Woke up ten minutes ago. Everything drenched in sweat. I'd been asleep for about an hour, the longest stretch since yesterday afternoon. I don't quite feel the mental clarity that usually accompanies a fever break, and the thermometer's battery is dead and I have no idea where my wife put the real one. But I got out of bed okay--peeling off the cover wasn't like plunging into a tub of ice water--and I'm sitting down awright. I can bend over, sorta; it no longer feels like someone's just kicked me in the right nut, more like someone did that yesterday. I'm hungry. I'll probably stick with the surgery diet for awhile, just in case; diverticulosis can mimic appendicitis.
Cool Papa Bell's birthday reminded me of William Wallace's poem "Anthem", which you can download here (.pdf file) along with a key to the nicknames, although "Ducky" should be Joe "Ducky" Medwick, not Robert "Ducky" Detweiler if you ask me, and a section on the Negro leagues is certainly in order. Read in out loud, unless it hurts when you laugh, too. I'm going back to bed. If I wake up later I'll let you know.