There were times I had to turn off the television. It was either that or call 911. Which I was not going to do because going to the emergency room, unless you're actually bleeding heavily or on fire, is a really, really lengthy process--hours of sitting around, feeling vaguely desperate while residents with bags under their eyes occasionally stop in and ask seemingly random questions. This we know from our frequent flyer miles at Georgetown Hospital with Robert (yes, the days we'd go in and say to each other, hey! we haven't been in this bay before). They don't have TVs for patients in the emergency room.
So I'd call my sister. Or my dad. And they'd tell me what was going on and when I should turn the TV back on.
And my sister and I sat through several tense games on the phone together (the Sox were down 3-0 and had to win 4 straight), on and off.
And the last game, the bottom of the 9th inning, when they had to hold off the Yankees for the last time, even though the Sox were up by what I remember was a significant margin, although I can't remember quite how much, my sister and I were convinced that, somehow, the Yankees were magic, and they could just go into a rally at the very last second, with two outs and score zillions of runs and we would lose again. And, at the time, although we knew we were joking, we also really believed ourselves.
And this election reminds me of that.