You have all gone home and are hopefully enjoying the bacon and cigarettes for breakfast you so richly deserve. Same to you guys in Cleveland. Have your favorite, whatever it is. America will pick up the tab. We owe you one.
You don’t know me. I’m not a regular sports fan. I don’t own a jersey with a number on it. I was even on local TV once years ago because I was in the library on home game day, studying. That is how I got where I am today.
So I thought I’d write and thank you. It may have taken you 108 years, but your timing was perfect—and not a moment too soon. Distracting us with sportsmanship, civility and history. I think more than a few of us were beginning to think those things had passed into an alternate reality, but there, in a stunning display of emotional maturity, Trevor Bauer applauds Jason Heyward’s flying-leap catch that gets him out.
And you guys, playing human-being ball, with goofy errors and magnificent moves, stretching it out to 10 innings in a seventh game. You made Bill Murray cry tears of joy. Bill Murray, to whom Hollywood has paid a great deal of money to affect an emotion, none of which involved magical unicorn tears of euphoria.
I read that 40 million people watched. I did.
It was a delight not to be yelled at for a change.
Sometimes our media seems to bring out the worst in us, or we in it, I’ve never quite put my finger on it but I am certainly open to study grants. There are an awful lot of things on TV these days that make me despair of my kind, but Game 7 was like breathing fresh air after being stuck in a funky tunnel for too long.
Please come back again real soon.
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