A Text by Text Re-living of Last Night’s Real Nightmare

Some of us don’t have fancy-schmancy phones with baseball apps.  Or apps at all.  Actually, the most impressive feature is the picture of Ben Franklin firing a pair of uzis with the sky line of Philadelphia in the background.

Therefore we rely on TVs, radios, the internet, the kindness of strangers, the hostility of strangers, and text message updates from whoever is unfortunate to be someone I know is watching the game and won’t dick with me.  Which you’d think was ridiculous, but it’s actually a totally normal thing that many stable, well-liked people do.

I have unlimited texting, though!  Thanks, parents.  And that is how we will explain tonight’s sequence.

What we have here is the bottom of the 9th inning, when a team is under immense pressure to hold a lead or a tie, otherwise they could drop the most important game of their season.  Here we go.

8:29 pm:  Amazing catch by Werth one out

YES.  Yes.

MAN, I wish we were actually winning this game.  I can see the catch in my head.  Wait that’s the one from Doc’s no-hitter.  Well, whatever, I don’t really care.  He could have caught the ball in his eye and I would have been happy for the out.  Right now, this is the first of six outs we’re going to desperately need to pull this one out.

8:30 pm:  fuck huff gets a single with posey now up

Damn it Ned I do not have time for your “I’m on this party boat and blah blah blah” texts this is an NLCS game and I am trying to provide mental CPR to 25 men down the street.

I am not going to look at my phone, I am not–

Did it vibrate?  Shit.  New message.

NOT THE HELL NOW NED.

I am not going to look at my phone.  Yeah.  This is the right idea.  I’ll just play Hearts or something.

Jesus no wonder nobody plays these bullshit games anymore.

Did it vibrate?

8:34 pm:  Posey singles huff on third. I’m flipping out.

…

What was that muffled explosion?

Was that my heart?

…

I genuinely think part of me just blew up.  Like an important part.

All I did was talk Buster Posey up this year.  All I did was blither on about how I liked his style and his locker room presence and his inability to grow facial hair that is something a lot of men have and isn’t weird.  Don’t talk him up too much, I’d think, or you’ll have to face him in some ironic situation.

Now he’s standing on third, quietly proud of himself but not saying anything, playing in the NLCS as a rookie, being great.

Fucker.

…

Seriously, the Phillies game made something in me burst.  I taste blood.

Oh no.  Oh no.  Definite vibration.

8:38 pm:  U don’t want to know.

Why isn’t my brain doing that thing where it twists everything I hear or read into success for the Phillies in some way?

No.  No, what must have happened was the play was so ridiculously close, the Phillies barely pulled it off.  Maybe Bruce Bochy overgruffed himself.

Maybe Chad Durbin’s got a line drive caught in his brain and he’s running in a circle screaming with a geyser of blood splurting out of his head.

Maybe the ump blew the call.  I’d take it.  Human element, right?  Yeah, Yeah.  All about it.

…

…

…

We lost, didn’t we.

9:02 pm:  6-5

Huh.

I didn’t want to know.