Last night, I told myself I couldn't watch the game.
It started late—10:30pm here in New York—and I had to wake up at 5:30am to get my ass on a train towards downtown Brooklyn to work a farmers' market outside of the courthouse at Borough Hall.
I tried to make myself fall asleep. "I'll just watch the game on League Pass when I get home," I thought.
My wife came in to bed. "What're you doing awake?" she asked. "You know you can't watch it."
"Yeah, I know, but, seriously, maybe I'll just watch the first quarter.