Granted, all the horses that matter are in front of us, but still. We had an off-day today; the next time we have one, it'll last for six months.
Tonight I watched football. High drama given New Orleans' situation and the celebrity appeals for help for the Katrina refugees and the weird pageantry of the Saints' supposed “home” game, and at least the prospect of high drama on the field, what with Aaron Brooks and Deuce McAllister and Joe Horn doing their damnedest to write a nice little story in enemy territory.
Back in my New Orleans summers and following I became briefly infatuated with the Saints (if you know nothing about football you can fool yourself into thinking John Fourcade will lead you to the promised land), so I watched until a few minutes into the fourth quarter, when it became clear that the tide had turned for good. And then I quit. Because, hey, it was just football. I'd only managed to give it about half my attention anyway, and I'd have flipped over to watch a meaningless Met game in a second. A nanosecond. A half-nanosecond. Even if Miguel Cairo and Jose Offerman were in the starting lineup, we got crushed early, and Ice Williams pinch-hit so Willie could bring Kaz Ishii into the game. A quarter-nanosecond.
Man, it's getting dark at like 6:30 and there were a couple of trees shedding leaves today and we've got 13 left to play. How can that be? It was only like a minute ago that Carlos Beltran was taking David Wright and Jose Reyes to the gym after workouts in St. Lucie. Wasn't it? It wasn't? You're sure?
Time to cling, kids; winter's coming. Sure wish there was a game on. Gonna be saying that a lot awful soon.