World Series and Crying towels

An avid baseball fan (and to be fair, a fan of any sporting event that gets me out of the laundry room), I have to admit I watched the all too brief World Series.

I found myself angry, happy, sad, disappointed and most of all, I felt cheated.

The people and the team as a whole in Boston are dancing in the streets and pouring all sorts of adult beverages over the heads of people whom they barely know. They are hugging and kissing strangers like the end of a war had come and general peace had been declared.

But, in my heart of hearts, I cannot feel anything but cheated - cheated for the series that could have been and should have been. Seven full games of pulse pounding action and tight play at the bags amidst a cloud of dust and gesturing by the ump at home on the plays that only God can call from His vantage point.

Sadly, what we got was a 4 game blowout that left me wondering if they sent the cheerleaders to play because the Rockies were all passed out in the locker room filled with cheap bear and drunk on the division championship.

As if that were somehow the goal.

As if the division was the pinnacle instead of just another plateau towards a greater goal.

Daddy used to say "Any given team on any given day . . ." and I accepted those words as an axiom that somehow defended the underdog and made glorious the conquest in the moment of victory.

But right now, it sounds a bit trite. Especially since any given team didn't even show the power we had rightly expected. They didn't show the pitching we had hoped to see. The crisp play at the bags and in the outfield was as ephemeral as the specters who haunt the graveyard on All Hallows Eve.

Perhaps this is sour grapes. And to anyone who rooted for the Sox, it is sure to sound like a bit of whiny baby, cry in your beer, pout to anyone who will listen talk from a loser.

But I do have to wonder what happened. There is no such animal as fair when it comes to sporting events. There is winning, and there is losing, and then, there is losing ugly.

I'd have to say this was definitely under the category of 'losing ugly'.

No matter how I feel about it personally, I have no dog (or in this case, Rocky) in this fight.

I do want to meditate on how my hero Rocky Marciano might have dealt with the whole ordeal. I believe that even if he were on the ropes, he would have fought until there was simply nothing left in him to fight with. Then, he would have fought on sheer nerve and guts alone.

Although each game is more than the sum of the parts that go into its' makeup, there is a herculean battle for every strike and every out. Even the best of teams can find a way to lose and the underdog can find a way to win.

This time, I believe it all came down to a concept that most people discount like dime store junk. The Sox had something to prove. And the Rockies thought they were already done proving it.

There is always next season. That's what the mature fans say.

But right now, I think I need my crying towel and a few moments to be by myself.