Well, the high school football season for Henry County teams is over. Meanwhile, the NFL is just getting into full swing.
But I'm not going to talk about football. (Didn?t see that coming, did you?)
I'm going to talk about baseball. Yes, they're STILL playing baseball. While most of the country is now focused on football, I've got my eyes glued to the World Series.
See, as a baseball fan, I tend to look at football like a baby brother. Sure, I love the little guy, but I'm still jealous of all the attention it's getting.
Which is why today I've decided to bring baseball back to your attention.
I'm not going to try to convince you that watching someone crush a curve ball is more exciting than watching someone crush a ball carrier, or that a run around the bases is more thrilling than a run into the end zone. This isn't an argument for baseball ... it's more like an ode of sorts.
I realize that most people in this area probably gave up on the playoffs when the Cardinals were blown out in game seven of the NLCS on Monday. But baseball is a seven-month season, and I will watch it to the end.
As soon as the trophy is raised, I'll turn off the TV and start dreaming of spring training.
You see, I like football and I like basketball. I like volleyball and cross-country and tennis and wrestling and soccer and everything they play at the Olympics. I'll watch just about anything. But my heart belongs to baseball.
As a child in Chicagoland in the mid-90s, I grew up in the Michael Jordan era, and sitting down for Bulls games were a family ritual. I even had a Steve Kerr jersey. But I didn't fall in love with basketball.
I was too young to experience the 1985 Super Bowl, but I have known of Walter Payton and Mike Ditka since infancy. My parents even claim that my first word was "Ditka," though I'm suspicious that I was actually trying to say "Dada." Either way, I did not fall in love with football.
I grew up just outside of the greatest sports city in the country, and when I was very young, I chose one of the least-celebrated teams in that city as my own. Not da Bears, not da Bulls. And certainly not the Cubs. Not the Sky, the Fire or the Blackhawks.
I chose the White Sox.
This year, I had to watch my beloved South Siders flounder around at the end of the season while Detroit somehow limped its way past them to take the division title. And now, those Tigers are playing the World Series.
And still, I watch baseball.
In fact, I'm watching as I type this. Pablo Sandoval has just hit his third home run of the game ? and two of them came off Detroit ace Justin Verlander.
When September started, few would have predicted that Detroit would still be playing. Yesterday morning, few would have predicted that Verlander would give up two home runs to the same person. But anything can happen when the postseason begins.
In the regular season, baseball teams play 162 games. That sheer number has made the MLB season a statistician's dream. But despite all the numbers crunched, acronyms made up, and hours spent at a computer, nothing can predict what's going to happen in the playoffs.
Except for one thing.
I should have said this earlier, but this column is brought to you by the number three. That's how many more wins the Giants need to claim the World Series.
You can safely predict that whether there are three games left in the baseball season or there are four, five, or six games left, I'll be watching every one of them.