So Boston has won the World Series. Babe Ruth's curse has been broken, or at least it expired. I'll bluster about it to keep up my regional allegiences to the Yankees. But you know what, I really don't care. I woke up this morning, and felt the same. I still had to go to class. The world didn't end, complete lunar eclipse or no eclipse. There is still ethnic cleansing in Darfur. Three more soldiers probably died in Iraq today. Yassar Arafat is sick, and there will be a major power struggle, most likely bloody, when he dies. Russia is accused of smuggling explosives out of Iraq on the eve of the invasion. I still need to find a job.
To summarize. No matter what outcome there is from a bunch of guys running around a diamond every few minutes, life goes on. At it's heart, it's just a game. True, it allows Americans to indulge in "safe" regional loyalties. But no matter who wins, life goes on. Unlike conflicts of a simpler time, Bostonians don't physically own St. Louis. They don't get to cart off Yankees fans en masse as slaves. All that's been hurt is pride. Oh, and one college student who was in the wrong place in the middle of a riot. Yeah. Aren't we proud to be Americans?