanging around outside a ballpark down in Florida, must've been during spring training, when he heard the unmistakeable sound of ball hitting bat. There was something different about this sound, however, something special, something like a gunshot, and when he got a glimpse at the hitter, he knew why: it was Babe Ruth.

Years later, playing in the Negro Leagues, Buck was in the clubhouse when he said he heard that sound again. It brought him running onto the field (wearing nothing but his underwear, in some accounts), where he found Josh Gibson, the legendary catcher, launching the ball all over the field. Every time the ball hit the bat, it sounded like a bomb going off, the same different sound as the Babe.

After that, Buck didn't hear that sound again for many, many years...until one day in Kansas City in the 1980s, when he stepped onto the field while Bo Jackson was taking batting practice. BOOM...BOOM...BOOM...that same sound, unlike any other, that he was only hearing for the third time in his entire long, baseball-filled life.

Surely, much of that story is just that: a good story. But something Buck said at the end stuck with me, and I thought of it tonight when Josh Hamilton was at the plate: "I'm going to keep going to the ballpark until I hear that sound again."

Midway through the first round, one of the ESPN announcers mentioned that the ball sounded different coming off of Hamilton's bat. Joe Morgan attributed it to the fact that he was hitting everything right on the screws, on the meat of the bat. Sure enough, it began to look like Hamilton couldn't miss. Everything he hit seemed to have a little extra oomph, seemed to carry just a little further than anyone else's. He hit a ball that made me sit up and pay attention, a 502-foot blast off the signage in right, then followed it up with a 504-footer to right-center. He made MY WIFE show some interest in a bunch of millionaires trying to hit a ball out of the ballpark. He made David Ortiz, a guy who has watched Manny Ramirez hit for the last several seasons, say, "Wow..."

And through it all, the most impressive part? The big "I can't believe I'm really here" smile on his face. Seriously, Hollywood, this isn't even a challenge. The script for The Josh Hamilton Story (working title only - we can do better than that) will write itself.

In the second round, my brother messaged me to say that they should rest his pitcher's arm, save it for the finals. Didn't matter, I said. By the time the first round was done, this wasn't about winning or losing anymore. Nobody will remember that Justin Morneau won it in the final round, 5-3. But everybody will remember watching the 27-year-old kid from North Carolina - who when you think about it shouldn't even be here, shouldn't even be capable of hitting a baseball like that after all he has been through in the past few years - as he made the crowd at Yankee Stadium, The House That Ruth Built, chant his name.

(Okay, I take it back. People might remember that Morneau won, but only because State Farm's CEO called him "Jason" and Erin Andrews got caught on camera making a face in response.)

A Church For Everyone

I have this friend, Trish (that's her in the middle, sort of under the armpit of the priesty-looking dude), who in the six years since we interned together at the Baseball Hall of Fame has become sort of my go-to person for critical analysis of my writing. When I wrote the "Changing The Past" post a couple of weeks ago, for instance, I asked her to give it a read and offer some thoughts. She responded by blasting me for switching styles mid-story. It sucked to hear, but it was the truth, so it was necessary.

For the last, I don't know, year or two, Trish has been living in Chicago and doing some training with the famed Second City comedy troupe. She is currently a part of The Best* Church of God, a weekly show that satirizes religion, was featured in the Chicago Tribune, and received a number of positive comments from readers at timeout.com. Even the folks at Friendly Atheist seemed to be interested in finding out more.

Trish blogs as her character, Ruth Shepherd, on The Best* Church of God's web site. Check it out - there's some very funny stuff there (and I promised her at least two hits from OMDQ this year - don't let us down, folks! Turn away from that picture of Stacy Keibler that brought you here and turn to the Lord!)

I Can Only Imagine

Over a year ago, when I was still in my first stint as Weekend Editor at Awful Announcing, I posted a video for Father's Day about a dad who for years has been running marathons and competing in triathlons with his son. The catch? The son is disabled, in a wheelchair, which means that Dad basically does the work of two people during these athletic events. I remember reading about them in Sports Illustrated a few years ago, and the level of selflessness this man possesses is amazing. The only thing that matters is his son's happiness.

The video was set to a song that my wife bought from iTunes. I remembered hearing somewhere that it was a Christian song about meeting Jesus, which surprised me because before learning that, I could have sworn it was a song about a father preparing to see his child for the first time:

I can only imagine
What it will be like
When I walk
By your side

I can only imagine
What my eyes will see
When your face
Is before me
I can only imagine

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel
Will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still
Will I stand in your presence or to my knees will I fall
Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all
I can only imagine

I can only imagine
When that day comes
And I find myself
Standing in the Son

I can only imagine
When all I will do
Is forever
Forever worship You
I can only imagine

When Vicki was pregnant with Joey, those words made a lot of sense. Having never been a father before, I had no idea what to expect when he actually arrived, how I would feel when I saw him for the first time.

I could only imagine.

It's been just over a year now - he turned one on Thursday - but I can still remember the exact moment when imagination turned to reality. We were in the delivery room. The doctor had my wife opened up and was in the process of delivering our son via C-section. Her aunt, who is an anesthesia tech, sat to her left, calmly answering Vicki's nervous questions about why this was pulling and what was that tugging feeling? I sat to her right, holding her hand, doing my best not to say anything stupid that might upset her, and wondering if I'd get yelled at if I stood up and took a look over the curtain that had been draped across her midsection.

We could both hear the hustle and bustle of the operating room on the other side of that curtain, but it was mostly white noise. Really, our world consisted of five people: the three of us, the anesthesia tech who was actually working the surgery, and the OR nurse, Vicki's cousin, who kept flitting excitedly back and forth. Every so often, the doctor's voice broke through, but I don't remember anything that he said. I'm assuming it was medical talk.

Finally, though, that moment that you see in the movies arrived: the doctor delivered our son, we waited anxiously for a few moments, then, from beyond the curtain..."Waaaaaaah!" It wasn't a long or particularly strong cry, but I realized at that instant that this was the moment I had been waiting nine months for. After all the worries of pregnancy - gestational diabetes, the awful threat of Trisomy 18, high blood pressure, the baby's stubborn insistence on remaining breach and the resulting, "Do we turn him or leave him alone?" dilemma - after all that, our boy was finally here, and he was crying. Soon after, I learned to hate his cry, because it meant that something was wrong and I hadn't yet learned how to fix it. For a few weeks, it literally hurt my heart to hear him cry. At the time, though, it was the most amazing sound I had ever heard. My son, my legacy, here on earth.

Of course, the first time I HEARD him paled in comparison to the first time I SAW him, which happened about a minute later when Christine, Vicki's cousin, popped around the curtain with a bundle in her arms. All we could see was the face - this little round face, eyes still glued shut, blankets up to his chin, peaceful as could be. He was an angel. I don't remember saying anything, although I probably did. Vicki's first words, spoken through tears of joy, summed it up for both of us:

"He's beautiful."

We were separated then, her and I, while I went with the baby for his first checkups and she finished getting operated on. My in-laws were outside, waiting, parents when we went in and grandparents when we came out, and the nurse invited them into the nursery with us. In telling this story, my father-in-law likes to relate how nervous I was, how I was scared to touch the newest member of my family; truthfully, I just wanted to be alone with my son. He was my creation, mine and Vicki's, and I would've liked a few minutes alone, maybe just to introduce myself, before allowing the rest of the world in. But this was their first grandchild and I knew it was special to them, so I didn't say anything, and thankfully not long passed before my mother-in-law, who is always exceptionally mindful of other people's feelings, suggested they step outside so I could have those few minutes.

In the year since Joey was born, I have struggled. That's not easy to admit, because I grew up in a home where men were expected to keep their feelings on the inside, where they belonged. I have only seen my father cry once, when my grandmother died ten years ago, and was recently astonished to see my brother crying into my mother's shoulder. It's just not something that we're supposed to do in our family, and I have been a worthy holder of the legacy: I've cried in front of my wife exactly once, at my great-aunt's funeral eight years ago.

But the struggle is undeniable. It's related to Joey, not because of him. In the first year of his life, I have borne witness to some of the most amazing things I have ever seen, simple things I never thought could be so remarkable. His smile, for instance. This kid has a grin that can light up a room - it lights up my heart every time I see it, even on the gloomiest days - and I hope he never loses that. Or watching him learn to hold a bottle on his own. Or the first time I left him on his back, turned around for a second, and came back to find him on his belly. Or hearing him work on his vocabulary, from "uh-oh" to "kitty" to "doggy" to "Dada" to "Mama". He's turning into quite the talker.

But with all those good, amazing, remarkable things comes a debilitating sense of fear that I've never felt before. My wife recently told me that she sometimes feels like she doesn't know me anymore, like I've changed so drastically in recent months that I'm a totally different person. I don't disagree; I thought the same thing plenty of times, even before she said it out loud and made it real. And trying to "find" myself has proven to be the most difficult thing ever, mainly because I don't know where to start. It's like someone took my soul, dropped it off in the middle of nowhere, handed me a blank sheet of paper, and said, "Here. Make your own damn map." How do I do that?

I can only imagine.

It all boils down to this: I don't think I have what it takes to be a father. I don't have knowledge to answer all his questions when he gets older. I don't have the common sense to teach him how to solve his problems effectively and independently. I don't have the social skills to show him how to be a good friend. I don't have the selflessness required to give up my own hopes and dreams to help him realize his. I don't have a firm enough grip on my own path to help him stay focused on his life's journey. I don't have the self-confidence to think that I can do this.

But here's what I do have: I have a wife who loves me and stays beside me no matter how much hurt I cause her. I have a family that has always believed in my ability to accomplish anything. I have a friend who refuses to let me push her away, not matter how hard I try to convince her that I'm a lost cause. I have a boss who cares about me as a person and tries her level best to keep me from sinking. I have the kids I work with, who I find myself handling with the protective nature of a big brother more and more each day.

And, most importantly, I have a guardian angel, a thirty-inch tall bundle of energy with the sweetest smile in the world. He is my guiding light, a shining beacon that lights up the world around him and leaves an indelible mark on everyone he meets. He is the main reason that all those "I don't" phrases you just read are going to be rendered moot in the future and I'm going to be the best fucking father a kid ever had. He is the one thing that gives me hope. He is my greatest accomplishment, my magnum opus, my joie de vivre. As one of the boys I work with often says, "He's Joseph. He's your son."

Yes, he is. And his mother was right: he's beautiful.

Actually, Brett Favre Prefers The "Teddy Bear" Type

I feel like this is something that could land me on Buzz Bissinger's List of Blogs That Add Nothing of Substance To The World, but I don't care. It made me laugh.

Please read the following excerpt from the story Peter King wrote for SI.com on Friday night. Pay special attention to the sentence right there in the middle, which I have taken the liberty of highlighting with the boldest bold I could possibly find:

Again, as I reported Monday, Favre, who has two years left on his contract, wants to play football again. What he does not want to do is ruin his legacy in Wisconsin and prevent his three-year backup Aaron Rodgers -- who Favre does not want to screw -- from taking his rightful place as the Packers starting QB in 2008. I believe that's why he's asked the Packers to set him free so he can make a deal. I simply don't think the Packers are going to see this the way Favre does. I still believe the Packers will cling to Favre instead of granting him his wish to play somewhere else in 2008.

There HAS to be a better way to get that point across. Unless he's trying to say that Favre has no sexual interest in Rodgers, in which case I guess he couldn't be more clear.

I planned on writing about this from the moment I saw that sentence, but when I actually looked at the accompanying picture, I immediately knew that this post was meant to happen:


Pictures like that make me wish I was funny, or that I had readers. The caption contest potential there is off the charts.

Stanley Goodspeed Does Not Whine About "His Best"

Three remarkable shots, back-to-back-to-back, that I've loved since I first saw this movie at the age of seventeen:

1) Fighter jets pass over a shadowy Nicolas Cage
2) Overhead shot of Cage screaming, "NOOOOOOO!"
3) Huge explosion as the bombs hit on the back of the island.

And, for some reason, the random clip of Sean Connery jogging always makes me chuckle. As do Vanessa Marcil's tears.



Side note: if I'm ever on hand for a situation like this, I hope I get to be the one who solemnly intones, "May God have mercy on their souls."

Dude...Seriously?

I don't want to be too harsh on William C. Rhoden here. You know, because I kinda want to see "Hancock" too. Looks interesting yet mindless. I like that in a flick. But unless the 7 o'clock Fulham Road showing of the movie was the last one for all eternity...well, I just don't understand how you go to London during Wimbledon, watch the first two sets of a match between two fierce rivals, and then leave to go to the movies.

No one expected a day-night match for the ages.

Who thought that in a stretch of 24 hours, Venus Williams’s great accomplishment — a fifth women’s singles championship — would be dwarfed by a tennis marathon?

Who thought? Not us. So we watched as Nadal took a commanding two-set lead, concluded that this was Nadal’s day and decided to take in a movie, “Hancock.”

I'll admit, I turned down a ticket to Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS because the Red Sox were down three games to none, Sox-Yankees playoff games traditionally last for days at a time, and I didn't feel like trying to find my way out of Boston sometime after midnight. So maybe I'm a hypocrite.

Then again, I still watched the game. In order for the analogy to work, I would've had to go to Boston, sit through the first five innings, say, "Fuck this," and leave Fenway, only to head over to the Cask'n Flagon and watch a couple of innings there before going to see "Raise Your Voice". I didn't do that.

6-4, 6-4, 6-7 (5-7), 6-7 (8-10), 9-7

My son's birthday is this week, so my wife and I spent most of the weekend at her parents' house, getting things ready for next Saturday's party.

We left him there last night and made plans to head over early, go to the flea market, and get to work at a reasonable hour. I had me a deck to scrub.

Somehow, in the midst of all this, it slipped my mind that by leaving our apartment at nine AM, we would be missing the Wimbledon men's final. And not just any Wimbledon men's final, but one featuring a rivalry that might be my favorite in all of sports (yes, even better than Red Sox-Yankees, a rivalry so overhyped that it has become nauseating even for me, a Red Sox fan): Roger Federer, winner of five straight singles titles at the All England Lawn Tennis Championships, against Rafael Nadal, the clay court phenomenon who served notice at last year's tournament that he would soon be able to handle Federer on grass as well.

This was the third consecutive year the two met in the final at Wimbledon; my wife and I had watched the first two, her admiring Rafa's boyish charm and good looks while my support went to Federer's efficient play and effortless dominance. A live viewing of this one wasn't in the cards, though, so I set the DVR and went about my day*.

*Why not watch it at my in-laws house after the flea market but before chores, you ask? Because while they have a 42-inch wide screen TV, on which I have watched AFC Championship games, final rounds of the Masters, and Red Sox playoff games, they are currently in the process of switching from DirecTV to Comcast and do not have the TV hooked up to anything.

The first indication that something interesting was in the air came around 11:30; as I was leaving the flea market, my friend Chris texted me to say that "Nadal's putting on a clinic" and had taken the first two sets, 6-4 and 6-4. My response? "Wow. New sheriff in town. Hope it becomes a five set classic." That's me: prematurely accepting defeat while holding out hope that something special will happen. Chris did his best to shoot me down: "Keep hoping. I don't see it."

Later, during lunch, I checked online and saw that Federer had won the third set in a tiebreak. I think we were in Lowe's, buying scrub brushes, when word came that he had also taken the fourth set, also in a tiebreak, and that Nadal was starting to fall apart. And we were in the Wal-Mart parking lot, waiting for my mother-in-law to return from buying my father-in-law a sandwich, when Chris texted again to let me know that the fifth set was in a rain delay, tied 2-2. When that news came, and I looked at the time, I was very glad that I had chosen to record two hours of extra time on the DVR. This one was going the distance, and then some.

We looked again and saw that Rafa had pulled it out, 9-7 in the fifth set, knowledge that caused my wife to smile and clap her hands like a little girl while sitting in front of the computer. I looked only at the score - 6-4, 6-4, 6-7 (5-7), 6-7 (8-10), 9-7 - and immediately knew that my earlier wish had come true: this was not some worthless match that I would delete without watching; no, this was, without a doubt, a five-set classic, a legendary battle of wills that I would watch and watch again and tell my kids about someday. Look at that score - how much more do you need to know? How much more epic can it get?

In a way, I'm glad The Spaniard won; though he previously owned Federer on clay, this was Federer's surface and Federer's venue. Nobody, but nobody, beats him on grass; nobody, but nobody, beats him at Wimbledon. By beating Federer on the grass court at Wimbledon, Nadal served notice to everyone that this rivalry is not one-sided. He can win on clay; he can win on grass; maybe he can even win on the hard courts at Flushing Meadows or Melbourne Park. This rivalry is now a real rivalry - anything is possible, either man can win on any given day, on any given surface, in any given tournament. That's exciting.

When we got home, I checked the DVR and found that it was full, 100% - I had recorded from an HD channel, which my wife informed me was a no-no for such a large block of time. Deleting some old episodes of Maury and The Office gave us some wiggle room, but chances are that something will have to be done soon (Sleepaway Camp might have to go bye-bye, which will be a sad day indeed). Either I figure out how to burn this match onto a DVD, or I watch it over and over and over again until every point, every game, every set, is committed to memory. I'd rather do it the first way, personally, but that's just me. My memory sucks.

Two Years? I Feel So Old

Hard to believe, but today marks the second anniversary of One More Dying Quail's creation. A lot of amazing stuff happened last year, from Erin Andrews agreeing to do an interview with me to my son being born. The first development brought me tens of thousands of hits and is the reason I'm only about 4,000 visitors shy of 300,000; the second was probably the most amazing moments of my life, and, in retrospect, the absolute scariest.

There isn't really much to say about today, so I'll let some of my past work do the talking. Below, you will see my favorite posts that have appeared here at OMDQ in the past calendar year.

Do You Believe In Miracles? YES! (July 14, 2007) - You know how all of the Best Sportswriting Of Insert Year Here books have at least one area or sport that comes dangerously close to being over represented? Consider that a good analogy for my son's inclusion in this list.

Happiness Is An Eight Inch Tall Bobblehead (August 22, 2007) - Almost a year later and I still plan on voting for Obama.

Our Phenom Is Better Than Your Phenom (September 1, 2007) - Clay Buchholz could flame out spectacularly and never throw another major league inning, but we would always have September 1.

Twenty Questions With Tina Cervasio (September 13, 2007) - My first interview subject.

Talking With Erin Andrews (October 28, 2007) - My second interview subject. As mentioned above, this post was responsible for a ridiculous number of visitors.

Twice As Nice (October 29, 2007) - Some details to help Joey someday when he wants to know about the Red Sox team that won the World Series the year he was born.

My Tattoos Tell A Story (November 15, 2007) - With any luck, I'll have to add an addendum before too long.

Janko Tipsarevic Absolutely Does Not Fear Roger Federer (January 18, 2008) - The first and only live-blog at OMDQ. In my opinion, this is some of my best work.

Visual Crack: Donna Martin Graduates! (January 28, 2008) - Just watch the movie. The whole debacle is too awesome to describe.

Need A Pick-Me-Up? Try Reading The Greatest Speech Of The Last Fifteen Years (March 25, 2008) - I love me some Jimmy V.

The Most Beautiful Sound I've Ever Heard (April 29, 2008) - He says DaDa more often now, usually when he wants something.

Storming The Press Box (June 12, 2008) - At the time, the most terrifying moment of my professional life.

You Can't Change The Past - But It Doesn't Hurt To Try Fixing It (June 26, 2008) - I've made mistakes in my life. A LOT of mistakes in my life.

It's Like That Full House Episode Where Michelle Called Japan, Only Not (June 30, 2008) - Joey's not allowed to play with the phone anymore.

Things I Decide After Watching "Seven" And "Glory" Back-To-Back

Someday, when they make a movie about my life, I want Morgan Freeman to play me.

Rafael Nadal Is Very Good At Tennis

I was just looking through some tournament brackets on the tennis page at ESPN.com and found something that seemed kind of impressive.

In three Grand Slams this year, Rafael Nadal has lost a total of four sets in seventeen matches - and that's including his straight sets loss to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in the Australian Open semifinal. Since then, he has dropped one set, to 19-year-old Latvian Ernests Gulbis in the second round of Wimbledon.

For the sake of comparison, Roger Federer lost eleven sets (in eighteen matches) in the same three tournaments, all in the Australian and French Opens. He has yet to drop a set in five matches at Wimbledon.

Clearly, Wikipedia Has Lower Standards Than Previously Thought

There are certain things in life that I understand, and certain things that I just don't. This is a clear example of the latter.

Looking at the referrals in my Site Meter, I noticed that one of them came from the Wikipedia page for William Veeck, Sr. - father of Bill and grandfather of Mike.

"Odd," I thought to myself. "How did that happen?"

I'll tell you how it happened: Bill Veeck has long been one of my favorite baseball personalities. I've considered writing a book on his days as a baseball operator, so a couple of years ago I started putting together a biography using his three books and a few other sources from the Internet, just to see what happened with it. By the time I set it aside, I had about twenty pages of material that was fairly raw but which had, at the very least, some potential for growth.

Last February, I decided to post it and see what people thought. It got some reaction, including a link from a newspaper in San Antonio, which was pretty much all the positive feedback I was looking for - that convinced me that it was at least decent. Nonetheless, I haven't done much with it since besides opening the file every so often, looking at it, and closing it again.

So tonight, the Wikipedia link. I followed it, read the short article on Veeck, Sr., and then looked at the References. Know what I saw? Yeah, you know...Bill Veeck: Baseball Genius. Something that I wrote is officially credited as a source on Wikipedia.

That just seems, I don't know, WRONG. It's totally going on my resume.