The way my stomach feels right now, I can’t talk myself out of saying the only thing that, at this moment, I can think of saying:
There were so many great things about that ballgame, and I had about a dozen things in mind that I planned on writing, starting with a reference to a note buried in the middle of this morning’s report (“There have been nights this season on which the Rangers offense has stepped out of character and worked pitch counts brilliantly. Tonight needs to be one of those nights.”).
I wanted to talk about Chris Davis’s game. I really did.
I had glowing things to say about Michael Young and Elvis Andrus, who turns 21 in a half hour, Eastern time.
Julio Borbon, who averaged 4.5 pitches per at-bat and repeatedly put pressure on New York in his first game in Yankee Stadium.
Good and bad Milly, good and bad Frankie.
Byrd’s questionable approach in the first inning.
The Neftali Show.
But I can’t get into any of that. My throat is closed up, my back muscles hurt, my fingers are either trembling or half-paralyzed – I’m not sure. I can’t swear that I won’t get physically sick before the night is over.
Despite a victory that keeps us from losing ground to the Red Sox and Rays, both of whom had comeback wins tonight. (The Angels, have squandered a 3-1 lead for the moment, as the Tigers have tied things up in the fifth inning.)
That was either the greatest demoralizing win I’ve ever watched, or the most disgusting awesomeness.
I do love how this game makes me feel, even when I feel sick to my stomach. Can’t wait for tomorrow’s rematch . . . more than I ever imagined as little as an hour ago.
It would have been an impossible loss, and turned out to be an impossible win.