And Now, Introducing Our Yankees Basket Case
People who don't like baseball just don't get it. They think fanaticism is an act or a hobby or a persona or a quirk. Like everything we say we or do is really just an affect.
So when I say, I am quarantining myself for the next month and a half in an effort to spare friends and loved ones my insufferability, irrationality, and general departure from acceptable social conduct, I'm being quite literal.
And with every day that puts the Yankees closer to whatever end they may find, I lose that much more patience when I have to hear, "Haha, no really, where are you watching the game?"
"AT HOME. BY MYSELF. AND NO, YOU CAN'T COME." Sweet Christ.
It's like when people play Pictionary and scribble some indecipherable mess, then continue to stab at it with the sharpie, instead of drawing something else. All while everyone guessing grows increasingly frantic and frustrated.
Stop pointing at the same chicken scratch, and move on. Because I, too, am riding the bullet train to complete, deranged frenzy.
I gave my office mate due warning yesterday, and explained to him that there is nothing worse, no emptier depravity nor devastating tragedy than seeing the season end without a title. He laughed. He won't be as amused when I'm entrenched in the shit storm of playoff series that essentially turn me into little more than a freebasing sociopath with the YES network.
And I know this risk exists, the merciless possibility of ring-less season and subsequent descent in violent despair. But it doesn't matter. I have no problem with this level of emotional investment. I'll take my chances.
And this is coming from someone who's so terrified of having to catalogue something as "a waste of time" that I think it's reasonable to ask "How long is this phone call gonna last?" at the onset of a conversation.
Unfortunately, we're all in too deep.
Fortunately, my New Year's resolution was to win the World Series.
And I have more resolve than a home-schooled spectacled contestant in the Scripps Spelling Bee.
I also have roughly the same mastery of human interaction as them, too.
Welcome to fall baseball, New York. Everything but the Yankees has retreated to the background. It all may as well be cardboard life. (See, this is EXACTLY why baseball fans should get maternity leave in the fall. If having a baby turns life on its head more than the playoffs, then, well, my mom is going to have to bark up another tree on the grandchildren front.)
Bring on the west coast.
Long is the way and hard that out of hell leads back to [the Bronx]. -John Milton.
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