I woke up this morning feeling so happy and relieved that the Yankees had escaped death. Well, not death death, but you know what I mean. I went about my day with a smile, an extra spring in my step, not even getting upset when I received yet another junk fax from some company selling a trip to Cabo San Lucas. I ran into a Dodger fan friend who congratulated me on the Game 5 win.
“Your guys sent the series back to Texas. Great job,” she said.
“I know,” I said, beaming with pride. “They really fought back under extreme pressure.”
“Of course,” she added, “they’re still facing elimination tomorrow night.”
And that’s when my mood took a dive. It wasn’t that she told me something I didn’t already know. It was just that I didn’t want to hear it. I was content to remain in my bubble.
I went home and started watching the Phillies and Giants, thinking of all the reasons I don’t want our season to end and how Phil Hughes has to pitch the game of his young life.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked me as I sat there in the fetal position.
“I’m worried about tomorrow night,” I said.
“But it’s still tonight,” he reminded me. “You’ve got 24 hours to get nervous.”
“True,” I acknowledged, “but -“
“You think the players are obsessing about tomorrow night?” he cut me off.
“No, they’re probably out having a good time with strippers and stuff.”
“There you go. If they’re not concerned about it, why should you be?”
I hate when he’s right. Still, I felt better reminding myself that the guys who will actually be playing the Rangers aren’t as nuts as I am. I jumped up and started making dinner, vowing to enjoy this night and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
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