So, The Big O played on the Yankees this spring, and the team literally lost every single game -- and there were approximately 1,236,795 of them that I personally attended -- until about two weeks ago, when they beat the best team. Then this past Monday, they played in the quarter-finals of the championship (everyone plays in the championship tournament at least once) and won that game which led them to the semi-finals, last evening, where they (the last seeded team) played the top seed (is seed the right word? I don't know what I'm talking about) and won it again. So, the Yankees are headed to one more game, the Final Championship game, this Saturday.
While I did my fair share of screaming last night, it wasn't really Oliver's night. He let a couple of balls go by as second baseman and had a couple of strike-outs and one ball hit, but played out at first base -- oh my god, do you hear me talking? This language that I'm using?
The man in the photo above, my other son, Henry, finished his baseball season some weeks ago but has conveniently made the freshman team at his new high school and will be starting practice this Saturday as well, which basically gives me the opportunity to forego any down time and just keep right on screaming and making pithy remarks about line drives, ground-outs and balks. Before you know it, I'll be replaying that video of the Dodgers' brawl that happened a couple of nights ago right here on the blog, the fight that Henry kept sticking under my nose on his iPhone, insisting that it was incredibly wild and so cool.
Like I said, I don't know what I'm talking about, but I do believe Oliver's Yankees are going to come back and perhaps win the Championship in Game Number 1,236,796 on Saturday. You know I'll be there, sitting in my plum-colored nylon chair with the black net cup-holder, booing the ump when he makes bad calls and otherwise acting like the baseball fiend that has evidently been at my core all these years, hiding behind glasses and a copy of War and Peace.