Another hangover, another disappointing, frustrating, hair-pulling, WTF Rays loss. That's it, folks. Season's over. After the final out, with the crinkled area on the bridge of my nose indicating a befuddled cracker-mind, there was nothing left to do but finish the beer, tip the waitress handsomely for an academy-award winning performance of pretending to like me, then listen to the lame-ass postgame excuses on the way home for some semblance of perspective. For Flip, there was the big picture of a division championship and an overall successful season. For me? Not so much. To mop up our collective puddle of pride and jerk us back into a series tie that was all but done for, only to prolong the inevitable just made it cruel and unusual. After Game 2 it was as if we were strapped to the electric chair; our peace made with God and our final good-byes all wrapped up in a bow. Flip the switch, Rangers. We're ready. Then the phone rings. It's Governor Maddon, the warden tells us. You've been pardoned. A feeling of indescribable elation and relief sweeps over our body followed by an admission that, in actuality, we didn't want it to end. But just as the prison guards were about to unstrap us, instead they just tightened it, laughed in our face and said, "You really didn't think we were going to let you go, did you?"
"BUT"...BZZZZZTTZZTTZZTZTZTTTZT!!!!!!!
End of The Sopranos.
We discuss.
