Wild for the Night

Shhh. Hear that?

That's the three corporate mucky mucks dissecting Clint Hurdle's substitutions in last night's epic Wild Card clinching victory for the Rockies. There's the warehouse workers with their ham sandwiches and potato chips still complaining about Garret Atkins' homer that wasn't.

That's the sound of Coors Field Dry Goods' store and other shops around the Rocky Mountains ringing up sales. People trading in their faded Bichettes, Walkers, and Big Cats for a fresh batch of Tulo, Holliday, and Francis.

No need to worry, this bandwagon's got room.

There's the security worker driving home from work, his radio tuned into KOA, jumping for joy in his seat like he spilled scalding hot water on himself. The people at the light are scared and rolling up their windows. That sound is the drunk frat boys, painted in some strange hue of off-purple, whooping and hollering like it's a Spring Break wet t-shirt contest.

It's the four landscapers along the side of the road, talking in Spanish about how maybe, just maybe Holliday slipped his finger under the catcher's cleat. It's the 9 year girl, no clue about 1995 or who Eric Young is, blissfully sleeping in the 11th inning, yet jumping into her grandmother's arms in the 13th.

That sound is talk radio, the guy who enjoyed the "greatest game ever" with his 75 year old father, who as a lifelong baseball fan, also agreed. The other caller, who's 7 year old son told him it was the funnest night he's ever had.

There's the Commish, saying "holy sh*t" over and over and hugging his lovely wife and complete strangers at the end of a nearly five hour strange journey.

That's Colorado, Wyoming, and all around the West. They're all talking. They're all exhausted. But they're all ready for the playoffs and their definitely not ready for this ride to end.