There Will Be Joy in Mudville

Last night, we went on a date to a sports bar for dinner.  We watched the Nats limp through 4 innings where they gradually gave up enough runs to whittle a 6-0 lead down to 1 in the fifth and final game of the playoff.  Driving home, we listened on  the radio.  We are still sick with the knowledge the Nationals ended their season in a painful 9-7 loss to the Cardinals.   The O's also had their run for the World Series destroyed by the Yankees this dark Friday.   To watch and love baseball is to know at any moment, it may be glorious and also, at any moment, your heart shall be broken.   It is part of the "of course it's hard. That's what makes it great." zen poetry of this sport. 

However this morning, my husband explained why this particular loss has more cosmic consequences than that beltway residents now must face only the perpetually disappointing Redskins and the dull soul sucking pain of election year politics:

My fellow baseball fans,

Seven hours removed from the disaster of the Nats' historic collapse at the hands of the Cards, and the O's anemic loss in New York, I have reached a conclusion:

Perhaps when the the Yankees meet to do battle in St. Louis in what will prove to be a fateful Game 7, the Mayans will finally be proven correct.

After 512 innings of improbable comebacks, 350 hits by heretofore unknown journeyman, 75 over -the-wall game saving catches, and 43 combined home runs between Ibanez and Descalso, the last man on the Yankees' bench, Alex Rodriguez, finally gets into the game, not as the highest paid hitter in history, but as a pitcher trying hold the Bronx Bombers' 1 run lead.

As A-Roid angrily strides toward the mound to face David Freese, the New Madrid fault line finally ruptures, sucking not only Busch Stadium but the entire planet into a black hole as every last ounce of the Earth's luck will have finally run out.

Wait 'til next year. If there is one.