Below The Fold

It’s okay, Boston.

Right now, the feeling of hoplessness has to be just about as bleak as it is in the Windy City. From Bucky Fuckin’ Dent to Steve “What the Fuck are you doing?!” Bartman (The only way his surname would have been any more ironic is if it had been Steve Homerman…D’oh!!), to Aaron “11th hour hero” Boone, the list of heroes in the two league championships’ series is only exceeded by the list of the goats.

Yes, I’m a Yankees fan. Back to the days of Lou Pinella, Reggie Jackson, Dave Winfield, Don Mattingly, Ken Griffey Sr… Days when they weren’t winning Pennants every other year. But I’m married to a Cubs fan, and I’m also a Nuggets fan and a Broncos fan. I know what it’s like to root for a perennial loser, and I know the glory of lifting a championship failure curse off of your shoulders.

Beantown, Chitown—I know how restless your sleep is. I know your frustration. But you need to find solace in that you played your role, exactly as it was meant to be played.

Much like the New York Nationals are to the Harlem Globetrotters, so your two teams are to your respective League championship competition. Your job is to make it exciting. To bring it to the wire. To inspire hope against disbelief, to incite legions of people back to prayer, to bring the world teetering on the brink of “How can this be happening…” and then ultimately…

To lose.

Preferably in a heartbreaking, “what the fuck just happened,” kind of manner.

And tomorrow, things are right again with the world. The world series is safe in Joe Torre’s hands, where it belongs. After the last 5 days of baseball… the five most exhilirating, unbelievable, utterly predictable days of baseball, the series is now little more than a formality. It’s the very definition of anticlimactic.

Boston, Chicago, thank you. Thank you for your heart and soul. Thank you for your commitment to history, your understanding of where your place is in relation to baseball history.

Thank you for being you.