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Eighteen innings.
Eighteen exhausting, tricky, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, record-setting innings.
Five home runs.
Two grand slams.
Five hundred and fifty-three pitches.
A homer that almost wasn't.
A homer that almost was.
Fourteen pitchers.
Three innings of relief from the finest starter in baseball.
Thirteen runs.
Two teams, locked in a game that turned from a near-laugher to an epic battle, one that drained both bullpens dry, one that almost went one way or another a thousand times, one that kept the adrenalin humming for those who played and those who watched.
One winner.
My winner.
My boys.
My Astros.
Eighteen exhausting, tricky, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, record-setting innings.
Five home runs.
Two grand slams.
Five hundred and fifty-three pitches.
A homer that almost wasn't.
A homer that almost was.
Fourteen pitchers.
Three innings of relief from the finest starter in baseball.
Thirteen runs.
Two teams, locked in a game that turned from a near-laugher to an epic battle, one that drained both bullpens dry, one that almost went one way or another a thousand times, one that kept the adrenalin humming for those who played and those who watched.
One winner.
My winner.
My boys.
My Astros.
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I would totally be happier about this if the Farns hadn't, like, destroyed my brain.
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