These moments, coupled with a brief and unsuccessful foray into gambling on sports (so low was my self-esteem by the middle of one season that I repeatedly threatened to break my own legs), should've done the trick. I should have forever been protected from the feeling normal people get when their team hurls decades of potential bliss into Orange County's bottomless inferno.
I can see why my sister would be compelled to spend this day writing about what transpired over the weekend. She's a real fan having spent decades in her box seats between home and third waiting for a victory that was so within her grasp. I'm not even sure her neighbors have been able to talk her down from the roof yet (although the family was greatly relieved when she agreed to temporarily lay down her arms a mere eleven hours after Game Six - the credit there goes to a good samaritan who convinced us to turn to using the tranquilizer dart gun sooner rather than later).

But that's not me. I was the fair-weather fan. My baseball was like my religion. I only showed up for the really big games. Surely being a die-hard fan for all of a month wouldn't be enough to leave me this empty after being on the receiving end of baseball history's steel-toed boot. It was just some weekend entertainment. There are more important things in the world to think and write about. Dusty's son Darren will eventually stop sniffling and even the hardcore fans will move on. So by this morning, I should've been back to the real news. Back to more important issues. My god, I don't even like baseball.

As an Indians fan, Dave, I have '95 and especially '97 to dwell upon - the Indians in game 7 '97 were even closer than the Giants in game 6 '02: two outs in the ninth with the lead, although to blow a five-run lead in the 7th and 8th was a particularly spectacular way to fold.