Last week, as the NLCS and ALCS kicked off, I made a mental list of the teams participating and my thoughts on them. It looked like this:

Royals: had their chance last year, blew it.
Blue Jays: Can’t root for an AL East team that isn’t the Red Sox.
Mets: Still hold a grudge from 1986
Cubs: With Lester, Dave Ross and Theo, the de facto favorite.

Not particularly scientific, but it came from the heart so I went with it. And after I watched the Mets stuff the Cubs in a locker and take their lunch money, game after game, I shrugged my shoulders, turned off the TV and quietly walked away.

Contrast that to this time a few years back. In 2013. Or 2007. Or 2004. Or any year the Red Sox made the postseason. Those were the nights that bled into days, my voice eternally hoarse from screaming, my knuckles red and puffy from punching walls. The Samaritans on line one, my sports handicapping service on line two.

Not that I don’t love seeing the Red Sox make the playoffs; I’ve lived long enough without my team participating in October baseball to appreciate what a glorious thing it is. But ask my liver what it thinks of the Red Sox in the postseason… or my gut or my fists or my ankles after hours of frantic pacing and they’d probably say they’re enjoying the time off.

This morning, I woke up to find that it’ll be the Mets and Royals in the World Series. I can’t think of a less-interesting match-up (other than, maybe, the Cleveland Indians vs. Mumford & Sons). Also: when the most talked-about moment from the final game of the ALCS is a Pete Rose meme, that speaks volumes. But I’ll probably watch an inning or two of the Series. Hell, I may even sit through a whole game.

And why not? For the next six months, I’ve got absolutely nothing to lose.