Last night was nerve-wracking.
After six, all we knew for sure was that it was as if none of those innings had even happened. We were back to Square One. Only without Kershaw. Great.
As you can imagine, things got very tense in the house right around the 7th inning. I had a headache. And I was starting to prepare myself emotionally for a Greinke-led Game 5, which I did. Not. Want. (I always assume the worst when it comes to the Dodgers. Because baseball is brutal.)
And then this happened:
And so, on to the next spine-tingling, stomach-churning round we go.
Win one for Vinny, I say! Or Sandy! Or even for me, for that matter. And for the health and sanity of my family. (I started watching baseball in 1990, so I have yet to experience my team in the World Series. I suspect Sarah’s secretly — perhaps even unconsciously — praying that they don’t make it all the way. I can’t even imagine what it’d be like to live with me if they reach the Series. It’d be ugly)
Bonus Uribear celebration. It’s hard to imagine what we Dodger fans would be saying this morning if we’d cut him back in May, as so many of us wanted.