The Fat Lady Has Sung

 It is an awfully long time to wait til next year. The bitter taste of getting baked in Beantown making me nauseated. Another episode of the Bronx Bummers having reached a distressing, depressing denouement. This is definitely getting old.

It was Game 7 of 2004 deja vued. Gerrit (lump of) Cole doing his best imitation of Kevin Brown spitting the bit. Derek Lowe being reincarnated as Nathan Eovaldi. And the ghost of Big Papi, played in the updated version by Xander Bogaerts  (doesn't anyone have simple names to spell), swatting a first frame dagger to the heart.

The reality is I am grateful for the distraction of the Yankees, no matter that it led to this far too obvious inevitability. The 10 plagues seemingly having descended upon the world, it is a luxury to be able to devote so much of my psychic energy to the trials and tribulations of a bunch of very rich men playing a game that has a significance to me wholly disproportionate to its importance.

I am also thankful for getting old, not for wisdom that has unfortunately escaped me, but for my inability to remain awake, sparing me the agony of seeing the final out in real time.

I grew up under the mantle of Mickey, victory my birthright, the World Series my second home. My destiny to lord over those lesser beings who suffered the grave and unnecessary misfortune of not being a fan of the only team that mattered.

Now I am them. Now I am undistinguishable from the others who root for the ordinary. My swagger long since having disappeared under the weight of disappointment.

Today, I guess, is another day. And one foot will have to go in front of the other as I begin the impossibly long, hard trek to spring training. When the first pitch of 2022 is thrown in earnest, I will be hovering near my 70th birthday. I can think of one present I will be practically begging for next year.

Play ball. Only better next time.