I didn't think I could care any more about this crazy, unlikely, beautifully flawed team than I already did.
There is no imaginable scenario that could be any sweeter than advancing to their first Fall Classic in franchise history after sucking down a sphincter-puckering, ball-swallowing, heart-rending bad beat like that-there motherfucker.
It doesn't mean shit if it isn't hard, and that's as hard as it gets. Rocky always has to get his grill planted in the canvas at least once. Then he has to get up, smear the blood across his face, and finish the fucking job.
I was 13 years old in 1980, and I bled orange for those guys like only a kid really can. I was the center of the universe, and I didn't really believe they could lose. At the end of Game 5, the Baseball Gods looked down at me and said, "Guess what, kid? Life ain't fair, and in some things, you don't call the shots."
In 1986, I was starting my sophomore year in college, and I'd learned the lesson well. I knew the universe and the fickle, uncaring Baseball Gods didn't owe me or "my team" a goddamned thing. But I figured this time, even the gods couldn't hit Mike Scott's splitter once they took it to Game 7. "Sorry kid, we're going to take this one from you, too. We might give you another taste in a couple decades."
Now I'm 38, and you know what I wish? I just wish my aunt, who held season tickets in the second row behind home plate since the Dome opened, who sat right in front of the scouts every game, knew them all by name, knew how to talk baseball with them, and cared enough about the game and the team to teach her nephew what she'd learned from four decades with her ass planted in those seats -- I wish she could have seen this fucking team play baseball.
Win or lose, hanging slider or strike three swinging, I wish she could have seen this. She would have loved this fucking team, just as much as I do.
-- Heya to all you old timers who remember me from back in the day.
