A Conspiracy of "Good Guys" and their (P)Sycophants
Octobers are, traditionally, hair raising at AH Inc, as Sales/Marketing
routinely over-promises for 1/1 deliverables and my group
and our buddies (IS) have to scramble to build content, applications,
reports, etc. without letting all the little day to day things fall
through the cracks.
I have to admit to being more and less sanguine than Brother D. I can block out
games when I have to, but tolerate less well sloppy play and poor execution. And so it was that I decided to avoid watching the first few games between the Yanks and those other guys. So I missed watching most of Moose's 6 2/3 innings of perfection and only saw game 2 because we had tickets. And, in spite of the cold hot dog in the 7th that had me puking most of the next day, I enjoyed watching the Yankees play good, clean, well executed baseball.
Game 3 I was out having dinner and missed half of the most lopsided, ridiculous game I've ever partially seen. And that is when I made the mistake of losing my detachment, let myself become emotionally involved in the outcome of this series.
It's happened before of course, I had a patient with advanced AIDS in
1996, when we only had AZT and he was dying in front of me. His Mom would
bring us cookies and good coffee and basically lived with us as her son
died. He lasted 7 long days with a collapsed lung and a total oxygen
level which would have been insufficient for most bacteria to grow in.
It took me a long time to get over his death. Like the cookies and the coffee the 3-0 start got to me, sucked me in and made me forget how badly we fared all year against this team. I took my eye oof the ball, started planning for the next series, going through matchups. Stupid.
But I knew Sunday night as I watched Rivera lose a game that would have allowed us to put the cork in all these loud, obnoxious, annoying Sox fans, who seem to believe that an 86 year draught entitles them to something. And as they came from behind to tie it up and then win, Iknew. I knew this annoying crew, put together expressly to beat the Yanks, would win and I made myself stop thinking about it. Didn't let
myself get emotional about possibly being the first team to be swept
after leading 3-0, didn't think about this disjointed Yankees team's
luke-warm luck running out. Nope.
I had to travel Monday and Thursday (helping Sales sell) and I didn't
watch game 6 or game 7. I just went to bed, struggled with insomnia, fought my urge to get up and turn the game on and, eventually, fell asleep. Until, on Tuesday into Wednesday, I dreamt I heard yelling and celebrating and woke up thinking that the Yanks had won. I ran to the TV and was treated to watching the infamous ARod karate chop incident(or as our chief counsel called it "assault and battery"). Let's just say I didn't get any sleep after that.
But on Wednesday night, with a 6 AM flight and a 4:15 pickup I again
went to bed, and I didn't let myself get up.
Thursday morning, I was treated to many hundreds of gloating Sox fans,
lolling around Newark airport, ear to ear shit-eating grins. But that
didn't bother me, nah. I was upgraded to first (the only good thing
about how often I travel this year) and got parked right next to a
nasty gloating Sox fan-girl.. laughing and giggling on her cellphone.
But that didn't piss me off, nah.
You know what got to me?
The SVP of Sales, an Indians fan (though he has never lived in
Cleveland and has never seen a game at the Jake-and what the hell is
that about, anyway? Picking what team to be a fan of, with no
consideration for where you grow up? No thought for the team you're
siblings root for?) whom I got up at 3 in the morning to help make a
deal walks up behind me and says "who's your daddy?" (My response? A
rapid-"not you", as fuck you didn't seem appropriate). That, I must
admit, annoyed me. But still I had gone through the 5 stages of
grieving on Sunday night, I was above it.
The sucker punch though was the call that a Met fan social worker from
the hospital left on my answering machine, a 3 minute catharsis of bile
and good-humored unsolicited sodomy, expressing the perfection of the final
result. I have, on occasion gently chided PB for her love of a
mediocre team and, yes, even given her some shit.
But her call real felt like a slap with a simultaneous knee to the
groin, topped off by a little spittle on my face (you know, just for
So while I won't sit to watch any of the coming games, I may sacrifice
small animals to Arioch in exchange for a continuing to deny these
unpure heathens from winning.
And oh, by the way PB thanks for your call, I'll be sure to call you
next year when your team (with all due respect to Omar and
Willie/Rudy/Valentine 2) fails to win 75 games. Cause, you know,
spittle can be good.