So it's the wee hours of the morning in the hazy afterglow of celebrating the Dodgers' World Series title over -- can you believe it? -- the Yankees. It was a quiet celebration. Just my wife, who was rousted out of bed by a text from my daughter that basically said "GET UP, THE DODGERS ARE DOING SOMETHING!", and me, who raced home from work to see the on-field celebration. Prior to that, I was in my office, sweating through the final innings. I wasn't that busy, so I had plenty of time to check for updates. I tell you, for a five-game World Series, that was a little too much drama. In the eighth inning, I couldn't take it anymore and walked out to talk to a co-worker who couldn't care less about the game. I wanted her to take my mind off of it, and she did, talking about high school soccer playoffs, of all things (usually that would put me right to sleep but I needed anything off-topic to distract me). But then I heard the game calling me and I went ...
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