The terrible agony of hope

Dylan didn’t have his best, but the White Sox won.As I start this article, on Tuesday, shortly before the (presumed) pitching match of the year and the latest in the Most Important Game of the Year for the White Sox, my dog scrabbling at the floor, desperately trying to retrieve a ratty tennis ball that he rolled under the radiator. There’s something poignant in his lost hope at trying to pull it out — he never will, his paws are too big, his thumbs non-existent. He’s trying though, dammit. He has hope.

I get up and grab it for him, rewarded by a Caravaggio painting of wet, grateful eyes. It’s the last thing I’ll have any control over for the rest of the night.

It’s almost in our grasp!When…