It really did. It was like having a second bachelor party.

After the second inning, I was as down as I've been in a long, long time, ... Emotionally frustrated. I was at a crossroads where I could continue to beat myself down or make adjustments.

Warming up for the second inning, I threw my split-finger and everything clicked. The first two starts, I haven't felt like I've been consistently bearing the pitch well and I didn't feel like I've been throwing it at a good angle. And I threw it and it was exactly what I wanted it to be from a feel standpoint. And mentally, I was like, 'There it is.' From that point on, when I needed a strikeout, I felt very comfortable about command, fastball-wise, and about the fact I could bury my split in the ground.

I've had teammates I didn't get along with, who hasn't? I've never had a teammate call me a bad guy, while he was my teammate, and if he did when I was gone what kind of teammate was he anyway?

Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling!

To a group of 25-year-olds here for a bachelor party, it'll conjure up a sense of naughtiness, escape and a secret-keeping thing. But to a 75-year-old couple from Des Moines, it'll be violating their low-cholesterol order from their doctor, and having shrimp cocktail at 3 o'clock in the morning and not telling their kids about it.