And there came upon the land a period of darkness, and the darkness had a name -- the Red Sox Nation -- and we entered this darkness against our will but with strength of heart and conviction.
And there came upon the land Sunday additional darkness, and the darkness also had a name -- the Time of Lost Daylight -- and we entered this darkness also against our will but with equal strength and conviction.
Certain men have always dreaded the Time of Lost Daylight -- the darkened commute, the deprivation of one hour of sun-fed life, the sudden, psychotic temper tantrum because the TV remote needs Triple AAA batteries and there aren't any in that cramped kitchen drawer but there are, for some sick reason, three unopened packs of Double AA batteries no one living will ever need.
These strong, wonderful men aren't alone.
For in our land, millions of such people suffer from seasonal mood swings, that which our elders referred to as "being a Mr. Cranky Pants."
In the Time Before -- the Time of Daylight Saving (I know, you want to say Daylight Savings, which sounds like the friendliest bank ever, but the term is Daylight Saving, and I've managed to bore myself with this, too ) -- these people lived energetic, in-the-ballpark happy lives. They were able to change the batteries in the TV remote without medication or however many free counseling sessions their health plan offered in the Time Before HealthCare.gov.
These same men, so pathologically Scandinavian, took daily nourishment from the saved daylight. They were communicative. Their faces could contort into actual human expression. They were productive at work. They changed the air filters at home. On the sunniest of days, they even waved to neighbors.
But starting Sunday, in the Time of Lost Daylight, these men will again become susceptible to mood swings ranging from A to B. In the coming months, it will only get worse. They will develop a bloodthirsty craving for carbs. Their musical tastes will turn violently to the blues. Smiling will require a medical procedure. Family members will bear witness in early February -- around the Time of Another @#$@ Birthday -- when the sun will show itself for three hours a day and when Mr. Cranky Pants needs to move out.
For Mr. Cranky Pants will be felt and heard around the house and hearth (but moreso around the house for one is unsure of what a hearth is). In this Darkest of Time, he might even raise his voice. Yes, we said raise his voice.
And in this Time of the Raised Voice, he will soon thereafter take refuge under his covers for an extended period of sleep not to exceed early-to-mid April -- or what our elders referred to as Spring Training.
The season of renewal. The season of light.
The Season of the Orioles.