I’ve been a bit quiet on the blog front as of late. Not because there’s nothing to discuss (Brad Lidge doing his best Cal Schiraldi/Bob Stanley/name-that-pre-2004-Sox-reliever would be one subject, Cubs fans as the biggest losers on the planet being a second, and Albert as the Anti-Alex being a third*), but because it’s been pretty enjoyable to just sit back and watch the games unfold with no emotional attachment. Sure, Ozzie’s annoying and A.J. Pierzynski seems like the kind of frat boy who used to cut keg lines in college. Sure, the Astros pitching staff has a couple of lily-livered ex-Yanks. Sure, Tony LaRussa won’t take his g*ddamned shades off and you can see his bubbling arrogance beautifully in High Definition. But for the most part it’s been a pleasure for my heart and psyche to have the last couple of weeks off. YF and his snobby Bomber-rootin’ brethren may scoff at this kind of attitude, but for me watching these games has been tremendously entertaining, even satisfying: no more changing the channel when I can’t bear the pressure, no more frantic calls to my father bemoaning Tito’s slow hook, and (especially) no more annoying just-out-of-college-just-moved-to-NYC-I-just-bought-a-Yankees-hat-so-now-I’m-a-diehard-’cause-the-Yankees-are-in-the-world-series knuckleheads on every street corner of Manhattan. This year it’s all about everyone else, and surprisingly, it’s pretty damn fun.
* Just kidding, YF