I Just Can't Hold My Post-Season

First off -- apologies. This is NOT a "sports blog" per se. But for the next . . . indefinite period, if you're not a sports fan (I'm not sure which is more amazing -- that I have readers at all, or that I have readers who aren't sports fans, or that there are even people who bothered to learn to read at all with, apparently, no intention whatsoever to read about sports), you're going to have to hang with me (or not, really, it's your choice). NOW . . .

You remember Christopher Lloyd at the bar in Back to the Future 3? He's standing there holding a drink, wide eyed and rambling about the future. An on-looker asks the bartender how many he's had, and the keep replies with something like "None -- he's just been holding that one for hours!" Finally Lloyd tosses it back, and immediately passes out and falls flat. "Now there's a man who just can't hold his liquor," somebody quips. Well here's the deal -- for about the last 30 hours, I have been Christopher Lloyd. I'm stone blasted drunk on post-season baseball . . . and it hasn't even started yet.

Don't get me wrong -- I've had a great life since the last time the Phillis went to the playoffs. Let's see -- I graduated from high school, "left" home, had my first girlfriend, went to college in Minnesota, discovered the internet, bought my first car, got cold, transferred to college in California, played in a bad rock band, went to the Philippines for half of a summer, the band got better and changed names twice, came "back home" for a summer, graduated from college, moved to Minnesota, got cold again, got engaged, got married, got a dog, took a full-time job in the table pad industry, watched Oklahoma win a National Championship, jumped out of an airplane, bought another car, saw the Lions make the playoffs (!), was still cold, moved to Kentucky, went to seminary, ran a marathon, played in a death metal band, took a couple trips back to California, "inherited" my wife's car as a hand-me-down, began calling my Dad "Doctor", turned 30, graduated from seminary, bought my first house, recovered from seminary, started investing for retirement, helped plant a church, celebrated my 8th wedding anniversary, began blogging, and just spent a week in Colorado, to hit a few of the high points.

In the last year in which the Phillies were in the playoffs, Bill Clinton took over from George Bush I, the Bills lost their 3rd straight Super Bowl, Jurassic Park was released (the first one!), John Wayne and Lorena Bobbit were . . . in the news, Clinton taught us the phrase "Don't ask, don't tell", Varg Vikernes was arrested for murder (that's an interesting one -- google it if you dare, aren't easily disturbed, and won't blame me for any potential psychological fallout), Late Night ended and The Late Show was birthed, we learned who Conan O'Brien was and that he wasn't funny (oops, I guess we haven't all learned that second part yet), Michael Jordan retired from basketball . . . for the FIRST time, Unforgiven won Best Picture, Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven won Song of the Year, and a stamp cost .29.

So we're back where we started; I'm positively drunk on post-season baseball -- just the aroma of it. Just holding it in my hand, anticipating. I was so drunk last night that I couldn't hardly sleep and went in to work on 4 measly hours. You know what? I was still drunk when I woke up, and I went in in said condition. I was at work for about 10 hours, but I was so drunk that it seemed like the twinkling of an eye. And, if you haven't guessed, I'm still drunk hours later.

At heart, the issue is tolerance. Over the years, my baseball kidney simply has built up exactly ZERO tolerance for post-season play. This is just like it's all new, you see, like my very first time. It's a shock to the system, and the way it all went down was definitely 90-proof. If they go to the Series, I may end up in the hospital! What can I tell you? I just can't hold my post-season.