Eight is Great!

Ever notice what a happy number eight is? It's a snowman! It's an octopus! It's a steal of a deal at only $12,888!

Okay, I'll concede that three's pretty nifty. It's a triangle, a waltz, a religion, a win in tic-tac-toe. Three strikes and you're out; three outs in an inning. Three is Harmon Killebrew's old number, not to mention the number of some guy named Babe.

Five is a tough guy. Nobody who's anybody writes a five without a severe, slicing slash on the top. Five is V for Victory; it's the black bishop on the chessboard. Five is Dave Brubeck cool; five is Joe Dimaggio cool. If Zorro wore a baseball uniform, he'd wear number five.

Six is lazy, a real beast when she gets with her friends. Four's just a square. Seven thinks she's magnificent, magic even, although she's almost past her prime. It's so much friendlier with two, said Pooh.

But eight's the holly jolly one. Eight's a wonderful time to get up in the morning, if you're so lucky, and there's still plenty of time for a walk on a warm evening at eight. Eight lights up all the LCDs on the calculator display; it's full, replete, filled to the rim with Brim. Flip it, rotate it, stand it on it's head; eight's still eight. Eight is its own palindrome. Eight is enough.

Like a newborn, eight's infinitely wonderful when asleep. You get to play in Little League for the first time when you're eight.

The ninth gets all the glory, but the game's all but decided by the bottom of the eighth. Eight's Yaz and Yogi. Who doesn't love Yogi?

This blog post has been brought to you by the number eight.