If you flip over to the sports section, you can read Skip’s play-by-play of how he enjoyed Game 1 of the World Series.

He’s a recently converted Atlanta Braves fan, so I don’t think he’s fully experienced the emotional rollercoaster that is cheering on a sports franchise from the ATL.

I should note, he’s been a Braves fan ever since he wrote a column talking about how good the Cubs were going to be this year.

Shortly after that column, the wheels fell off of the Cubs’ playoff hopes faster than a Dodge Ram slammed on his brakes after nearly running me off the road in an attempt to pass me only to find a state trooper waiting for him on the other side.

It’s always a guy in a Dodge Ram.

Anyway, after seeing what happened to the Cubs after Skip wrote his now infamous column and knowing what I know about cheering for the Braves, I asked him – somewhat politely, but it was more in a desperately pleading sort of way – not to mention the Braves in a column until after the season is over.

But apparently after 41 years of writing about sports, Skip just happened to run out of stuff to write about this week.

And that’s how we ended up with a sports column about the Braves in this week’s sports section.

I’m just glad he didn’t make any predictions. I’m not going to make any predictions either. I’m writing this after Game 1 and prior to Game 2 and then I’m taking a couple of days off and don’t plan on revisiting this column.

After reading his column, I realized we experienced this game in two drastically different settings and I think it works as a nice metaphor for your typical types of Braves fans.

Skip was working out. I was laying on my couch waiting for my oven to preheat so I can cook a pizza.

The experienced Braves fan knows that it’s simply not safe to be exerting any extra energy during a game, because it will only hasten the symptoms of a heart attack that are sure to set in around the fifth or sixth inning.

If you do make it to the ninth inning without any tightness in your chest, elevated blood pressure or shortness of breath, then all of those symptoms are sure to ensue when Will Smith – not the cool Will Smith – takes the mound in the ninth.

The guy has a good number of saves, but he’s almost guaranteed to give up a walk to the first batter, a solo-shot to make the game a little closer and need a physics-defying defensive play from his defense to secure the win.

I wish I could say I’ve just accepted the Braves closer for who he is, but I haven’t.

On this night, the Braves jumped out to an early lead. This is unfamiliar territory in postseason games for older Braves fans who know who Jeff Blauser is.

As Skip is finishing his jog and the Braves are headed to the bottom of the first, my smoke alarm starts going off.

I get up off the couch and mosey to the kitchen where my oven has decided to catch on fire.

For some reason this made perfect sense to me because the universe could not allow the Braves to play well, without relocating the embers that usually cause the dumpster fire that is an Atlanta sports team competing in the postseason.

I thought to myself, if my kitchen burning down is what it takes to win a World Series, then I’m happy to do my part.

Then I remembered Anna would be home soon and based on the reaction she had when I accidently marred our kitchen table, I could only imagine how she would feel if I burned down the entire house.

So, I grabbed the squirt bottle we use to keep our cats from clawing the furniture and put out the blaze.

Then in my smoke-filled living room I ordered a ribeye steak sandwich and settled in to enjoy the game, knowing I did what I could.

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