Tonight, the (Devil) Rays lost their playoff series to the Texas Rangers. I can sit here and blame the absurdly terrible umpiring, the fact that our hitting coach is incapable, or the fact that we started Kelly Shoppach at catcher for this, the most important game of the year. And I did all of these things until five minutes ago. Five minutes ago, I shaved my playoff beard.

It wasn’t as gnarly as the 2008 incarnation, but it was there. I woke up with it, thought about how much it itched all day, and I went to sleep with it only to repeat the cycle again and again. When I scratched it, I thought about how much I love my team – twelve times every minute. I can’t be sure, but when we’d make an error or strike out looking or get hosed on an iffy call, I think I felt my follicles trying extra hard to push the strands out. I was so attached.

I shaved, and now I feel nothing but sadness.

The same thing happened in 2008: Eric Hinske struck out; Brad Lidge dropped to his knees; and I, feeling a whirlwind of emotions that ran the gamut from despair to pride to disbelief, walked to the bathroom and eliminated the facial project I had worked on for nearly a month. But after the whirlwind had died down, there was only one feeling left to feel. It’s the same one I feel now.

I realize that this is neither encouraged nor healthy, but I think that’s what’s so special about baseball. Five years ago, I was just a kid in high school who fooled himself into rooting for a ragtag bunch of losers. Today, I’m a kid in graduate school who fooled himself into rooting for a scrappy bunch of (almost) winners. And next year, I will fool myself into rooting for the boys – my boys – because that’s what needs to be done.

Maybe it’s not only sadness I feel. Maybe the time I spent shaving alone in the silence of my own locker room let me gain a bit of perspective. No, it’s not only sadness: it’s got a twist of hope with a dash of excitement and a whole lot of pride. Yeah, that’s it.

Go Rays.

http://twitter.com/IfIWereCommish

Oh, I didn’t mean this guy, I meant me.

Not Awesome: Daytona Cubs Centerfielder Anthony Campana. Ian and I went out to the Clearwater Threshers game last night, and after 13 and a half innings, the score was tied. After walking two batters to load the bases with one out, Clearwater’s Fidel Hernandez flied out to centerfield, where Campana did a double-pump and never even parted with the ball, allowing the man on third to tag up, score and win the game. I know this isn’t particularly interesting, but I looked and there doesn’t seem to be a formal account of Campana’s epic failure on the Internet. I just feel that this should be documented lest he ever become anything in the realm of baseball.

(Click for a link to the original. Props to Marc Topkin at the Heater Blog and Dirk Shadd of the St. Pete Times.)

Every bloody thing in Chicago is named after Mayor Daley or his dad. The Richard M. Daley Building, the Richard J. Daley Center, the Richard M. Daley Public Restroom (A Richard J. Daley Project). You get the idea.

Chicago has public transportation down, man. We took the train from our hotel to Wrigley and back in a snap, all for the low price of two dollars. (I will have to get used to public transportation this coming fall, because I think I’m taking the bus to campus if I can’t find someone to sell me a red parking decal. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)

I felt sort of like a traitor when I clapped for Cubs hits. Oh well, I balanced that out by wearing the right cap:

My cousin Scott is a dirty, funny, old man. He burned a bunch of bootleg and compilation CDs and brought them to Buffett tailgating, where he offered them to old drunk ladies in exchange for a good view of their funbags. I have photos. They are disturbing.

Finally, I think I fill out a coconut bra quite well, don’t you think?