For a moment there, as Roger Clemens walked off the field, head bowed, for what could have been his last time ever, down by four runs to Boston—to the Red Sox—I thought, 'This is beautiful.'

I didn't see the end of the game, thankfully. I pulled myself away, told myself extra innings could go on for a long time, told myself I really ought to do my job and I'll be back in 20 minutes to watch the nail-biting, heart-stopping, but ultimately, gratifying and thrilling win.

Goddamn Yankees.

But you can't blame them, really. Can blame a team that leaves runners on base, can blame a manager who leaves Pedro in after a 100 pitches, can blame the media, who make it impossible to believe, I mean, really believe, that you're going to have a shot (can't blame a dead player you traded more than three-quarters of a century ago).

I know it's just a game and I know it's silly. I don't care. It's more than that, in a way.

It's not that I am such a fanatical sports fan, or even, really, a fanatical baseball fan. It's just the Red Sox, really, and just because I feel like it's something I have to hold onto. It's something to do with Boston, something to do with history and something to do with having something to talk about with my brother. And it's something about how you're not supposed to give up, even when you know you won't make it.

I know how stupid all of this sounds. I'd like to tie in how caring about the Red Sox is how caring about a lot of the relationships in my life is, how let down the whole thing makes you, how even if you are an idiot for still going back and caring again next time around, you're not really an idiot, because that's what people do. That's what they're supposed to do anyway—not give up—even when it's ridiculous, even when you're going to get hurt, even when there's always someone else who's going to come along and never, ever seem to fall and you just have to watch, slack-jawed and numb over and over again as things fall apart.

I'd like to say those things, because I believe them, but I'd hate to seem like I'm stretching my metaphors too thin.

The thing is, sometimes, I don't know if I do these things because there's something to be said for knowing what will happen. There's something noble about trying again. Because I wouldn't know what to do with myself if things actually turned out better than best.