Tbogg, as usual, has the definitive snark:
I’m didn’t really care much one way or the other who won the World Series (although I did get a charge out of watching George H.W. and Barbara Bush witness something even more disappointing than their children), but it was nice to see an old school team win it for the second year in a row as opposed to those upstart spend-a-shitload-of-money-then-collapse teams (Marlins ‘03, D’Backs ‘01). Like a lot of baseball fans I would have liked to have seen Bagwell and Biggio win one before they retire, but, oh well.
But as a sentimental sort (especially about baseball), I just loved Athenae’s post:
Tonight, inside the bar in Chicago they yelled like the team could hear them in Houston. The waitress couldn’t get through anymore, she just gave up and watched along with everybody else. And they stomped so that the floor shook, and nobody could hear the call. And total strangers hugged and danced, like it was Christmas, and they were all just grateful the Ghost of Christmas Future hadn’t snatched it away.
A cold rain started falling, but they stayed in the street and shouted to the sky and each other and the stars that had somehow aligned, the flight of a distant ball creating, in the midst of a time when so much seems to be going wrong, a moment of autumn perfection.
A white car rolls slowly down the street, a man hanging his head out the window. “I love you!” he shouts. I don’t think he knew who he was talking to. I don’t think it was specific. I don’t think it matters. I know how he felt.
Not a good omen for the Texas crew, is it, being defeated by a force from Chicago.
I wonder if Fitz wears white socks.