It's possible, though not entirely likely, considering my recent unhurried blogging, that I may hit 100 lifetime posts this year. This one's # 92. I think we should throw a party when I do. Just like when Abe and I spent a week planning a celebration for the 80,000th copy on the copier when we worked at Sylvan Learning Center during the summer after freshman year in high school. Except that that time, the Texan woman couldn't wait, and she made the 80,000th copy without letting anyone know, and we had to settle for the 80,004th copy. So I guess I would want my 100th Post Extravaganza to be less lame than that.

I always say this, but I mean it this time: I'm going to try to post more often. I need eight more posts this year to make it by New Year's Eve, and that gives me roughly 10 weeks. So I need to post about once a week, give or take. That's doable, but it will take commitment, perseverence, lavish praise and comments from you all, and some memorable moments from 24 sixth graders I know.

This week, the latter came through. Unlike the Red Sox, who seem to be sucking for some inexplicable reason. My kids, mostly Yankee fans, are still reeling over the early elimination of the Evil Empire. SInce I refrained from heckling them when their team sucked--I didn't even wear my Red Sox tie that looks like a bat, the one I stole from my dad--they have been silent on the three blown games by our own Beantown Bunglers. Silence, for sixth graders, is significant.

In fact, they may be trying in their way to ease my angst. During kickball at recess today, one young man lined up a pitch and called out, "Watch, Mr. Ruderman, I'm about to nail it just like Big Papi."

I choked back a tear of grateful affection. Apparently they hate you one minute, and hate you less the next. Ain't life grand?

Bask in the glow of less sixth grade hate with me,

TR