My stomach hurts, my nerves are fried, and 15 minutes ago I found myself in the foyer muttering under my breath and holding a vacuum cleaner bag in case I started hyper ventilating.
And the Red Sox don't play until Thursday.
The Twins just beat the Tigers in Extra Innings and are gonna be getting on a plane and heading to New York in a few short hours to start the ALDS against the Yankees. In biblical terms, this is the equivalent of a kid with a slingshot and 5 smooth stones facing off against a giant with a big spear and no fear.
And we all know how THAT story played out so keep hope alive.
I've got the playoff beard growing, the Tums in the medicine cabinet, and the psychic hotline on speed dial. Ang has promised to help me get the boys in bed by nine every night, I've pulled out the Trot Nixon jersey and lucky 2004 socks just in case, and our code word this year is "Moonbeam".
If Ang hears this through the door to our bedroom as she catches up on "John and Kate Plus 8" over the next month she knows to 1. Call the Authorities and 2. No matter what; don't open the door.
It's October. It's the playoffs.
It's on like Donkey Kong.
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