Maybe it's the Cure albums I've been playing all afternoon, the drawn shades, and the fortuitous discovery of an old bedpan I'd forgotten about, but that's just the game I was looking for. Didn't feel like cheering a bunch of home runs, didn't feel like watching the Giants score. Just felt like staring at a TV, watching the Giants not do anything. Wanted to watch some fly balls to right, grounders to third.

The drool started around the third inning. Long, slow strands with surprising strength and durability. They'd hang there until the cat would come by and rub up against my face. Part of me thinks that he knows I'm a little down; part of me knows that he's checking on my status, and that he'll go straight for the Grant offal if I don't get up.

By the fourth inning, I lost consciousness. It could have been a little nap, but I think I achieved some sort of समाधि. It was a void, nothingness and limitless.

I awoke to the Marlins scoring in the sixth, and Kruk and Kuip's voices faded. They were replaced with a sound that was a combination of adults talking in a "Peanuts" cartoon and a low industrial hum.

Freddy Sanchez hit a double in the ninth, and it was horrifying. The thought of him coming around to score the tying run was far, far too exciting for me to contemplate. Then the ball didn't leave the infield again, and things were in balance.

Ryan Vogelsong did his part -- pitching well enough to keep the Marlins close, but he wasn't all flashy and in your face about it.  There weren't 15 strikeouts and six diving stabs on would-be base hits. There were just grounders and fly balls. Grounders and fly balls. Grounders and fly balls.

All is not lost. But this wasn't the day for an exciting game.