There will be a time when the schadenfreude well dries up, when the bad things stop happening to Tommy Lasorda for being a bad person, when the Dodgers win and you have to consider what that means. It could happen in four weeks. Don't get cocky, person who watched the Giants win an elimination game in which they were almost no-hit.
There will be a time when Clayton Kershaw won't tighten up in the seventh inning. There will be a time when his line drive goes over Yoenis Cespedes's head, and there will be a time when he gets the call on the ball off the plate exactly when he needs it. There will be a time when the Dodgers actually score runs for him, allowing him to chill the hell out. He's still the best pitcher alive, you know. Baseball's just hard, even for the best.
The Dodgers are too rich, too resourceful for there not to be a time. It's coming for you. There will be a time.
All I know now is that the time sure isn't tonight. So pull up a chair, and I'll pour you a drink. The Dodgers lost their first postseason game of the year. Unless they go 3-1 or 4-0 in their next four games, they'll be eliminated again. Hi, here's your drink.
There's no sense pretending like you wouldn't switch places with the Dodgers, even down 0-1. Every time I tweet something snarky, a Dodgers fan reminds me that at least they're there. I have no response. Rooting for a team in the postseason is a billion times better than rooting against a team. Which is why I'm rooting for the Mets. But you know what I mean. These are table scraps.
And, really, this might all set up a Cardinals championship that rips the heart out of some really good, long-suffering fans. That's no fun.
But I'm okay with this, all this, right now. My reasoning is this: I don't like watching the Dodgers win. More specifically: I enjoy watching the Dodgers lose. Which means I'm a child for enjoying this. We're all spiteful children, don't you see?
I had fun as a child, though, in those carefree years before junior high, wearing Ocean Pacific shorts and jumping off a couch to a song playing only inside my head. I would take names from Phoenix Giants cards I had for some reason and use them for my imaginary games, played with a miniature bat and a Nerf ball, where the awning just above my window was a home run. My star player was Jeff Cornell. I have no idea why. And I would play for hours, tossing a Nerf ball up and swinging a breadstick-sized bat, making up my own game situations and stakes, not worrying about me being smaller than the other kids, or nerdier, or dirtier, or weirder. Not then. I was a baseball superstar when I was a child. In my room, I controlled Jeff Cornell, and he was the best. The bad guys always lost.
Being a child is rad, and I want to go back. My way to do that, then, is to watch Dodgers games and react like a child. Impetuous, giddy, and scared of everything. It'll do until the real postseason gets here.
I don't know if any of that is true, but at least the Dodgers lost. Two more wins, Mets. Don't Mets this up.