I know. It’s been a while. The thing is, I discovered that
to write weekly about sports required regular conversations about sports, and I became passionate enough
about those conversations not to want to waste time writing of them, for that
interfered with my enjoyment of the sport itself. (Which sport? Don’t pry. Even
public figures, bloggers such as myself, deserve some modicum of privacy. Good
lord, people.)
But, I digress. I'm logged in today to explain to you the event known as the World Series.
The World Series, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is
when we (and by “we,” I mean, “us”) get the opportunity to play against the
other best team in the World for a final decisive answer to the age-old sports
question, “which of us deserves bragging rights, and a place in the history
books?”
How does the World Series stack up against the Miss Universe
pageant, you ask? Well, I’m not going to lie; it doesn’t have universal appeal,
per se, but you should take solace in knowing that the entire World (from east
coast to west, as well as Alaska and
Hawaii) does tune in.
The best case scenario for a World Series is if a story
emerges. We’d call it a “story” if the last time one of the teams was
successful was the days of legwarmers and Madonna, and if they had nonetheless continued
to play the sport…against all odds and with, frankly, not much reason to live…since
then. Dedication to the art of sports, even when one isn’t as good at it as
everyone else, is a hallmark of the event. Entire cities sometimes
remain loyal to their home team for generations, even when there is no good
reason to do so. See: Chicago.
Such was the case this year, the year of fourteen and two
thousand, in which Kansas City* rose to prominence with an unprecedented
winning streak, propelling them into the forefront of the national World
imagination. Should such a thing happen, it’s best if this
historically-less-good team is eventually pitted against the Goliath of the
sport, so as to provide a contest of epic proportions. This sort of a “Cinderella
story”—so-called because it takes place in October, the official month of
pumpkins—is the dream of all of those who (like me) cover sports.
Since the World Series is best when it lasts for as long as
possible, what typically happens is that the lesser team will somehow continue
to battle furiously against the better team, until it all comes down to the
game of sevens (seven being a lucky number greater than three) in which there
is no choice but to have a victor eventually emerge at the end of the night. As
in all great Cinderella stories, the lesser team will be “down one” (another
sports term!, this time for the drinking game that all adherents play at home)
at a critical juncture in the game and will remain in that position until they
finally, goaded on by legions of fans standing in front of their televisions, overcome
at the last minute to first tie the score and then, eventually, win.
I admit that there’s a certain inevitability to the
structure of a Cinderella story, one that means that, as in the case of this
World Series, I don’t even need to watch it to know how it ends.
I know what you’re
thinking, but don’t be fooled! The founders of our great nation World
built in a few miscues such as these, designed to fool schoolchildren. Kansas
City is in Missouri. You're welcome.
