Monday, July 03, 2006

7-2-06: the cricket score

I spent enough time in the UK to understand what people mean when they would say, “That’s almost a cricket score.” I’ve used this phrase. I am under the apparent misconception that it makes me seem urbane, sophisticated, well-informed. I have used it when discussing teams such as the Braves, the Phillies, the Washington Nationals.

I did not, this year, forsee a situation where I would be using it to describe a Mets game.

I think I get it now. “Mortified” would be a good word to describe how I feel this morning, and I did not even make it through the entire game - I had to be in the office at 8:30 this morning as I am the only senior person around today- so I had to go to bed “early”.  “Early” to me meant “as soon as the game is over”.  I didn’t tell TBF that, because he would be lecturing me about health and well-being, while at the same time secretly being pleased that he had a compatriot to sit up and watch the game with.

No, I stalked off to bed some time around when it became 6-4 - I do not recall exactly which event precipitated it, which gazillionth home run whichever Yankee hit up the right field line that caused me to stomp off to bed in a fashion my 4-year-old nephew would appreciate.  I emerged some time later to see the score at 9-4, TBF flying for the remote to turn off the screen, feeling that if he didn’t, I would be sitting up all night watching us lose in horrible fashion, not get any sleep, and therefore be worthless in the office today. He shouldn’t have worried. The god-awful boulder in the pit of my stomach made me happy I had an out, that I had a valid reason for turning my back on the apocalpyse in the Bronx.

Motherfucker.

The morning was a little subdued, and I wasn’t even going to look - all I asked was, “Do I want to know?” and TBF said “It got worse” and I held off knowing until I was at work and going through email and there was the helpful Postgame Alert with the fucking score in the fucking headline, and as much as I wanted to have the energy to hurl things around the office (me being the only one in and the only one scheduled to be in for at least another hour) I realized it wasn’t going to make me feel any better.

“It won’t matter if we make it to October,” I complained last night. “We won’t make it through a playoff game.”
“Not with Soler pitching,” TBF offered.
“Fuck Soler. Not with no offense, no defense, and nothing resembling a championship team on the field.”

What on earth was going on in Willie’s mind? What on EARTH?

My stomach still hurts, and there is no joy in Greenpoint, and the fact that we have FOUR baseball games to attend this week (Tuesday and Friday of course, and we have tickets for the double-header on Saturday), does not make it any better.