Every morning I walk out onto the driveway and pick up the daily newspaper — yes, there are those of us who still do — take it into the house and, y'know, read a good portion of it.
Lately, that paper's been a bit of a godsend to me, because on the front page — shouting out amid the other 1-A stories about the collapse of the banking system and worldwide economic woe, this bailout or that (and how they don't seem to be working), the stock market rollercoaster and all sorts of other upsetting stuff — is a big, fat story about the latest milestone by the Tampa Bay Rays.
In fact, give or take a few days, the Rays' remarkable playoff run has coincided with the economic meltdown, and, for me at least, that has been a welcome tonic. For that reason, I'm glad that I'm an innate sports fan, and have an automatic enthusiasm for the success — the unprecedented, unexpected success — of a local team.
Right now, I feel a little sorry for the folks who don't connect with the Rays. Some people just aren't into sports, and I get that, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind a diversion right now.
Of course, there are the hyper-political types who prefer to monitor all the malfeasance and corruption, and let it stoke their anger and activism. Good for them, if it makes 'em tick. But I think most of us can only take so much bad news.
So in Tampa Bay we're lucky to have a major helping of good news to mitigate the dread a bit.
Like last night. In the first inning of a pivotal game 4 in Boston, the Rays dropped the hammer on Red Sox knuckleballer Tim Wakefield, treating him like a guy lobbing underhand in a slow-pitch softball game, and knocking two home runs (Pena and Longoria) for a 3-0 lead.
I was sitting in my living room by myself, watching the 57-inch HD with surround sound, and I let out a major whoop, jumped out of my seat and pumped a fist. Startled my wife, who was in the other room at the computer.
I watched as the Rays piled on the runs, and pitcher Andy Sonnanstine stifled the Sox, for a 13-4 win. I continued to watch as the game became more and more of a blowout — every inning, every pitch. I let it wash over me. This game was no white-knuckler. Hey, I didn't need any more anxiety. I wasn't bored in the late innings. I was ecstatic. I even hung around, prostrate on the couch, and checked out some of the post-game commentary, reveling in the win, and my tonic, even more.
Last night, my retirement plan didn't matter. Bankruptcies didn't matter. The notion of soup lines didn't matter.
Thank you, Rays. Thank you.
This article appears in Oct 15-21, 2008.