This much I know about this year's Series: No way will I be watching. Too much energy invested (and wasted) on behalf of my beloved Braves to root for the Phillies, a team I otherwise would really like; too much residual hatred from 1992 to root for the Blue Jays.

Kinda funny this year to be disconnected from the Series; it has been, you know, three years since the Braves last absented themselves from the October tango.

Of course, if you only started following baseball three years ago, it would be worth noting that the last Fall Classic attended by the pre-1991 Braves was in 1958. The then-Milwaukee Braves, that is. Or was.

And I suffered. Images, I remember, but images well-removed from my struggling, trying-to-climb-out-of-the-cellar Braves. A select few: Harvey's Wallbanging Brewers against the Indy 500 Cardinals in 1982; Dane Iorg, Don Denkinger, and Joaquin Andujar in 1985; Homer Hankies in 1987; Vin Scully screaming, "She is GONE!!" at Kirk Gibson and Chavez Ravine in 1988.

And, most vividly, Al Michaels doing play-by-play of an earthquake in 1989.

(Incidentally, which qualifies as the greater World Series natural disaster: San Francisco falling apart in 1989, or Bill Buckner's rumbling glove in 1986?)

But miracles happen. A baby-faced, 21 year-old lefthander named Steve Avery firing blanks at the Pirates in the NLCS, and next thing I know, Charlie Leibrandt is starting for the Braves in...in the Metrodome!

I have the MLB Productions tape of that 1991 Classic, what is perhaps the greatest World Series of them all, and it never fails to give me chills. What is so remarkable about the series, for me, is the collective naivete of the city of Atlanta--we had never sniffed at a world championship of any kind.

But here was David Justice, scoring from second on a Mark Lemke single in the 12th to win Game Three. Those first two losses really meant nothing; Atlanta was finally the center of the baseball universe, and to have an opening act like this...wow.

And Lemke again, this time scoring on a Jerry Willard sacrifice fly to even the series at two. Raspy old fart that Jack Buck is, I love him to death for this CBS play-by-play call: "[Crack] That's gonna be a winner for Atlanta! The runner tags at third...here's the throw from Mack. Here's Lemke!...He is ou..SAFE, SAFE, SAFE!" (Poor old Jack, muffing a huge call and yet making it sound strangely wonderful, like the Braves' season itself.)

"Sakes Alive, 14-5!" read the sports section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution after Game Five; the headline on page 1A screamed "One Win Away!" Lemke had two triples, and Lonnie Smith homered in his third consecutive game. We were that close to winning it all.

It's now October 15, 1993; we haven't been as close since, and I wonder if we'll ever make it to that champagne-filled locker room at the end of the rainbow. We have the best team in baseball, and yet I fear an eight-team, three-tiered playoff system (best-of-five in round one, no less) conspires against us. It's just too easy for a team like the Phillies, Blue Jays, or Twins to beat us every year in a short series, no matter how many thrills the regular season may bring.

But even though it may be argued that Lonnie Smith's heroics, both in '91 and '92, were overshadowed by his baserunning blunders in each decisive game, I'll never forget his classy gesture in 1991's Game Seven.

Remember? He reached out and shook the hand of Twins' catcher Brian Harper. That's the way the game is supposed to be played: incredible events begetting a mutual sense of respect.

Because after all, despite my heartaches and frustrations, and my inability to watch this year's Series, it is only a game. A wonderful, incredible game.