This is supposed to be fun, right?

I would be lying if I said I didn't spend at least three quarters of the year looking forward to today, October 1, 2008, the beginning of the MLB playoffs. My mood from February through November is largely contingent on the Phillies playing in October, or at the very least, having a chance to do so. Despite every inclination I had in the last 6 weeks, my team rose to the occasion and low and behold, we are playing meaningful games in turtlenecks. Truly glorious news. One would think that when you want something so bad, when your disposition and outlook on life completely depends on the ability of 10 or 12 players to manufacture more runs than the team they are playing, that I would relish playoff baseball and enjoy each and every second of it. Well you would be wrong, because this shit is stressful. And while enjoyable in the general sense, games like today literally hurt my heart & stomach.


This feeling triggers an undeniable sense of deja vu. I've had this feeling before, I know what this is all about. See playoff baseball is like that first memorable, and perhaps simultaneously forgettable adolescent sex. All you do is think about it, look forward to it, ponder what it will feel like. Sure you are anxious. There's always the chance that you will fall flat on your face, embarrass yourself, and possibly impregnate your quasi-girlfriend. Well maybe that part doesn't translate well to this analogy, but the fact remains, the playoffs compel a welcome anxiety. And if you aren't anxious, then something ain't right. You can throw that condom on in the privacy of your bathroom as often as you damn well please, but it ain't the same as operating in the woods, two forties in the hole, where you can't tell the tip of your penis from the large pimple on your upper thigh. Well that's gross, but the point is clear: getting your mind right for the playoffs doesn't necessarily help your team perform in front of 45,000 lunatic fans when you know one pitch can determine whether they go home and beat their wives or shower them in rose pedals. And that's a burden that a morning-after pill simply can't relieve.


So tonight, I'm happy to say the Phillies are playoff game winners for the first time since I had braces and wore a starter jacket to school everyday. Fifteen years ago I had one focus: making out on the dance floor at Bar Mitzvahs and placing my hand lower on my dance partner's backside than any of my friends. That and mastering the running man. Today, I am again focused on a singular goal: staying positron and watching my Phils march towards the World Series, preferably while the Red Sox become infested with the bubonic plague. I mastered kissing my dramatically uncomfortable girlfriend in front of her chaperone mother back then, and I don't see why my present intentions can't come to fruition as well.
And today, despite what the team was saying and the media ignored, was a must-win. Our beloved city is always prepared to bitch and moan and assume a paralyzing level of pessimism. The collective posture of even the most disinterested fan would have been mind blowing had Lidge blown that lead today. But alas, he did not, and instead, I like our prospects going forward. We can beat that fat fuck tomorrow. Imagine the cheesesteak consumption that man has endured over the past few days. If his arm doesn't fall off from the ridiculous schedule Brewers management has subjected him to, surely his cholesterol will be his undoing. That or our own version of fat and black, Mr. .245 himself, Ryan Howard.

Time to get it crackin, go Phils!