At the start of the American League Division Series, your writer was about halfway through his 43rd year. At the close of the Tigers postseason, whether the first round ends tonight or they suffer defeat in Gotham tomorrow, I figure I will be a ripe 63 years old. Unwise, but stooped, gray, grizzled, streaked with wrinkles, and with a bad ticker.
That’s what the Tigers are doing to me. I imagine that’s what the Tigers are doing to everyone. Even though this is great baseball, I have to ask: would it kill ya to trounce the Yankees just once?!?
Last night’s epic contest was a rematch of the rained out duel of aces, in which the League MVP Justin Verlander (and yes, he should be MVP, you can fuck yourself if you think otherwise) took on the big man, C. C. Sabathia, who looks pinched and worried even when things are going well. The man who looks like the Man With No Name vs. the man who looks as if he needs Alka Seltzer. And probably does.
