Just another opening day in Baltimore. Sunshine, hotdogs, a cold beer, and some half-naked guy dressed like Batman (including a cape) running onto the field, blowing kisses to the fans.  We’ll call him a streaker, but you young whipper-snappers should know that–back in the day–you had to be naked to actually be a streaker. Not like today, when any drunk fool can take off a shirt or strip to his underwear and be called a streaker. Darn kids!

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