Out of sight

I am transfixed, staring at the screen in front of me. I have just been advised that Garciaparra grounded out to Rivera to end the top of the eighth. The Yankees continue to lead 7 to 5. I am 120 miles from the Stadium and am sitting at my computer reading a pitch by pitch recount of what is transpiring. It is a beautiful Sunday afternoon and I am inside, deeply invested in a game I can neither see nor hear.

I have spent a good deal of time in the Berkshires this summer. I have found immense enjoyment in outdoor activities of great variety. I take pleasure in attending concerts, going to museums and being culturally involved. I no longer read the newspaper's sports section first. In fact, many days only op ed pieces and front section articles of the NY Times garner my attention. I continue to act like I am progressing towards adulthood, but it is really all a charade.

When I was a child, I used to wake up early in the morning to get the result of the Yankee game played the previous evening. If my team was victorious, I would make certain to listen to later news replays to feel repeated elation. A loss would mean the TV would be shut off.

I now find myself up in the middle of the night, a half a century later. The early morning news broadcast has been replaced by Sports Center. Before I start my day as an erudite person of profound interests, I will watch the repetitive loops showing me the highlights of the Yankees' latest triumph. Time after time I will watch Derek Jeter drive the winning hit into right center field, or another A-Bomb from A-Rod. If the men wearing the interlocking NY on their caps have fallen victim, I guarantee you there will be no second airing of the adversary's triumph on my screen.

The sun is still shining. I know I should tear myself away from this screen and reenter society. Damn you Yankees. I am unable to move. It is the top of the ninth and I must sit here to read of Rivera's latest heroics. The world will have to wait.