Two out, bases loaded. There was a full house of fans, yelling and screaming for a strike out. There I stood on the "mound." The wind up, the pitch; I break off a screaming slider to get a strike, but in my beautiful follow through, I fall over the sleeping dog, and into the nearby sofa.
My wife and daughters go into hysterical laughter!
Hey, haven't they seen Randy Johnson or Mark Fydrich or Tim Lincecum "fall" off the mound? They don't have no stinkin' dog to contend with!
Pandemonium ensues. My ego bruised. Maybe I'll just retire to the tennis court.
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