The nights have gotten longer. The furnace of this summer is ticking down, still spitting out 95-degree days amid the searing thunderstorms. Season of change, at least in the atmosphere. We’re not so sure about the rest.
It’s a repetitive dream each time October rolls around: here we are at 3-2, clinging to the fringes of respectability by virtue of not getting blown out by two very good teams. The wins and the losses all seem somehow pedestrian. The leaves aren’t the only thing withering and blowing away: our aspirations for some kind of magical breakout season have taken on the pall of decay as well.