It's why I get sucked in. And find myself bewildered and euphoric. Exhilerated and devastated. Happy and sad. Frequently swinging between all those emotions within a span of 30 seconds. I was there for Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. I know how the pendulum works. From the most horrible to the most delicious.
And, as I learned one more time last night after the Dodgers came up one out short of tying the 2009 NLCS at two games apiece, the sword cuts both ways. The true baseball fan's ultimate abyss. Now Chavez is truly a ravine. One double up the alley virtually erases the memory of a terrific 95 win season.
Last night proved one more time that baseball is the greatest form of reality television. For the three innings that the Dodgers held onto that slim one run lead, I aged so much that I now look like Phillie manager Charlie Manuel.
My processing of this kind of tension is to watch the game with the sound off. Given TBS' horrible announcers (save for Ron Darling), this is an easy choice. I pull out my Dodger transistor radio and let Vin Scully take me through this. His voice is aural comfort food. Macaroni and cheese for the ears.
But, in the end, the knife penetrates me anyway. I start to think about all the money I will be saving from the extra World Series tickets I bought just yesterday morning. My winter begins with a one way ticket to Finitosville. I'm already planning my most radical baseball move yet. Hating the Phillies as much as I do, I will tempt fate and the coming apocalpyse. I will be rooting for the Yankees.
As for the Dodgers, I'm done.
Oh, what the hell am I saying? I will be watching again on Wednesday.
Wishing. Hoping. Praying for the best. Expecting the worst.
Just being a baseball fan.
Dinner last night: Grilled bratwurst.
1 comment:
There's still time for Oktoberfest.
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