If you wish to drag me up in front of a House Un-American Sporting Committee and accuse me of harboring unnatural thoughts against the American Sports Scene, I will not protest and will go quietly, canceled bleacher ticket in hand.
You see, I am not a fan of post-seasons.
Yes, I know that October baseball, January football, and March Madness are supposed to be the be-all as well as the end-all; but for me, those “second seasons” lack the most important element that makes the first season so gratifying: intimacy.
We rabid denizens of the bleachers live with our teams for months at a time. We follow and bemoan the injury reports; we look carefully at each day’s line-up; we live and die with each at bat, each success or failure, and every twist of fate. We are married to our sport in ways that may make spouses sputter, children chide and friends fade.
Then comes the post-season. Suddenly, everyone seems interested. The internet jumps to new life, the ratings go through the roof and the commentators raise their voices even higher. Excitement abounds and profits follow. What could be better?
It’s as though your beloved spouse went to some sort of miracle working spa and came home a new person, looking like the person you married all those years ago. But what if you were perfectly happy with the old spouse? What if all the excitement tended to wipe away all those shared memories for something that was supposedly better? More exciting? More, well, more?
No, I guess I’m just of creature of long-term, shared memories. When the newly-minted, wonderfully-exciting post-season of the moment starts up, you will find me under the bleachers, reading a book, wishing that it was the middle of the season, a time when old fans like me felt properly at home.
Millerton resident Theodore Kneeland is a former teacher and coach — and athlete.
