I returned from three weeks of unpaid furlough to face a snarling deadline — and feelings of nausea as if I, not Joey Chestnut, ate those 75 hot dogs.
My fantasy baseball draft is Wednesday night, and I feel as if I’m about to step into the box against Clayton Kershaw.
I’m a decent fantasy football player, at least more successful than my beloved New York Jets. I won titles with Elle of a Team (named after my first-born), G Spot (sorry, Mom) and Sexy Rexy (“Now let’s go eat a (bleeping) snack!”).
But my encyclopedic baseball knowledge shriveled a few years after cork was discovered in Sammy Sosa’s “batting practice” lumber.