I can't be the only guy who's had to fake a lifelong interest in baseball amid the excitement over the Tampa Bay Rays.  To tell you the truth, I don't have a lifelong interest in any sport.  As a kid, the first part of the newspaper I'd seek out was not the sports page. It was the wry musings of columnist, Herb Caen, the San Francisco Chronicle's version of Dan Ruth. Then I'd read the business section.  Weird, I know. 

So here I find myself without the vocabulary or life experience to intelligently discuss the most electrifying phenomena to grip the Bay Area since the Lightning won the Stanley Cup. (I was pretty ill-equipped to discuss that series, too.)   Which is not to say, I'm not enjoying the hell out of all this. When Rookie pitcher, David Price struck out that last batter Sunday night, I let out an involuntary,  high-pitched  squeal that sounded like it came out of a middle school cheerleader.  For the first time in my life, I'm starting to appreciate the chess-like subtleties of a pitching duel, and the monastic dedication to historical record keeping that make baseball a unique enterprise.

So while you may dismiss me as a bandwagoner, I think of myself as a convert to the religoin of baseball and a worshipper at The Church of Maddon of Latter Day Saints- Sternberg, Silverman and Friedman. The Giants are dead to me.  I'm a Rays fan, baby.