If there was any question as to whether or not Paul Giamatti is the greatest actor working today last night's Saturday Night Live should have laid it to rest. He seriously does no wrong. Sure, he doesn't have the greatest acting range but he's just so damn good at what he does and is so damn entertaining.

However, he'll always be second in my eyes to his father, former commissioner of baseball and Yale president A. Bartlett Giamiatti. No. I'm serious. It's a tragedy that A.B. Giamiatti died such an early death. This book is one of the few that I re-read on a regular basis. I suppose that's partially, though, due to the fact that it's quite short. It's also incredible.

While it may have lost some impact with Boston's 2004 World Series victory, Giamiatti's passionate essay "The Green Fields of the Mind" is pure magic.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.