During the World Series, these dreams come full circle, and the older male prepares for the fall classic by pulling a hamstring or blowing out a knee. This insures that he will have ample excuse for sitting on the sidelines and eating nacho chips. He can, like all of the other big leaguers who huddle in the dugout because of injury, watch the game from the sidelines. This makes him feel tough. It makes him feel like he is a part of the team, though all he wears is a team hat.
Mr. October is the guy who tells his wife, "I could have made that catch" or "I once batted .280 in little league--and the pitching was rough back then!" or "what you are smelling is the dog . . . not me!"
This is how the game was meant to be played, and Mr. October is aware of his limitations. He does not rise for the singing of the national anthem. He often falls asleep before the seventh inning stretch. He does not disagree with Joe Buck or Tim McCarver. He's just tired.
As he dreams, Mr. October sees himself in the prime of his life, when he could eat an entire bag of peanuts. He bashes homers. He runs bases like a gazelle. But when he wakes in front of the TV in a pool of his own saliva, he realizes that he has slept through another game. The manager did not call his number. He was not playing center field. Rather, he has fallen asleep on a threadbare couch littered with pretzels and sub sandwich crumbs. His bladder is full and he can barely rise to walk to the bathroom.
As he lumbers toward bed, stretching out of the bullpen, he wonders why the games begin so late. Why do they play these games in October anyway? Now that the World Series is in swing, winter can't be far behind.
It's rather depressing. But that's why he plays the game.
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