Brendan Kennealy
Junior Member
Rookie

The only thing more wonderful than a summer in full swing is the very promise of summer. And at no time is that promise more anticipated or electric than on Opening Day. On Opening Day, all those warm nights you'll spend at the ballpark beneath the bright lights and dark sky are like a cold beer not yet tasted; each sip is craved and full of sweet, calming booze. And while even the most bitter beer will be gladly glugged on a hot day in July, there is almost nothing so bad about a lousy baseball

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When I was 8 years old, the Twins beat the Braves in the 1991 World Series, and my mom went absolutely nuts. I don't mean nuts in the literal sense – she didn't wind up heavily sedated or institutionalized; I only mean baseball crazy. This kind of crazy doesn't require medical attention or therapy, at least in most cases, but it can still be worrisome. It's the kind that makes you pace and sweat and swear at playoff-overachievers like Mark Lemke on the TV in front of your children. The kind that

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I remember the first time I saw Bull Durham. It was 2004 and I was still living in mom and dad's basement. I was drinking cold bottles of Miller High Life with my buddy Al, and we were flipping channels when we stopped just in time to see Susan Sarandon – who was still in Vintage Babe Form back in the late 80s – walk out of her house and into a minor league ballpark. She delivered an A+ monologue to start the movie, and I was hooked as soon as she mentioned that there are 108 beads in a Catholic

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