October’s cold winds bring snow to the Rockies, postponing the third competition there–or, possibly, first “there”. I presume the flight from the Bronx to the HomerDome occurs without incident, but on the night of the Twins’ second loss, light snow descends in their hometowns.
The upcoming World Series will be the first scheduled, from spring on out, in November. If I scorn this, I run the risk of seeming to dwell on historic loss. If my dog isn’t in the fight, I’d love for it to run long, just to get closer to spring before competition ends.
But then I think of how excited people get for the Twins’ new field. I look out the window, wondering why they’re so thrilled.
Someone is out there, sore, nose congested. They bend over into their trusty bucket or pot or something, retching. Not much is left in them, but still it rises. The cold’s victim disposes of the vomit, then tries to go to sleep.
But not before bending over once more. This time, they tune the clock on the floor, until they find the Dodgers. Whoever it is fights through the cold, lulled to rest by the sport’s unsilenced sound.