Vinny Lecavalier

The bro and I journeyed to the forbidden land across the bridge to watch the Tampa Bay Lightning make lots of loud lightning strikes on faceoffs and play a decent game of hockey against the all-powerful Atlanta Thrashers, to whom they lost, 5-4. Everyone blamed the refs, which is exactly what they did at the first Lightning game I attended some weeks ago. I blame the Lightning's goalie for letting one go right through the 5-hole. His name is Johnny. So the good men upstairs play Johnny B. Goode. All of us sports people think we're so freaking clever.

Today is Ryan Cannon's birthday. And it's Cory Dunn's birthday. Props to them both. I once heard something about how, in a room with 30 people, it's very likely one of them will share your birthdate. I don't know how this works at all. It defies all logic.

So does Theo Epstein. He must feel so lost at this point; 31 years old, the golden boy who brought all kinds of joy to New England, toting a World Series ring. Where do you go from there? A consulting firm? Maybe Epstein's Epitaph's; the first person he can score some business from is Manny Ramirez. You know things are hazy in Boston when one of the game's scariest hitters is asking to be traded. Who bets the Mets make a bid and unoffcially end his career? Mo Vaughn; ruined. Tom Glavine; ruined. Al Leiter; ruined. Pedro Martinez; runied. Kris Benson, Carlos Beltran, Victor Zambrano. Miguel Cairo, thankfully, plays well for me in MLB 2004.

Things are swimming right along; the Devil Rays, with really nowhere to go but up, have their feet on the first step of the Stairwell To Greatness. Florida is lovely this time of year; the days are crisp and bright and sunny, while the nights are not hot but not cold; you could wear shorts or pants and be comfortable. But you'd still be hott. Yes, you.

Thanks to Eve 6, R.E.M., and David Holmes for providing the soundtrack for this exciting post. Long live notations about weather.