I can't watch baseball during the summer. Not even on Sportscenter. Sure, i'll go to a few games a year, but that's going for the atmosphere ... eating hot dogs and chocolate malts in the stands, listening to the hecklers let the opposing outfielders have it, always hoping a foul ball might come your way. But the boys of summer just don't do it for me on tv. It must be related to the length of the season, the fact that the game you're watching is one of 162 such contests. Despite the fact that pennant races are often decided by a few games, it's hard to attach a lot of importance to one of the 26 games played by your team in June.

That said, i've come to the realization that the baseball postseason is bar none the most riveting tournament in sports. The same factors that make you yawn during the regular season ... the thirty seconds between pitches, the endless delays ... somehow enthrall when the game is played in September or October. Probably because now every at bat, every play is critical and can determine whether your team takes the glory or has to go back to the drawing board to prepare for another 162 game season. Case in point: the epic triumph of the Red Sox in this year, vanquishing the 86 year old curse of the Bambino. A perfect script: making the greatest postseason comeback in history against their arch-enemies and frequent tormentors the Yankees, followed by a dominant performance against another great team in the Cardinals. And being Boston, every moment was cast under the ominous cloud of "how are they going to screw it up this time?". Yesterday's final innings, despite the Sox's comfortable three games to none lead and 3-0 advantage in the game, were pure drama. The Sox's failure to get insurance runs in the 8th despite loading the bases with no outs. Bronson Arroyo's walk to Reggie Sanders causing Terry Francona to bring in southpaw Alan Embree to prevent the Cards getting any foothold in the game. Albert Pujols singling to lead off the ninth. Keith Foulke then gets Scott Rolen, Jim Edmonds, and finally Edgar Renteria to seal the deal. Watching Foulke jog towards first after fielding Renteria's bouncing grounder back to the mound, preparing to underhand the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz to end the game, thinking "throw him the damn ball already!". Somehow neither soccer, football, basketball, nor hockey manage to capture this kind of prolonged tension.