Didja feel a little queasy last night when Miguel Cabrera strode to the plate with the bases full?
Did you vomit when that Giants leftfielder nobody ever heard of dove into the corner and speared that line drive?
Did you start wonder if you caught something from the Yankees when your hitters kept popping up?
Well, amigos, you did. You caught A-Roditis. It's contagious, it's fatal, and it's common in October. It brings about a complete emotional disillusionment, braced with the revelation that you spent the last eight months channeling your hopes and dreams into something that was doomed, that was pointless and - like Bernie Madoff's fortune - never even existed. It was all an illusion, a TV series, and in the end, nobody got off the island and you still can't figure out the plot.
Friends, welcome to New York. Welcome to 0-4. Today, we are all Met fans.
OK, you've stopped reading this. It hurts too much. I understand. But for those of you who are courageous enough to continue, here is the pathetic tape loop that keeps replaying in your mind: All we need is a couple hits! We've done it all year! Once Miggy snaps out, everybody will! We can go to San Francisco with the momentum! We can still win this thing!
Oh, God.
Listen: We were there. I know it hurts. I'm so sorry. It will get worse. The next few nights - you're going to revisit every single pitch - if this ball bounced differently, then that ball wouldn't have been hit that way... It won't get better for a long time.
Last night, we heard the scattered booing. Joe Buck and Tim McCarver don't understand why fans would boo. We do. You're booing God. You're booing the universe. You're booing life. Summer is over, my friends. That big, exciting TV show, the one that absorbed you, it's about to get canceled. Now batting, the rightfielder, Nick Swisher...
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