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Seriously. I think I may hate the postseason.

This was GAME ONE, and I was ready to hurl myself into oncoming traffic. I can't breathe, think, function. I can barely even watch the game. I feel like hell today on account of the fact I spend half the game outside for superstitious purposes, and it was a balmy 50 degrees out.

"I don't like when there's pitching changes" I said through chattering teeth to my sister.

"I know, Kris. I know."

Last year I stood outside every time the Yanks batted, and this habit was extremely well-known and respected among my 84th street compatriots. I all but got tossed out as soon as the middle of the inning commercial break was over.

This year, Russo pointed out, "So, um, maybe you gotta do it backwards this year. Because it's not working."

Last night was, if nothing else, a completely hedonistic casserole of illusory corollaries. And by that I mean that there was nothing that could be said or done without it somehow being perceived as a direct impact on the game.


Laur: "It's my foot! Holy shit it's insane! Every time you rub my foot the Yanks do something right!"

CYC: ((quite possibly the most ludicrous of the evening)) "We are not going uptown to watch the game until my fish swims through the hole in the CD."

Yeah, so despite the fact me and Laur were finished with work well before 6, we didn't leave the office until after 8:00.

She's waiting for me to shut my computer down, etc when she makes the mistake of commenting, "I don't know what you and Gerry are talking about, I've never seen that fish swim through the CD in his tank."

"Ok watch, he'll do it. It will be good luck for the Yankees."

There it is. 8 words that can change the course of an evening in an instant.

"It will be good luck for the Yankees."

Over 2 hours later, we were still staring at the tank in my office. We googled "training betta fish" and we trying talking to it, using both positive reinforcement and outright degradation. ("No one likes you now. You know that, right?")

Nothing worked until me and Laur were about to toss in the towel and just head uptown before we missed any more of the game. "Let's give him one more chance. Then we'll go."

"Ok. But if he doesn't do it now, and the Yankees end up losing, I swear to God I'm flushing him down the toilet tomorrow."

Bam. Fish through hole.

Game on.

And what a game it was. When the Twinks took an early 3-0 lead, I had basically been reduced to little more than a demented pre-historic life form. I was mumbling to myself how the Yanks last year were down in game 1, and how this is nothing, how it doesn't matter that they were losing 3-0. That the 3 runs the Twinks had scored were immaterial because if we can't score 1 run we can't win the game anyway.

The mood was grim.

And we had reached a low point I believe when the passed ball (Posada. Really. You gotta stop those things, geez.) allowed Hudson to score and induced Gardenshire to act like a wacky wavy inflatable arm flailing tube man.

Fatso was less than sharp. I mean, I didn't a NO-NO from him, for God's sake. But I sort of expected a little more than cheap runs. Cuddyer's 2-run shot was legit, but a passed ball? And--worse--walking a rookie to force in a run and tie up the game? Hmm. I love you Tubbo. So much. So we'll let this one go, ok?

Especially because I felt kind of bad for him when they showed him retreating to the dug out and slamming shit. Usually that annoys me, seeing a pitcher do that after a bad outing. Because it's like, "Hey leave the wall alone, he's not the one who effed up." Plus, you know, the whole Kevin Brown thing...

BUT when CC did it, it was like a parent seeing her daughter, a normally straight A student, get a D on her report card and then start flagellating herself or something. It's like, ok ok relax. You messed up. You can't be perfect always. We'll still love you.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-Shakespeare on CC's bad outing

But then things started to change for us in the 6th.

Cano drove in Tex.

Posada drove in Cano.

And then a lonnnng shot that almost looked like a fly ball from Grandy, ended up being a triple (I have ZERO depth perception), and just like that the Yankees were up.

And that's how it's done Minnesota.

Remember us?


You may remember the slugging stylings of Mark Teixeira from last year's ALDS, when he ended an extra innings heart attack with a walk off line drive ding in the 11th.

You also might remember David Robertson, who escaped a bases loaded no-out jam last year...and then similarly struck out Thome to do the same this year.

And Mariano Rivera, who is our closer, is just too good to be on the same field as pretty much any human life form.

I remember you guys getting ripped off by a fair ball that was ruled foul last year.

And now this year, you got a chance to tie up the game after Greg Golson made what should have been a game-ending lunging catch...that was ruled a single.

You never capitalized.

But I'd say we're even now, no?

All tied up.

Well, except for the series.

The Yankees prevail.

Remember that, Minny. Never forget who's boss.

See ya in a few hours. Pettitte vs Pavano.

Oh my God. Just read that sentence again. Pettitte vs Pavano.

It's like MLB's answer to Highlight's "Goofus and Gallant"!

Tonight the Yanks will make Pavano wish he had never returned from his 1,120,550 year long DL stint.


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