I hate off days

I hate off days.

I hate them in the winter when all is cold and gray, and I hate them in the summer when they mean I can't just plop down on the sofa and watch some baseball while eating my dinner.

I hate them, most of all, in October.

I know why they're there, so the TV networks can get their audiences, and I know their hidden benefit: without them, the Yankees can't start Sabathia three times in a seven game series.

I still hate them.

I hate the way they drag on, delaying time when all you want is to play now, to finish it, to get to the next step, to be able to say what, out of sheer superstition, we will not yet say.

Perhaps this is wrong; perhaps I should love the off day.

The off days, after all, let the baseball season linger just that little bit longer, and make that off-season just a little bit shorter. When you live, breathe and die by baseball, anything that makes an off-season shorter should be welcome. Theoretically.

Really, though, who am I kidding?

I hate off days.