The Art of the August Flop

About a month ago, I almost embarrassed myself severely
in this space. The Red Sox were only a half-game behind the Yankees in
the American League East, and three games in front of Oakland for the
wild card slot, and I was starting to organize my emotional life around
their games. I checked the schedule before I made appointments, and come
game time I was hanging on every pitch.

I almost came out and told you about the little voice inside my head
whispering insistently that, finally, this was the year. Almost went
on the record
as saying the Yanks were going down this time, that I had once again,
like a thrice times three times loser in love, fallen for this
years edition of the Olde Towne Team, and that I realized the time had
come to rise above the shards of my oft-broken baseball heart and find
the courage to love again.