And so it begins...
Last night my stomach was tied in knots. I spent long periods of time with my heart firmly lodged in my throat. I was frustrated, resigned to disappointment and wallowing in despair...right up to the moment when I began dancing around my house in a fist-pumping frenzy. What was the cause of this manic-depressive behavior?
Post Season Baseball.
My small group met last night, so i actually missed the first couple of innings—an act of stunning spiritual devotion I might add! By the time I arrived at home, my brother called declaring that all was lost and he simply couldn’t take it anymore. I replied, “Bro, the Nats are only down two in the fourth inning!! Weren’t you the guy who just yesterday was predicting a deep playoff run for this scrappy, resilient team?” Then he launched into a dissertation about the fact that our nation’s capital is home to loser franchises, blah blah blah. My brother can jump on and off a bandwagon quicker than a fat kid jumps on a box of donuts.
Anyway, I labored on as the Nationals blew chance after chance to mount a comeback. Then finally they managed to load the bases in the bottom of the eighth with their 20 year old phenom, Juan Soto at the plate. The kid promptly turns a 98 mph fastball around and sends it rocketing toward the right fielder, a single which could tie the game. Then the ball took a crazy sideways hop and rolled past the befuddled outfielder. Three runs score and the Nats go up 4-3. Now it was just a matter of getting three outs in the 9th to preserve the win...something that the Nationals have been tragically awful at all season. When Don Hudson retired the last Brewer hitter on a fly ball to center field, I scared Lucy half to death with my aforementioned demonstration.
It will be this way for the next three weeks, each game an agonizing nail-biting gauntlet to be endured. I will be up late watching every one of them, my headphones on to hear the radio announcers call the game instead of the far inferior TV talking heads. Lucy will keep a weary eye on me, fearing the latest irrational outburst. Pam will roll her eyes at me as she goes off to bed.
And I will know when it’s time to start paying closer attention when my brother calls to declare the season is over for the Nationals!
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