Even this morning, I still wasn't able to watch the game. Still on tape delay. Still getting screwed over by TexasSports.tv.

Not having the patience -- or the time -- to wait indefinitely until I could get my money's worth from the live stream video service which I paid $10 to access for three days, I just caved and went to espn.com.

And boy am I glad I still wasn't able to watch that game this morning. 24-7 isn't what I had in mind when I set my alarm to wake up for the 2 a.m. kickoff last night.
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Oh, and Virginia, way to go guys! Wyoming. Real tough. Congratulations. I don't even want to know what would have happened had their guy not missed the extra point in overtime.
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"Bayless, aren't you in Europe? Why do you care about all these stupid sporting events when you should be having the time of your life?"

I don't know, why did Mickey Mantle think incessantly about alcohol when he was living the life as the Yankees' center fielder, or Halle Berry's ex-husband think incessantly about having sex with other women when he could have just satisfied his libido legitimately with the hottest woman on earth for the rest of his life?

I just do. It's not gonna change.

If I became Osama bin Laden's courier in the rugged tribal regions of Pakistan, I'd still find a way to pick up wireless when it came time to watch the World Series. Sports are a part of me; always have been. Just hear what one of my ex-girlfriends from high school had to say to Miguel one night, when she was particularly frustrated that I wasn't answering her calls because, as it turned out, I was hitting the wall across the street from my house for three hours on a Friday night: "Sometimes, I think Bayless would rather spend time with his F***ING lacrosse stick than spend time with me!"

Yeah, but only sometimes, not all the time.
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(You can expect more blog entries about topics unrelated whatsoever to travel if the Astros pull off a modern-day "St. Louis Massacre" and sweep three from the Cards this week. Then, we're suddenly in the division race, not the Wild Card, as crazy as that sounds in the era of Albert Pujols).