We're over at the folks' place, watching the Mariners attempt to salvage their dignity against the White Sox. It's been a tough second inning. I've been grading papers and brooding.
"Haven't said much," my dad notes. "You know we always enjoy your running commentary."
"Fine," I say, and gesture toward the screen. "That fellow--they call him Bat Man because he likes to bat."
"Really?" Mom says.