New York city officials should hand out Ritalin to all baseball fans this year.

True, the Mets are basically out of contention, but instead of flopping into a miserable funk, they’ve cherished their last games, winning eight of the last ten. They may not be in the playoffs but they’re having a lot of fun spoiling everyone else’s chances. For once the fans from Shea can say with a smile, “Next year…”

In the Bronx, the phrase “next year” has been banished from the clubhouse. The Damn Yankees are going to find a way, preferably through the door to the Division championship, which remains ajar. With a one-half game lead in the division, and Boston forced to play a double-header today, wreaking a little havoc with their pitching order, the shadow of the Green Monster is starting to brighten. Aaron Small, the emblem of the Yankees startling turnaround, will replace Wright to close the door on the flailing O’s, going for his tenth straight win.

The Title Match, litterally, comes this weekend though, with the Yanks playing the Sawx in what looks to be a division deciding set at Fenway. In New York, this kind of excitement doesn’t appear until the post-season, often, not until the ALCS. But now we know September baseball, and the stakes may be even higher. The Yankees have often had a chance to end the season for their blood-rivals, but a chance to deny the World Championship Boston Red Sox of a post-season all together is a different twist. On the other side of the coin, Boston has a chance behind Wells and Shilling to prove to the world last year wasn’t a fluke, and begin building a dynasty of their own.

The landscape may have changed with Ortiz and Damon wearing their rings, but it doesn’t change Baseball Armageddon.

I’ve watched the games from home this season, but this weekend, I’ll have to be out amongst the fans. Expect to see me curled up to the pine in Revival, gritting my teeth, and pounding the bar. It’s one thing to sweat out the games at home but being a New York baseball fan is comprised entirely of dead quiet moments standing over forgotten beer. If the crack of a bat still lurches your stomach, come on down, and with any luck, the lot of us will be dancing in the streets, singing Sinatra, one more time.