3:04 am: I wake up. My back hurts. It often does these days because I have a ten pound beer belly (those are my doctor’s words, not mine) and my abdominal muscles are akin to jelly donuts, though they cannot taste as good. So I get up, take some ibuprofen, and remember that there might be a BART strike which would royally fuck up my commute into San Francisco. I check on my laptop. No BART strike. Governor Jerry Brown is a hero. I check my fantasy baseball, changing nothing, rethinking everything. It’s three in the morning — what the fuck am I doing? The Indians are playing the Tigers tonight.
6:19 am: I wake up. This time, it counts. I complain. I put my clothes on. My clothes complain. I make breakfast. There is a Chilean girl staying in my living room (don’t ask questions). I make breakfast, extra covert. It sucks. My eggs always suck. I have been cooking eggs for myself for, what, four years now? 80% of mornings? How many times is that… 1,168, give or take. What the fuck is wrong with me? I make a peanut butter and jelly. I pack a power bar. I check the traffic and GOOD JESUS, apparently people hadn’t heard there is no BART strike. I will take BART. My bus comes in how many minutes… FUCK.
6:46 am: I am huffing and puffing. I just ran at least an eight of a mile. The bus was due at 6:45. I kid myself into thinking that the bus is late, knowing that I am the one who is late. Buses are never late if you are late, though they are always late if you are early: Murphy’s law, bro. Or something. I regain normal breathing. I have to walk to BART.
7:05 am: I get on a BART train. I read about a Sudanese lost boy getting felt up by royal Sudanese princesses, or something. I think, they have it good compared to Indians fans. The Indians are playing the Tigers tonight.
7:28 am-3:50 pm: I spend the day at work. My head is a mess. “If the Indians can just split this series”, I keep thinking, knowing that that isn’t possible. When the Tigers play the Indians, they morph into the greatest baseball team to ever play baseball. The Indians turn into the Indians. I leave work, texting Lil’ Roro: “I will be happy if the Indians take one of these games”. He says something about being optimistic, to which I respond: you are an idiot (not true, but I thought it).
4:00 pm: My bus comes. It’s gloriously vacant. I sprawl out and resume reading about said Sudanese lost boy. He watches a speech from SPLA leader guy, blah-blah. It’s uplifting, to him. Then his friend gets eaten by a lion. This seems like it is only sort of a metaphor for what is about to happen to the Indians for four straight days. I put the book down. I check my phone. Indians 0, Tigers 0, bottom of the first. Kluber somehow gave up two hits and no runs. This does not seem possible considering one of the hits was to Miguel Cabrera, who only hits 450-foot moonshots against the Indians. I look into it. Tori Hunter, thrown out by Michael Brantley stretching single to double. Miguel Cabrera, 450-foot moonshot that only counted for a single, but the baseball gods thought that wasn’t fair and made sure there was an overthrow of first base. Cabrera to second. Fat guy strikes out to end the inning. Yippie.
4:30 pm: My therapy appointment starts now. My therapist, whom I have only seen once prior, is not in her office yet. This might be perfect, I think. I left her an insane voicemail the day before. I was just trying to say I might be late if there is a BART strike. Instead I talked for two minutes, confusing the situation. Should I just leave now? I’ll give her three minutes.
4:33 pm: My therapist gets off the elevator. Rats. No, actually, those are dogs she has on leashes. Dogs. She warmly greets me. Something about going downstairs to get coffee. I say I need to use the bathroom. She gives me key, shows me the way. This will prove a fatal move, going to the bathroom this early, as we shall see.
4:35 pm-5:33 pm: Pretend to listen. Talk about mother’s cancer. Pretend to listen. Smile. Laugh. Look serious. Pretend to listen. Talk about mother’s cancer. I need to get out of here. I need to watch this game, they’re probably up by — who am I kidding, they’re losing by five runs already. Is it appropriate to check the game on my phone right in front of her? Shit, she said something. Must be about mother’s cancer. Say something. “It is hard,” I offer. She looks mildly confused. Pretend to listen. Talk about mother’s cancer. I can’t believe I went to the bathroom before this! No, I can’t believe I told her I was going to the bathroom before this! I have to find a way to check the score. I’m paying this woman. If I want to check the score, I can check the fucking score, no? She’s saying something. Mother’s canc — wait, nope, time is up. Wait, TIME IS UP! YES! Throw copay in her general direction, run out of office. Check score. Won’t load fast enough, it couldn’t possibly load slower.
DET 0 CLE 2 Bottom 5
WHAT IN THE FUCKING WORLD JUST HAPPENED.
5:40 pm: I’m running up stairs. There are a lot of them. I don’t feel a thing until I’m 40% of the way up. Now I’m walking up the stairs. My house is miles away (it’s 200 yards away). I bust in the door. Get out of my way, Eli (cat).
5:45 pm: Still 2-0, Indians leading. This can’t be real. I put my laundry in. I angle the TV just right while I chop onions. I start cooking shepard’s pie.
6:10 pm: It’s later in the game. Jason Michael Jordan Kipnis has made two plays that live up to his name. Corey Kluber has pitched a hell of a game. Austin Jackson was idiot on base paths. I actually believe that they could win this game. I actually believe that they could win this game. Of course, they can’t, and they won’t.
6:50 pm: Chris Perez is coming on, which is a euphemism for “well, there goes that”. Prince Fielder doubles. Victor Martinez singles (it is impossible that Martinez is hitting less than .500 against Cleveland this year, but I refuse to look that up right now). 2-1, Indians clinging to a lead that they will soon relinquish. Chris Perez is looking like Chris Perez. He walks Andy Dirks. Matt Underwood complains about call, which is another way of saying Matt Underwood is commentating tonight. He commentates on most nights. Alex Avila — Alex FUCKING Avila – hits a Chris Perez fastball into Lake Erie. 4-2.
7:25 pm: I have been frozen in my seat for some time. The worst part of all of this, of course, is that I have to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again. The Indians are going to get swept by the Tigers, and I am going to have to watch, all the while envying Sudanese boys who watched their own relatives get raped and shot. Of course, the Indians might win a game or two, and I will be the first one to tell you I believed all along:
Pretend to listen, talk about mother’s cancer.