At 9 p.m., the Knicks were getting blown out, and the Yankees were being no-hit. Then the world exploded.

In case you haven't noticed, I  inhabit a weird dream world, based on the delusion that delusions matter.

It's sorta like self-gaslighting: You dismiss everything that's going wrong - the world, the weather, the squealing brakes on your car, everything. You close your eyes and relive a memory, or a moment, or the memory of a moment. And from there, you can march into The Abyss unafraid - or at least appearing that way. 

I realize that, for most people, such moments involve first kisses, close calls with death, or the births of children - events that define us to the final breath. I certainly don't mean to suggest that mere sporting events, as seen on TV, can be equated, or even considered, among the milestones of our lives. 

But but BUT... that first kiss didn't cause me to leap from my couch, fling a fist into the air and scream, "GRAAAAH!" which is what I did last night. Twice. 

So, what does that say about me... or, maybe, us?

Are we healthy, spiritual beings, capable of appreciating the human emotions of choosing heroes and rooting for them? Or are we self-indulgent idiots, who brick ourselves into dream worlds and assign meaning to events that have none?

Well, fuck me, I dunno. But sometimes, what matters is that we're still alive enough to care. And last night went straight into the memory Igloo cooler. 

The Knicks beat Boston, fighting back from a 20-point deficit, setting up a potential citywide victory that hasn't gone our way in 21 years. I've given up waiting for the Yankees to avenge 2004, the Reverse of the Bambino. Last night, the Knicks may have, at long last, fired a silver bullet into the Celtic frat bro nation, (though I'll celebrate when it's over, not a moment earlier.) 

A few minutes later, Cody Bellinger homered to end a looming disaster, as the Padres' Dylan Cease seemed on the verge of a no-hitter. A few minutes later, Trent Grisham homered to tie the game and avert a bullpen blow-up. A few minutes after that, the Martian sprinted home after a sac fly from M.C. Escher  J.C. Escarra, ending our most exciting series of 2025, thus far.

Okay, I know the reality: Two weeks from now, we might look back on last night and cringe, knowing that nothing meaningful happened. The Celtics might roar back. The Yankees could get no-hit by Dopey Dildox. Don't care. It's in the book. For a few minutes, the delusions worked, and all those childhood dreams were sated. I'm calling it a week. I'm taking my ball and going home. GRAAAAH!