Don't get me wrong. Baseball is my favourite American sport. I watched the Ken Burns baseball series twice. In my ill-fated years of grad school, I wrote an essay which was partially about the role of ballparks in the growth of mass urban leisure in America in the early twentieth century. I have teared up more than once when watching a group of paunchy, goateed men jump up and down in unison on a pitchers' mound. Today, I was nauseous for three straight innings, and thrilled that my predictions about the Astros' rough-as-guts Dust Bowl Migrant pitcher, Roy Oswalt, came true. I'm happy for Biggio and Bagwell, who have played for the team for so many years with so little reward. I'm happy for Houston, who didn't have the luxury of a curse or the comfort of having any kind of mystique about their forty-five year losing streak. All of those things make me feel good.

But really, what I'm happiest about is that Brent doesn't have that awful, haunted gaze into the middle distance any more. That 'Houston Sports Fucked Me Again' stare. It's hard to live in a house with a Baseball Goth, and the past two days have been tough going. So thank you, Oswalt. I am very grateful.