Repeating Myself, Repeating Myself

I know I've talked about Champagne Homerun Derby a million times already; I know I have.

The thing is, though? Overtalking about it doesn't make it any less fun to play.

And, well, we found ourselves in St. Augustine recently, as recently reported, but this time, my friends, with the Bishop of Champagne.

Do you think we're not going to play Champagne Homerun Derby with the Bishop of Champagne?

Of course we are.

Mistah Schleckah was up first . . .

. . . you know the drill . . .

. . . you assume the position . . .

. . . get ready for blast-off . . .

. . . and . . . pfffttttt. A whole lotta nothing.

But fear not, my people. I was up next. Now, remember. I had been on a terrible, awful, embarrassing hitting slump lately, the likes of which had never been seen since the dawn of humankind . . .

. . . but I felt good that day. Maybe it was being in the presence of the Bishop? Of . . . Champagne?

I don't know, but I felt confident. The thing about me, though? I always feel confident. For No Good Reason. Really. If I had half the amount of talent as I do confidence, well, I could rule the world.

I should rule the world. Because I assumed the position . . .

. . . and I crushed it. Over the dang fence. By a mile.

Oh, I got talent.