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A's Continue to Pass the Gravy Test

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Don't ask me how. Please don't ask me how.

Kelley L Cox-US PRESSWIRE - Presswire

These A's...boy, these A's. They are beyond anything I've seen, and these eyes have seen a lot. They are beyond low salaries, weird playoff formats, and hopeless situations. They are beyond sitting in the same seat, wearing the same shirt, and drinking the same beer. The Grim Reaper keeps coming for them. Mom keeps telling them it's past their bedtime. They don't care. They just don't care. When you think they're done; they're not. When you are ready to concede, they're not. I have been saying for months that everything from here on out is gravy. And the next day, another shipment of gravy comes in. Suddenly I can't get enough gravy. I have gone to the last two games knowing the A's would win. I haven't felt that way with any A's team, and I have seen a lot of great A's teams. There was always a nervousness around playoff time. Hoping, believing, but never knowing. With this team, I just know. Don't ask me how. Please don't ask me how.

Six times before the A's have been down 0-2 in the post season. Only once did they manage to avoid a sweep. Never had they managed to tie the series. Some of those were damn good teams. This team doesn't care about the past.

I have seen the A's eliminated from post-season action in person three times in my life. In 1981, I was like "Great season. Let's do it again next year!" (We didn't). In 1988, I was disappointed, but still "Great season. Let's do it again next year!" (We did). In 2003, I ended up doing shots with my oldest brother at the Whiskey River Saloon. I didn't give a damn about the next day, let alone next year. Last night, as the bottom of the ninth inning started, I caught myself. I caught myself thinking what an amazing, magical season this has been. I counted up all the rookies on this team, and thought "Wow. Next year..."

Next year? Really? No. Not yet. Not tonight. A lady sitting many rows in front of me was spouting off about wanting pie. A young couple in front of me was doing an embarrassingly (yet somehow beautiful) white person's version of the Bernie Lean. Nothing around me was making sense. Then again, nothing about this season has made muchsense. What happened next made perfect sense. Well, maybe not to the people watching at home.

But to this old guy, who has made a habit over the years of worrying way too much about this baseball team from every nook and cranny of that old, decrepit stadium that even its owner wants the hell out me, everything about last night made sense. Wonderful, gravy-flavored, perfect sense.