Note to self: UV rays come through the clouds.

When my forehead starts flaking in two days, I'll think back to this weekend in which I saw the bulk of four baseball games in three parks in two days beneath a cloudy May sky that allowed me to forget that you can still get burned. At least it's not too bad.

While at the Notre Dame-Rutgers game -- the first of the doubleheader, actually -- a large (OK, fat) man with a knee brace and an Arizona State University hat waddled over to the fence near third base where I stood watching the game. The fat man began talking with the man next to me, quickly established their mutual Judaism and actually said this: "So you work in New Brunswick now? Here's a guy you might know. Might be in your age category, a Jewish guy, an accoutant from up in Bayonne originally -- Jerry Somebody. I don't remember his last name. You know a Jerry?"

Who thinks that just because of two towns in common and a parallel career path that some random stranger is going to know one of your former basketball buddies?

With the setup of the ballfield at Rutgers (and for as solid a program as it is, I was surprised at the no-frills ballpark the team had; not even a tiny press box, and no admission), the parking area reaches to right up behind the left-field fence, on a hill overlooking the outfield, allowing fans -- and frat boys -- to simultaneously tailgate throughout the game and watch. The drunk frat boys immediately began ragging on Notre Dame's left fielder, Brennan Grogan, who had his last name stitched on the back of his blue Irish jersey.

So here was my favorite: "Hey, Grogan! You're bush league!" one boy said, in a sense hurling a slur at Grogan, calling him a going-nowhere minor leaguer. And yet this was college ball, so, technically, the bush leagues are a step UP from college. This kid was giving Grogan a compliment. "Hey, Grogan!" he might as well have said, "You're too good to be here!"

So I watched those games, then went to Lakewood, where I talked more with the guy I used to work with who took the beat after I left, and I finally came to the point where I'm nothing but happy I left and no longer hold any lingering desire to still be there, even if I were doing what I want and covering what I want, because there's absolutely no way that could've happened. I could go on, but I'm just going to leave it at that. We have no idea what the people in charge there think they're doing, and while it's clear it is not making the paper better, there's no changing it. While I closed that door back in September, I've now, finally, once and for all, thrown away the key.

I went down to the stands to watch the game with Mom and Dad and help Mom with the NY Times Sunday crossword in between pitches.

This morning, I drove out to Trenton to catch the last day of Jeterpalooza -- Derek Jeter's final game with the Trenton Thunder in his minor-league rehabilitation assignment. Jeet's once-dislocated left shoulder looked fine with his first-inning triple off the wall in left, a second-inning single that drove in a run, a hit-by-pitch right near the back of that shoulder, and then two four-pitch walks in a game that was still in the seventh inning at 4:30 p.m., three hours after it began. It was a high-scoring affair.

Jeter's appearance in Trenton since Wednesday -- when the Thunder had 50 or 60 media credentials issued, as opposed to their regular six or so -- had brought the fans out in record numbers, and they set three of the top four attendance marks in the team's 10-year history. Today, when Jeter came off the field after batting practice and signed autographs for the hundreds of fans jammed up against the railing, you would've thought Justin Timberlake had just walked in -- girls screamed and held up signs proclaiming "The future Mrs. Derek Jeter" and wailed for his attention. Jeet faithfully went along the railings signing for a good 20 minutes. When he moved from the section of the dugout beyond first base to the area near home plate, the first place he went was to a young woman with a sign in the shape of a heart -- and she was in tears. And I mean sobbing. With convulsions. I don't know if she could've gotten out any words to him, she was hyperventilating so much. It was as if he was all four Beatles rolled into one.

So that was my day, my weekend. We've just watched the Survivor finale, and I don't think I'm going to write about it because I don't have much analyzing to do. I just don't feel like it. We did look at what I wrote before the show started, and while I can't remember, exactly, what I meant by "most likely to got milk" (my guess it has something to do with her tits) or "most likely to go to his high school reunion," I figure I got seven of my 21 "predictions" correct or somewhat near the mark. Those were: goof off, take charge, go topless (woman), be this season's Robb, criticize today's youth, arrogantly proclaim he knows how to win and praise God. Two other observations: the two people I picked to be the first out (one man, one woman) both made the jury the one I picked to win didn't make it to that point. So I was wrong there.

The next one's in Panama, and it involves pirates! Well, at least pirate history and legend, which is enough for me.