I can't even begin to wrap my head this enough write cohesively, so...
I am 42 years old, to fully unpack the seventh grade thing.
For a 42-year-old, I've grown entirely too comfortable this postseason wearing my cap upside down.
What strange timing - the 14-inning first game was played the night before I left for the NonfictioNOW Conference in Flagstaff, and the 12-inning final game was played on the day of my return to Brooklyn. The only game I watched in Brooklyn was at home while my mother-in-law, who was helping with the kids while I was away, was trying to get to sleep on our couch.
So much fun watching the middle games at the conference with my dear peeps Jericho Parms (Mets fan) and Steven Church (Royals fan), though Jericho made me feel incredibly guilty by being so composed while telling me of her boyfriend being sick all weekend and looking to the Mets for support.
I had to bring to bear all of my people skills on the plane ride back from Flagstaff, as it was packed with Mets fans who were pretty determined not to like me. (Except for one, who walked with me to the baggage claim as the Royals staged their comeback in the ninth. He commiserated freely until asking me what the "KC" on my cap stood for. I just looked at him until he had his Come to Jesus Moment and sped ahead to get away from me.)
My favorite photo of the night - Hosmer's game-tying slide home, lifted from Joe Bonomo's short-and-sweet blog post:
The New York Post, as if to up the ante on their "Amazin' Disgrace" headline and make sure no one doubts they are still the slimiest chunk of hometeam sports media afterbirth, now wants the Mets to trade Matt Harvey.
And finally, our college librarian (and Mets fan) Mary-Elizabeth, with the note she left on my office door this morning: "Congratulations! Well played. Just wait 'til next year. Signed, your blue & orange friend in the basement."