15 Innings of Torture

As Soxy Deb and I are fond of reminding one another:

THERE IS

NO CRYING
IN BASEBALL!

There is, however, a hell of a lot of swearing.

Profane, unladylike, truck-driving, sailor-swaggering, biker-esque, white-trash cussing.

I, for one, said some things last night that I've never said in my 39 years. And I was in public. And I didn't care.

My words were appropriate, I rationalize, as I'd never experienced a scoreless game that went 15 innings to lose to a walk-off HR by my least favorite player in the ever-loving world. Mr A-Hole. Mr. You'll-Never-Be-A-Dirt-Dog-Player-In-Boston. Mr. Shove-the-Pitcher-Out-of-The-Way-at-First-Base. Mr. Glove-Eating-Tek-Sandwich.

I can't exactly condone violence. I'm a pacifist. No really, I am.

So, ummmm, could someone else help me out here? Please? Just don't tell me about it.

The upside to baseball: There's always a next time. 4 pm today in fact.