Back in early September, when the Dodgers knocked the Giants out of the division lead, I told a friend of mine that he had better hope that they don’t manage to get into the Wild Card game. Because if the Giants got into the playoffs, then it was pretty much worth not having the playoffs, because it was a foregone conclusion that the Giants were going to win the World Series, by virtue of absolutely nothing other than the fact that the Giants always win on even-numbered years now. His team, the Nationals, getting bounced along the way would merely have been collateral damage.
I enjoy when I’m right with predictions, because it’s often times a gratifying feeling to be seen as someone with good intuition, luck or simply the mental fortitude to make educated guesses. But last night, despite the fact that my prediction most certainly did ring true, as Giants players hoisted the Commissioner’s Trophy high into the Kansas City night for the third time in the last five years, there was no gratification, no joy, and definitely no enjoyment in the fact that I was right.
I try and not let the outcomes of inconsequential sporting events dictate my moods, and frankly I’m not going to lose any sleep over the Royals failing to win it all despite coming oh-so close, but god damn was I disappointed that the Royals didn’t win the World Series. I hadn’t wanted to see a team win a World Series this badly in forever, and this wasn’t so much watching because I enjoy watching baseball, as it was the fact that I was actively pulling for the Royals, despite playing against the team of destiny.