In October 1968 I was sitting in my lower-middle class suburban Detroit home watching the World Series. The Tigers were playing the Cardinals and the first game featured a marquee pitching matchup. The Tigers had a fat slob of a 31-game winner named Denny McClain. The Cards had a cruel-hearted assassin with a microscopic ERA named Bob Gibson. Now, this was back when there were no interleague games, no ESPN highlights, no Baseball Prospectus — there weren't even any playoffs. The only time you ever got to see a team from the other league was if they happened to be featured on the one national Saturday afternoon network telecast. The other league was a complete mystery until the World Series.

So I sat there as a mere lad, watching Bob Gibson just plow through the Tigers line-up without breaking a sweat. The poor Tigers were clearly overmatched and they were dropping like flies. I think he stuck out 17. Gibson was like nothing we had ever seen in the A.L. Worse, as I watched in horror, my mom, who was sitting in the next chair, kept commenting about how incredible Gibson was. If you really want to get under a fan's skin when his team is getting beat, just keep making comments about how incredible the other guy is under the guise of appreciating the performance from a purist appreciation of the game. Let me tell you, it was quite a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before I forgave my Mom for her stinging comments.

Thirty nine years later I found myself sitting in a bar with a single game standing between me and a perfect gambling week. All I needed was for the Redskins to lose to the Pats by less than 17 points. By the end of the first half, with the 'Skins down 24-0, I was losing hope. Shortly after half-time it was clear that my dream was dashed. The 'Skins trying to stop the Pats was like Bill Freehan trying to hit Bob Gibson. Worse, absolutely every other person in bar was crying "Oh my God, that's amazing!" and "I can't believe how incredible they are!" after every positive Pats play, which was most of them. When I sneered at their comments one of them said, "Oh, you must be a Yankees fan." This got a big laugh for some reason. All Boston sports fans can bite me from now on.

Anyway it was brutal to watch; just like the first game of the '68 Series. Except I wasn't in the living room of a house in a lower-middle class suburban Detroit. I was in a beachside bar in Cruz Bay, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands. So that part was different. Kinda took the edge off.