In any event, I wanted to wail with abandon when the PPD was announced. You know, like when someone ruthlessly snatches a baby's favorite toy, and she just lets loose, no holding back, snot and tears everywhere. It's gotta be cathartic to just get it all out of your system and move on like that. I had to quell the tightening in my throat and act like a grown up. My mood only grew fouler as I boarded the Nemo's bus and sat staring bleakly out the window at the renovated Westin. My baseball-lingo-challenged husband texted me and thought that postponed meant rain delay. He finally got the message when I texted back that "PPD means canx, u idiot!" The aforementioned mood sunk even further as I drove home faced with the steely gray horizon and the unrelenting drizzle.
Into a sullen funk I slid, and there I stay for an indeterminate period. I don't have tickets to another game until May 4. Should any crazed Tiger fan have to wait that long to see a game? I hope you'll agree that it would be a tragedy of immeasurable proportions. I'll just have to score some Yankees tickets, that's all there is to it.