Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

You know what they're doing. They're doing what they did last year. We resist, we cringe, we try not to watch. But we must. They may be a bunch of strangers who managed to hit .218 over an 11 game stretch leading into Sunday's game, but they're wearing pinstripes. Somewhere, deep in the lizard brains we all have, we don't want to miss one of the greatest season comebacks in team history. So we pay attention. We put our hearts and nervous digestive systems on the line. Even though we know...

WE KNOW...

this is not a great team. This is not even a really good team. This is a 1928 Porter, My Mother the Car fans, held together with old chewing gum, spit, baling wire and dried-out rubber bands that can give at any second. It's simply crazy to think they can get anywhere, even the one-game Seligrama, and if they do they'd lose anyway. You know it. I know it. Bo knows it. But just like last year, they'll string us along. They'll beat some bad teams and then they'll beat some very good teams because the rotation will suddenly turn into Cy Young, Christy Matthewson, Bob Gibson, Walter 'The Big Train' Johnson and the 1968 version of Denny McLain. Just for a week, maybe two. Enough to suck us in, make us emotionally committed, feel a stirring in our metaphorical loins. And then they collapse. They revert. They raise the Burberry plaid banner of mediocrity and we realize, nope. Not gonna happen. And inside, we die a horrible and painful death of tortured disappointment, the last glimmer of summer's hope wrested from our moist, believing, little palms, our hearts and souls torn out along with it.

Don't bother looking under the bed in the middle of the night. Forget checking the closet for bogeymen. Stringing garlic around the French doors to the patio is not going to help. 

It's coming. It's coming, and we can't stop it.