Actually, we didn’t. We didn’t even play today. In the last week, both the Dodgers and the Tigers, my baseball teams by birth and marriage, were eliminated four games to two from their respective league championship playoffs. Instead of a World Series in which I can’t lose—which would have been a glorious thing given the extent to which anxiety and dread dominate most of my baseball-watching—the best possible outcome is now a Red Sox sweep, which excuse me, ehhnchchhennnnchchh.
But this morning I went to my new gym for a 6 am class, a new and more difficult class for me and one that I was barely able to complete about 70% without crossing the line to nausea and, one can only presume, heart attack and death. I came home, put on a dry sweatshirt and walked the dog, and pondered: why do I feel less elation right now, having just finished a tough workout that is directly improving my personal health and mental well-being, than I did when “we” won the first playoff series? The only possible input I had into the team’s success was contributing about one millionth of the team salary. I didn’t swing any bats, or endure six hours of physical therapy every day simply in order to get onto the field (the Dodgers are, by the way, the first team to hire a female head athletic trainer, and now the first team to apparently fire a female head athletic trainer). So every day that I go and do a good workout for myself, I ought to feel better than any Dodger win. Right?