At Last

At Last by Etta James

The day the World Series Champion is crowded is always a bittersweet day for me. You can't help but feel a little relieved that the seven month day-in-and-day out up-and-down emotional roller coaster is finally over. But at the same time you know within a week, come the Tuesday morning, you're going to miss it all. You're going to miss seeing who went yard. You're going to miss being able to curse out—under your breath of course—the bullpen son-of-a-bitch that cost your team (The White Sox in my case) the game last night. You're going to miss checking to see how St. Carlos' stats were affected by the game the night before—or if he did something magical the night before, you gush over it every few hours and it puts you in a better mood.

See when you follow a baseball team every day for an entire six or seven month period, it's like being in love. You know the ins and outs of the team. You know what guys and in what situations those guys are going to disappoint you. And when someone surprises you, a big smile comes across your face, because when that big hit comes when your not expecting it... it's like walking in the door and your lover saying, "you want to watch a Borne movie tonight?"

A baseball team, when you really follow them, is like loving a woman with a broken nose. It's better than all other love that sports can provide because it's such a personal experience, it ain't perfect, but it's a great time. See when you follow a team over 162 games most of those nights are spent with just you and the team. Just like every lover is—in the end—an intimate relationship between you and your love that no one else can understand.

Three years ago the White Sox won the World Series. It's not the greatest night of my life, but it's one of the two or three greatest. When they won it felt so wonderful, the joy that over came me was unbelievable. It's weird to say this, epically in an intellectual manner because it is after all just a team... but to me... they are a love. A true love. And it felt good.

That night, as I was in alone in D.C. getting drunk on champagne, I must have listened to this song twenty times. It was wonderful. I was up until well past 4a.m. listening to Etta James sing about her true love.

And it was wonderful because my first love—the White Sox—and I had finally made it.