Was my Cardinals win over my wife’s Astros worth the fact that she now hates me?
But I’m like Elmer Fudd in the best episode–“Bugs Bunny Opera”–of the greatest cartoon “series” ever made on the cliff calling “Norf winds bwow! Thunder Wightning! Beat the Astros, beat the Aaaa-stros” (low note). It is done.
Then I look down and see the lifeless body of my wife. I trip on her lower lip. She blames me for this. What did I have to do with it? I was just cheering for the genetically encoded team of my youth. And now I can almost see Jill in that orange Astros shirt in 8th grade, cheering for Jose Cruz, Nolan Ryan, J.R. Richards.
What have I done?! I’ve killed the Astros? They’ve never been to the October Classic, ever. Jill nearly gags when she hears the announcer say this is the Redbirds 16th trip. “We’ve been around much longer than the Stros,” I say. It doesn’t help, only serves to twist the knife. I’m filled with remorse. She says she may cheer for the Red Sox. No! I’ve had enough of this intra-family rivalry. No, not again!
Deep breath. Slowly climb the cliff till Saturday’s game one. “Norf winds bwow! Beat the Red Sox, beat the Red Sox, beat the Red Soooooox (low note)!”