No one likes a blog that doesn't get updated, and no one likes to see a post that says, "I'm finally back and I promise I will update more." And no one likes to read a blog post that says, "I've been so busy and that's why I haven't been updating and here's what I've been up to and I expect you to give a shit."

It's OK for people to update on what they've been up to, but I won't give you a post like that. Not today. I will acknowledge I've been bad about updating, though.

OK.

Done.

Now, let's do this shit.

"Ya Gotta Bereave"
-Headline on Friday in a New York paper

Yes, it's disappointing for the Mets to lose Game 7 at home, but those fans can take pride in the fact that they saw some of the best innings of that series, if not for the entire season. They can take pride in the fact that Chavez's catch was one of the best plays. Ever. It's going to be shown in the future. They can tell this to their kids.

Just like my parents tell me stories about the Cards in the 60s. Like the story of how they met. At a Cardinals game.

So, yeah, I'm smug on this. Even saying "I'm sorry your team lost" would be wrong. Because I experienced no greater joy this week than sitting on my couch in my boxers with a milkshake watching Molina run out to Wainwright to start the huddle. I had a yummy lunch yesterday and I had a fun phone conversation on Monday night, but yeah, no greater joy this week.

It's because I followed the proper ritual: I had my lucky hat on and I talked to my friend Kyle. We've decided that when the Cards play, I have to be both wearing the hat and talking to him. If I am talking with Kyle and not wearing the hat, no win. Or if I have the hat but I'm not talking to Kyle, no win.

Now, our friend Renee had her going away party at some posh martini bar on Wednesday night and the bouncer made me take the hat off. I did. And I watched the Cards lose.

People enjoy getting wrapped up in sports because it's one of the few times they allow themselves to express emotions such as disappointment, loathing and grief. You bottle in your feelings on a day-to-day basis and you look to your team as your chance to unload everything you've been carrying. You can't call that woman at work the word you want to call her, but you feel comfortable saying that about Rich Gannon, Byron Leftwich, Johnny Damon or Michael Vick. I know fully well that three of those are football players, not baseball players. The point remains the same: We reserve for sports the emotions we don't think we can have in our day-to-day interactions. Perhaps we can have those emotions and we're too prude, or maybe we can't, and maybe we shouldn't even have those in sports. I don't have the answer.

I'm just glad that I will have no more going away parties in the next eight days, because I am not taking this hat off.