Goose Eggs.

I have this story in my head that Adrian Johnson developed a deep love of baseball when he a little kid, like maybe three years old. At the same time, he developed the strange habit of calling strikes strikeys. But nobody bothered to correct him because everybody thought that "Look, Daddy! He got a strikey!" was too cute for words. So eventually he grew up and went off to umpire school.  While he was there, everyone was aghast (at least I hope that they were) but they were all to embarrassed to say, "What the hell are you doing? You sound like a constipated goose." And so he unleashed unto the world.

That is why I had no sound for today's game. No TV. No radio. I can't hear him without seeing that goose. It's also why I had to provide my own running commentary (because sitting in silence is weird and talking to the people on the TV is not) which vacillated between being oddly proud of Franklin Morales for holding his own while going to toe-to-toe with Felix Hernandez and mumbling about how they're the Mariners and really, how much harm could they do? Then they lost; which, it turns out, is probably my fault (or really Adrian Johnson's.)