Second picture: Konerko's Grand Slam leaves his bat during Game 2 on Sunday night.

I'm comfortable with breaking the law. I do it casually. Rarely do I think twice or feel any measure of guilt. I certainly didn't on Wednesday night, when I drove eighty miles per hour in a forty zone during the seventh inning. Baseball is church for me, and my zealotry trumps all notions of prudence or decorum. Would I miss the clinching moment? Fuck no!

I made it home in record time. The radio broadcast bridged the time gap for me. When a commercial break interrupted the broadcast, I raced up three flights of stairs and dove through the apartment door, my arm outstretched. My finger smashed in the power button of my television, which I'd carefully set to the correct station before departing earlier that day. I played umpire and yelled "Safe!" as the eighth inning blinked to life on the screen and I crashed to the floor. I was a happy panting pretzel.

They won. We won. Of course.

I got to watch the White Sox dry hump each other on the pitcher's mound at Minute Maid park, the lot of them giddily bouncing about like kangaroos with their asses on fire. I greatly enjoyed that. My sole regret is that I watched it alone, and nobody heard me cheer. I couldn't high-five anybody. I was a lone beacon of joy.

Why would I race home instead of patronizing an establishment with a liquor license and throngs of screaming boosters?

Disease. Rampant, viscuous, infectuous disease. I'd caught something nasty, you see, and was in no condition to party my face off. In fact, my face was already starting to slip: Loose, bubbly skin. Woe. Giant mutant flesh-eating amoebas were wriggling out my facial pores and nibbling me. They played slip and slide through my fevered perspiration. Bacterial flora were blooming in my lungs, establishing colorful new ecosystems within the dank humid darkness, digging roots in my alveoli. I'll spare you the digestive symptoms. Suffice to say, I was in danger of liquefying.

Somehow, I felt worse on Thursday. Still, I made myself a promise: Unless I shat out a vital organ on Friday morning, I was going to that goddamn victory parade.

Part Two will be written and published late on Monday. And guess what? I'll have some great parade photos courtesy of Jamie. Go check out the one she put up today of Mayor Daley, Paul Konerko, and Ozzie Guillen at her website: Jamas.Org

7:14 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm