Today’s game-thread is guest-hosted by Statler. If I were writing it, I’d write a takedown of the unique mixture of pandering and sycophancy that is this Mike Lupica column about why we Yankee fans are the greatest fans in the history of sport. I am sick of having Yankee-fan stereotypes confirmed, Lupica. You are making us look bad in front of these people [NSFW]. Anyway.

There is a word in Arabic, maktub—and I should be clear that I’m relying on Paolo Coelho here—that roughly translates to “it is written,” a word that springs to mind whenever I consider this ALCS. We don’t know what the outcome of the ALCS will be, but all outcomes are entirely anticipated, a paste command away from your morning read.

The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim… Can anyone hear that name blare across the loudspeakers and not think of Nick Adenhart, the young Angel killed by a drunk driver this past April? In that moment we receive the promise of eternal life, the expectation that such a profound injustice ought to be balanced, albeit imperfectly, by postseason success. A thousand Gammonites at a thousand keyboards stand ready to tell us that this is so, that the things that defy our ability to quantify—faith, chemistry, passion—are decisive.

They are wrong.

The New York Yankees… The 26 World Series titles held by the New York Yankees (or “the Evil Empire” if you’re a Sox flack) are an ugly confirmation of what we all suspect: that our imperfect world privileges material advantage over narrative necessity. A 2-0 series lead, buoyed by the largest payroll in baseball, suggests that there is no cosmic justice, no divine plan, just a disjointed story we tell ourselves to avoid looking at the unpleasant realities that surround us.

We are wrong.

The Yankees and the Angels are so closely matched that neither perspective tells us anything useful; this series will make fools of all of us. I’ll pace back and forth in front of my TV, cap in hand, because I know, I just know that my ritual is the difference between an RBI single and an inning-ending double play. My friend, a die-hard Angels fan, will take a nonchalant swig of his beer when Fox throws a comforting statistic up on the screen, confident that the situational odds favor his guy. Then, just as incoherently, we’ll switch roles. He’ll pace. I’ll drink.

As baseball fans we live and die at the boundary between physics and metaphysics, in that space between bat and ball; expectations and outcomes. Until the last out is recorded, there are no assumptions that can’t be upended, no win probability large to extinguish the hope of a last-ditch comeback. But when the final moment comes, perhaps we can take a measure of comfort from the knowledge that the outcome of this ALCS, whatever it is, has already been written. We’ll just have to wait a while to see it in print.

Soundtrack is “Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe” by Okkervil River. [Ed. note -- Even though this violates my rule about ONLY soundtracking music made in a city that hosts a contending team! Seriously! I'm fucking OCD about this! But I'm not going to chop your post up, because that would be a shitty thing to do! But I'm not cool with this!] Thread is open; play ball.