It’s Saturday night, date night at my house. Being the thoughtful, sensitive guy I am, I leave my phone at home. I want to give my wife my full-tilt undivided attention during this, our special time together.
We get in the car—she drives because she likes to, and I save my male ego for important matters, like remembering the batting averages of the St. Louis Cardinals’ “Million-Dollar Infield” of 1964.
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