I was 4 in 1980. I have no recollection of it whatsoever.
I was 10 in 1986. Watched every game with my father in the living room. While I was obviously rooting for the Astros, I was 10 and was upset, but for about 5 minutes, then went back to playing with our hamster or whatever the fuck 10 year olds do.
I was 28 in 2004. Watched every pitch of every inning for over a decade. I spent more time invested in Astros baseball than sleeping or eating combined over that decade. It was so painful watching Rocket blow it that Laura and I just sat and cried in stunned silence for about an hour.
I'm 29 now. I've driven across the state twice and was prepared to get in the car again. I jumped around the living room, getting ahead of myself. "6 outs to go! WORLD SERIES." "3 outs to go! WORLD FUCKIN' SERIES." "Fucking Eckstein." "Fucking Poncino." "Just walk him if you have to, don't give him anythi..........
I haven't spoken a word since. The ice melts slowly in a brandy snifter while a bottle of $350 scotch sits, unopened on my counter. My wife has gone to bed.
I am stunned. I am nauseated. I am depressed.
Still have Roy. Still have Rocket. Still have the lead.
But something about 3-1 lead, 1 strike to go just fits too easily into this franchise's history books. I wish it weren't so, but we've all been here before. And I can't say I feel good.
I'm going to go drug myself to sleep. I'll talk to you all Wednesday. I don't think I can talk Astros baseball tomorrow.
Get 'em Wednesday, Roy.