(opens door, flicks lights on, watches cockroach scarper under the fridge, opens fridge door, throws out some very old milk..)

Oh. You’re still here?

Sorry, I’ve been away for a while. Probably should have left a note. Wow, dusty in here, huh?

It was a bit of a blah season for me last year. Didn’t connect with the team on the field, didn’t connect with the personalities off it, lots of new faces, a couple of poorly received critiques… and then I got a new job at The Sun, which not only filled much of every waking hour (of those not filled by my two kids), but also put me in an odd position in which my blog posts were… let’s say "controversial" among some of my new bosses. 

So I tossed the keys to Jeremy and took some time off.

Did me well. Needed it. Refreshed. Clean slate.

Life’s become interesting in the mean time. I’m now covering mixed martial arts (AKA: UFC) for the paper, something that I enjoy a ton and has been greatly received. I’d like to be covering baseball in the year ahead, but Lyndon Little is a legendary ballpark press machine whose beat I refuse to intrude upon in any way, shape or form.

If Lyndon wants a night off and asks me to cover a game, it’ll happen. But if he doesn’t, you’ll see my words here and only here on the topic of all things ballpark in 2009.

To answer the questions of those who have asked – I’m still around. Still a fan. Still ready to flay those not giving their all, still looking to mock those that deserve mocking, still hoping folks will stick around and check the site on a daily basis.

There was some suggestion last year that Notes From The Nat might be consumed by The Sun – that’s still a potential arrangement, but would only happen if I can convince Lyndon to join us… and if you’ve seen Lyndon’s laptop, complete with a hand-cranked power supply, a steam engine-driven hard drive, and a soda-holder with "Tab" emblazoned on the side, you’ll understand that might be a tough task.

Either way, NatNotes.com will live on. And likely get me beaten by an angry third baseman while the hitting coach holds me down. 

Tip your hawkers. Wave to Bud. Game on.