It’s a Thursday night and I’m watching the Tigers get beat. Again.
I was a Tiger fan when I was young and, just like in ’06, the old loyalty comes back to me when I see them in the post-season.
So now the bases are loaded. They’re down 1-0 in the bottom of the eighth. One out in the inning, and Hunter Pence is up to bat. I’m writing, because it keeps me calmer than sitting here hanging on every pitch.
I wonder, every year, why I do this to myself. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the first week of October. I have to get up at 7:30 tomorrow morning just to rush to get the kids to school on time. I’ll be sluggish and likely to mix up my words when most I need them. And yet I persist.
In October, baseball is my drug. It hurts me, yes, and it gives me ecstasy. And I can’t let it go. I can’t climb the steps to bed. It just doesn’t happen.
The count is 0-2 and Pence hits a sac fly to right. The Giants score a second run. So now the Tigers have that much more to do in the ninth. The chances of winning this game shrink that much more. And yes, I suffer. I’m so tired my emotions are raw. My eyes itch. My head literally hurts.
And worst of all, I see no end in sight. Tomorrow I’ll manage to get some sleep, I hope. And then Saturday comes and I’ll be rooting for a comeback in Detroit.
The world around my drug grows hazy. I can hardly focus on anything. I can’t even read; my eyes droop closed after two pages. I wake up from dreams about strange puzzles and incalculable odds.
Full count – Coke gets the strikeout. We go to the ninth.
I can’t write any more. See you in the haze…