That’s how many innings of the NLCS I watched.
Not sure why, but I just didn’t care. Didn’t move me. Or interest me. I’ve now watched all four debates—even the vice presidential debate, in its entirety. The wife and I regularly sit back and watch The Good Wife, a truly excellent show (though the whole Calinda character I can do without). I’m into boxing on my XBox 360, and the kids and I will occasionally meet up in Just Dance 4.
But baseball … no.
This isn’t how it’s always been for me, obviously. Back in the day I was one of Sports Illustrated’s baseball writers, which meant I probably watched 130 games per year and attended, oh, 60-80. The playoffs were crunch time—we’d arrive at the park five hours early, stay until the lights went out, writing and writing and writing.
As a boy, I couldn’t wait for the World Series. I loved seeing different leagues; different uniforms; different players … on one field. Juaquin Andujar facing George Brett. Dave Winfield seeing Fernando. Cal Ripken and Larry Bowa as opposing shortstops. It was magical. I’d be in front of the TV, holding my glove, soaking it in. The colors. The sounds. The announcers.
Now, that’s dead. I just don’t care. I just don’t.