OK, sports fans. Here's where the moderator admits that he hasn't watched but portions of a handful of games all season long. <p>I nap to more action than I witness. I went to four ballgames this year: A high school game, a minor league game and memorable guest appearances at Yankee Stadium and Shea.<p>It's not until my favorite time of year hits that my baseball jones kicks in. And even then, Jones doesn't have the wheels he used to. <p>I still wish i got paid a dollar every time someone tells me that baseball is just too boring. It happened again just the other day, and that little trickle of a revenue stream would never run dry, providing me with pocket change for cat food during my dotage after the revolution. And even then, when someone utters that phrase in my good ear, I’ll say, once again, it’s not boring at all if you know the sport. And it’s beautiful if you understand the rhythms and if they feel as natural as a heartbeat or the rotation of the earth.<p>I have a cable TV hookup in the office at school that i share with 4-year-old Mikal. Last night, after we Beach-Blanket-Bingo danced to the theme song from “Teen Titans” (my new favorite show next to “Kim Possible” and “Gilmore Girls”) and played a bit of the marble game she doesn‘t tire of, I tuned in ESPN in time to see Suzuki get that tying hit and Bonds coax yet another walk. Of course, I watched about an inning and a half. Suzuki reminds me of Rod Carew. Bonds is just a brother from another planet. His numbers are embarrassing. He’s a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. (Yes, that’s still on, too.) It was all explained to me by Rick Sutcliffe, 16-1, Cy Young in 1984, even hit a homer in that 13-1 or 13-0 laugher to open the playoff series against the Padres in 1984, the one actually played at Wrigley Field. Yes, the same Rick Sutcliffe that Jim Frey stuck too long with in the decisive Game 5, because, of course, you always dance with who brung ya, a goofy philosophy that i’m sure Joe Torre doesn’t subscribe to, unless we’re talking about Mariano Rivera, in which case we’re talking Fred Astaire.<p>I can get distracted sometimes. (What is with all the photographers dying, anyway?) I just had a long nap (before the game of the week came on), and I awoke with Underdog’s clarity and a Ted Williams vision into the past. <p>They say (and I pretty much recall) that in 1970 the Cubs had as good a team and as good if not a better shot at the pennant than they had in that fateful year before, the collapse of ’69. They had Hall-of-fame sluggers, one of whom had gloriously surpassed the 500 mark. Their starting rotation was solid, led by Fergie Jenkins, one of the all-time greats, and Ken “No-Hit” Holtzman, an honest-to-god lefthander. I’d put them up against Wood and Prior. They were led by a hard-nosed former Giant as their skipper. The unraveling, tho, came quickly and they never came close the next 13 years. <p>My grandfather went to his grave in August 1969 having uttered his final words, “Ah, the Cubs stink.” The history of heart disease on both sides of my family is a dim reminder of the rhythms of life and the jolts that disrupt it. Mount St. Helens is restless again, the World Series is just around the corner and the Cubs won’t be in it (and may not be for a long while), and I swear I saw Rod Carew slap one past the third baseman last night ….

Bad day, I see.