Baseball's dead to me. Over, kaput, finis. The Boston Red Sox were swept by the Los Angeles Angels (formerly of Anaheim but now cashing in on LA glamour) in three games for the American League Divisional Playoff series, round one.
I don't know how anyone can say that baseball is boring. It's a suspense film agonizing in its tension. I knit furiously between standing up and pacing and shouting at the screen.
Today was a killer: the Bosox well ahead into the ninth, ONE STRIKE away from winning and going on to the next do-or-die game, Papelbon giving up three runs, Angels going up 7-6, my man Pedroia making the last out. Papelbon had not been charged with a run in 26 postseason innings entering the game, but he finally let me down. I don't envy his winter with the Red Sox Nation - not the most forgiving bunch.
I'm working through denial, anger, depression, bargaining; not yet at acceptance. Summer ended very abruptly here in Bend: it's cold, we had snow and frost, and the heady days of baseball are gone. The season's over (except for all those other teams battling it out for something -- but who cares?) and it's time to start counting the months and days til spring training. March is only 141 days away.
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out."
-Casey at the Bat, 1888
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