For
me the end of the regular baseball season is like the end of Lent. What did I give up this year? The White Sox winning, of course. Now for Easter.
To
continue the metaphor if not the cliché, I may have a slight cross to bear in
the weeks ahead, that is, if the Cubs beat the Pirates in the wildcard playoff
tomorrow night in Pittsburgh. But hope
springs eternal. What is it with these
clichés of mine?
Clare
has a night class Wednesday, but she’ll find a way to call me, not for updates
(her smartphone will do that) but for color.
How did this happen, or that? If
they win, it’ll be the end of the world.
No, my child, it won’t. Just
remember 2003.
Clare
was eleven going on twelve that autumn of the Bartman Ball. I’d already made my peace with the Cubs
winning after they’d dispensed of the Braves.
It happened at Russell’s Barbecue, an old sprawling roadhouse where we
were eating. The ribs were good, but the
Cubs did a real number on my stomach; I swear there was a TV set in every room
of every establishment we stepped into during those playoffs. The acquired Zen made the ensuing Marlins’
contretemps all the more enjoyable. But
will this deus ex machina happen a
second time?
Hope springs eternal.
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