Ah, yes...our quadrennial binge on politics. Dueling ads, wall-to-wall, made in Mudville. Debates - followed by debates about the debates. Pundits punditizing everywhere, day and night. So many polls that we even have a poll of the polls.

And lots of angry, opinionated people. On Facebook...on the Internet...on the streets...on talk radio...in the office...even in families. Lots of people, very emotional about this election - and speaking out.

I'm not one of them. Oh, I care. I've always followed American politics with interest. But I won't be sounding off about what I think.

Sure, a lot of people were watching the Presidential debate this week. But not everybody. There were quite a few folks watching men with caps swing a stick at a speeding white ball.

Even though it was the last day of the regular baseball season, there were still some decisive games being played. One of which gave my Yankees (hold the booing - I can't hear it) the division championship.

But in the midst of some of the cliffhanger baseball dramas being played out this week, there was another baseball story that captured my attention. About one guy's one time at-bat.

Seven years ago, in his first Major League at-bat, 24-year-old Adam Greenberg was struck in the head by a 92-mile-per-hour fastball. He was left with migraine-like symptoms and numerous other complications. End of a dream. Except somebody forgot to tell Adam it was over. He was determined to fight his way back - if only some team would give him a chance.

I've been to a few professional football games in my life. And some people are angry. It's usually aimed at the other team or their own players who messed up. But these days the words that make you blush are reserved for the referees. The replacement referees, that is.

The regular National Football League officials have been locked out by the owners over a salary dispute. So the guys making the calls are rookies in the NFL universe. And accusations are flying that they're missing all kinds of penalties and making some bad calls on key plays.

Who ever thought up cellphone cameras? Sure, they're nice if something suddenly pops up that you want to capture. But how many times have I been looking goofy or plain ol' ugly and some smart aleck quietly "permanentizes" the moment with his cute little camera?

Is there nowhere we're safe from the lens that never forgets?

I already was feeling some of the residual sadness of another September 11. Then today's headlines shouted another 9/11 tragedy - the deaths of an American ambassador and three of his staff. Killed - as they often say about police officers or soldiers - in the line of duty.

Sounds like the man we lost is the kind of person we want representing our country. Proficient in the language, out among the people, building relationships, taking risks so folks can be free.

An ambassador.

Politicians. Promises. They're almost synonyms. We've got two months of campaigning to go and we're already on promise overload. "He broke his promise!" "He can't keep that promise!" "If I'm elected, I promise..."

Elections raise hopes. Reality often crushes them. The promises often seem to get swept away and trashed with the victory celebration confetti.

Hollywood's stunned. No doubt, a family is crushed. A highly-acclaimed movie director is suddenly gone - jumping to his death from a bridge. Leaving a lot of people asking that question that often defies an answer - "Why?" We may never know.

I remember years ago when a prominent official in the White House attempted suicide. A national news magazine turned the spotlight on a disturbing fact about too many men - they are, the article said, "wounded men with no place to bleed."

Raging wildfires, every day in the news. When I hear that, my ears perk up. We have friends who lost their home in one of those wildfires recently. And we know Native American friends who are sometimes on the frontlines of fighting them. I hate it when we hear a firefighter has been lost - like one young woman was in Idaho just a few days ago.

With some major fires raging in Washington State this past week, my mind flashed back to a heartbreaking story from another fire in that area. They called it the Thirty-Mile Fire.

Sure, Mom and Dad thought it was just another excuse to stay awake longer. But what did they know? Adults don't believe what kids know to be the awful truth - there are monsters in your closet at night. And they expect you to close your eyes and just start having sweet dreams?

Actually I had nothing to fear from those monsters that lived in my overactive imagination. But then there are the real monsters that so many of us have locked in a closet, somewhere in our heart. The secret pain. The secret sin. The secret darkness of an unforgiving heart.

I enjoy reading my newspaper. My kids enjoyed crashing through my newspaper to sit on my lap. Maybe they thought the newspaper was somehow competition for my attention. Oh wait - it was. Nowadays, it's getting harder to bother your father while he's checking out the news. You'd have to jump on his iPhone.

Anyway, I could relate when I heard about this little guy who kept interrupting his dad while he was reading his voluminous Sunday paper. For a while, Dad was able to buy a little time by saying "pretty soon, Son." But eventually, Son wasn't buying it.