If you go to the About the Blog section an read my section, or if you've read anything I've written on here, you may realize that I'm a pessimistic sports fan. I generally hate everything about my team, whether it be baseball, football, or basketball.
When the beauty of baseball is displayed like it was today at US Cellular Field for the White Sox it makes all that change. I become a delighted little school girl, watching the art of baseball, unquestionably the most poetic sport.
Today was one of the worst sporting days of my life. I just got off the phone with one of the commentators of this blog (3:58 pm) and we both agreed that we were actually angry that we missed it. You may want to know why. I will explain.
Last night a dear friend of mine telephoned me and said that we should head out to beautiful US Cellular Field and partake in a baseball celebration. This of course would have been for the game to watch the White Sox Mark Buerhle throw a perfect game. I had various reasons not to go, all of which are terrible now. When I got off the phone with the frequent commentator our concerns had been voiced. Our jealousy boiled over into frustration that two of our friends got to witness the masterpiece. I will never talk to these two lucky bastards again.
The emotions since I found out of the perfect game have been a whirl wind. Excitement. Joy. Panic. Elation. Panic. Anger. Grief. Dismay. Basically in that order.
Let me inform the masses of what I was doing instead of watching the masterpiece. I was working out. I can feel the shame and laughter of the other YSSW befalling me. Cooly with his boyish smile and pudginess throwing his head back in laughter. Dave gawking with his cartoonish voice. Okapi, talking about dinosaurs or something.
I have never been more upset about a sporting event. (I take that back. I'm a Vikings fan. I fucking hate the Atlanta Falcons because of that missed field goal. I still root against them anytime I see them on TV.)
You may ask, "What are you most upset about missing?"
The smile on Buerhle's face after the final out? No.
A guy named Dewayne making a miraculous home run robbing catch? No.
Then what could it possibly be?
Hawk Harrelson's reaction. I know I ride on the old pirate from time to time (OK, a lot) on the blog. But I have a giant soft spot for him. I know that he is happier about this than anyone on the planet, including Buerhle, right now. And his elation would have been epic on two occasions. Chillingly accurate and Utterly amazing unintentional comedy.
Hawk screamed YES seven times, and had a heart attack. Guessed what I missed. EVERYTHING! Hawk may not show up in the booth tomorrow. Either because he died of massive orgasm, or he decided to quit while on top.
I'm getting misty eyed. I must leave the computer.