In 1986, the Rocket Scientist and I were living in married student housing at Georgia Tech. We had been watching the Series. He was pulling for the Red Sox and I for the Mets, a team which he hates even more than I hate the Yankees.**
I had been fighting a migraine all day. I get killer migraines now, but they could be even worse back then. This one was horrific. By the seventh inning of the game, I had started throwing up and the light coming from the television felt like needles being jabbed into my brain. I reluctantly got a warm compress for my head and went to bed in an absolutely pitch dark bedroom.
Some while later, the door opened, and I groaned as the light from the hallway hit my eyes. "The Red Sox are up by two, and there is one out left. Want to come watch your Mets lose the Series?" The Rocket Scientist was positively cackling.
"F*** you," I responded in a typical Met-fan fashion. He let out one more chuckle and went back to the living room.
I was lying in pitch black darkness, in too much pain to even care about the game. Through the wall, I hear a groan, then another, and then a few minutes later, a gasp. I could hear shouting in all the apartments around ours.
The door to the bedroom opened. RS was standing in the doorway, shaking his head in disbelief. "They...won. They won..." he said in a stunned voice. And then, as quietly as he had shown up, he closed the door and went back into the other room.
And I lay in the dark, and through all my pain, smiled.
*I started to put this as a footnote to the previous post, than decided it was too long.
**He was a Braves fan, and the hatred extended back to 1969, when the "Miracle Mets" swept the Braves in the league championship series on their way to winning the World Series.