By the ninth inning of Saturday night’s 8-2 loss to the Yankees, watching Burch Smith getting tattooed left and right, with three kids about to melt down before the damn postgame Star Wars light show, I was wishing we could just forfeit and move things along.
Where in the stages of grief is “resignation?” I was resigned to our fate that the spit and bubble gum wasn’t going to hold up, even with the roll of duct tape brought in at the trade deadline. This feeling of resignation brought a sort of zen as the expectations dissipated. With the dark cloud representing the future of the franchise itself, I resolved to just go to as many games as I could, to enjoy the game for what it is in the moment.