So, the Dodgers are coming to town and I guess they still retain some smoldering ember of hope for a post season berth in their tiny little pretend hearts. The Giants, alas, have no such flicker. This is vexing and tragic enough even in years when the Dogs are forlorn also rans as well. Still, I find that I am oddly serene. What a perplexing notion.
Has the fact that I have been pummeled by a quixotic alchemy of repulsion and attraction to the Giants this season inured me so completely from the unholy certainty that the Dodgers are Beelzebub's Nine? Why can't I work up some righteous fervor for a spiritually cleansing sweep of the offending pile which magnificently castigates that evil spawn to a long and remorseless winter. That's always a good thing, isn't it?
I would like to chalk up my new found ambivalence to a sudden jolt of maturity and perspective. That can't be it. I don't do maturity and perspective here. Petulance and hyperbole is my game and that season never ends, Padre.
Serenity is an ill fitting jacket. What has this season done to me?