(transferred; posted Oct. 27)
A glance at the time stamps of the preceding posts will confirm that my stream-of-consciousness commentary during Game Six ended as abruptly as Bonds' "decisive" home run left the yard. Lest anyone think I fell asleep, or changed channels, let me explain.
I was about to write "too little, too late," or words to that effect, when the Angels got their second runner on in the seventh, but I held my breath (and ignored the keyboard) during Spiezio's at-bat. That obviously worked, so my continued electronic silence became "necessary" to allow the miraculous comeback. It was my version of a rally cap.
Superstition aside, I don't enjoy the nuances of the game as much when I'm trying to write at the same time. The intent of a running e-commentary was to simulate the kind of conversation two fans would enjoy at the game, or watching TV together, but it is a poor substitute. As a monologue, it "sounds" more like the rantings of a baseball eccentric; a guy who would yell obscenities at a deserving umpire thousands of miles away.
What readers gain in spontaneity and immediacy by live blogging is questionable, and how it affects the concentration of a middle-aged fellow on his third Sleeman's Steam is considerable. Hampered by a 1953 operating system, my brain doesn't multitask as well as my PC. Not only did I contribute to the fabulous finish at least as much as the friggin' monkey, I enjoyed it more without the distraction of typing my thoughts.
You will not be hearing from me during the game tonight, unless you are Billy and holding a telephone, or you're Tim Mcclelland and blow another call.
A glance at the time stamps of the preceding posts will confirm that my stream-of-consciousness commentary during Game Six ended as abruptly as Bonds' "decisive" home run left the yard. Lest anyone think I fell asleep, or changed channels, let me explain.
I was about to write "too little, too late," or words to that effect, when the Angels got their second runner on in the seventh, but I held my breath (and ignored the keyboard) during Spiezio's at-bat. That obviously worked, so my continued electronic silence became "necessary" to allow the miraculous comeback. It was my version of a rally cap.
Superstition aside, I don't enjoy the nuances of the game as much when I'm trying to write at the same time. The intent of a running e-commentary was to simulate the kind of conversation two fans would enjoy at the game, or watching TV together, but it is a poor substitute. As a monologue, it "sounds" more like the rantings of a baseball eccentric; a guy who would yell obscenities at a deserving umpire thousands of miles away.
What readers gain in spontaneity and immediacy by live blogging is questionable, and how it affects the concentration of a middle-aged fellow on his third Sleeman's Steam is considerable. Hampered by a 1953 operating system, my brain doesn't multitask as well as my PC. Not only did I contribute to the fabulous finish at least as much as the friggin' monkey, I enjoyed it more without the distraction of typing my thoughts.
You will not be hearing from me during the game tonight, unless you are Billy and holding a telephone, or you're Tim Mcclelland and blow another call.