Just another opening day in Baltimore. Sunshine, sick 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!