It’s a little like breaking up with a girlfriend. Waking up this morning, I had to bunch up some clothes and put them into a corner out of sight. I had to turn a couple of pictures around. (Well, throw out a few newspapers.) I even took a different route to the subway so I wouldn’t bump into any reminders. (To avoid today’s newspaper.) It’s certainly nowhere near as dramatic as the girlfriend situation, I’m not that kind of fan, but today, I don’t really want to talk about it.

It was an odd choice last night. Like many a fan, you’ve got to decide where you want to watch the big game. Drop a few hundred to scalp a ticket at Shea, go to a notorious Mets bar chock full of fans, go to your local where the tension won’t be quite so high, or just go home and watch the game in the serenity of your own couch. It’s a sliding scale. The more fans around you the more intense the game feels; the outcome of the game, especially. You might be missing out on a wild celebration by staying at home, but you also might be sidestepping an opportunity to have heartbreak amplified and blasted into directly into your ear.

I went local…and it still stung a bit. And I don’t really want to talk about it.

But it was a great year, a great series, a great game. And that’s still pretty fucking good.

Even without anything else, there’s still this: Finally, after seven months, I can think about something other than baseball.

So far…thinking about doing my laundry…probably time I got to that.