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Heading Home

As The Doors once sang, "This is the end." Then again, they also once sang, "If you whip the horses eyes, you can make them sleep, and cry" so maybe we won't take Jim Morrison's word for it. Either way, it is indeed the final day of Going Yard.

The tents along the street in front of Rosenblatt Stadium have all packed up and gone (save for one local outfit, The Dugout, which is keeping things running at least through the end of today). The parking lot, once bustling with activity, is mostly empty. Even the seemingly perpetual line for milkshakes at Zesto's has dwindled to a few random customers.

Strange as it is for us to witness the aftermath, it's probably even stranger for the folks of Omaha, who go through this every year. One minute the city is the center of the college baseball universe, and the next it is 50 weeks away from experiencing that rush again.



As for us, it's time to go home.

This, of course, is assuming we remember where home is. It's been a long (and of course sometimes strange) trip that took us from coast to coast and everywhere from the tiniest of baseball backwoods to the biggest stage college ball has to offer.

Worst. Circus. Ever.

We managed to dodge most fast food along the way, preferring instead to somehow find every International House of Pancakes in the United States. We managed to limit our hot dog intake despite being in a different ballpark every day. We even managed to get laundry done when we needed to.

The one thing we never managed to do was get tired of being on the road.

Somehow, despite the three months away from home, we had a great time, and therefore a hard time believing it was over when the Beavers got the final out the other night.

To avoid repeating what Matt said yesterday, I'll simply say that he said it all. We're rounding third, and the coach is waving us home. Who knew Going Yard could be so much fun?

See ya around!


Great job the whole way, enjoyed every day of it.

It was a great ride. Great work,
from Men Alone II: The KY Connection in the left field swimming pool to the crazy flamingo funerals at Rosenblatt.

If you're feeling blue, just think of the thousands of 18-34-year-old guys (a key demographic for advertisers) you made insanely jealous. It's only fair to the rest of us that the job of a lifetime could only last three months.

Now, one last time:

Marco (Oh, God I promised myself I wouldn't do this...)
Polo (*biting fist*)
Marco (*lip quivers*)
Pol... (*Heaving sobs*)

I can dig it too. From Fletch referrences to Marco Polo water games to hangin' ten in SD to The Doors lyrics... bitchin' job guys.

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