Summer's End

It's 4:07am and I've just gotten home. I've been dragging my heels ever since the last out of the Sox ninth in Tampa Bay. It's as though, by arriving home and calling this day over, I am tacitly acknowledging the end of the summer. The end of baseball.

I didn't leave the bar, instead sharing a shot of Jameson's "to next year" with my friend Mel and our newly acquired friend Patrick and then settling in to a protracted discussion of the season so newly past and the one ahead with Patrick over several more Guinnesses.  We only left when Chris asked ever so politely if he might close out our tab. Then, instead of taking the arguably faster L, I walked from 2nd Ave clear across to 8th Ave to catch the E home, and even after a half hour on the train, continued to take my sweet time with the walk back to my apartment.

I just don't care if the Phillies or the Rays-formerly-known-as-Devil win the World Series. It doesn't matter. For me the offseason has already begun, bringing with it the cold wind of winter. 

Someday I'll learn to care about football. Or maybe hockey.