So rarely

I press my hands together, tilt my head back and thank the ceiling. Infrequent as this gesture of prayer is, less often does it have anything to do with Jason Giambi. But after the Giambino hit his holy home run, the spirit moved me. Not the ghost, but an older one, superstition. I reacted instinctively and thanked a deity I don't subscribe to. Too gleeful to dwell on my descent into the dangerous vein that runs through religion into most activities of the masses, I drummed my hands against the desk and threw my head further back to let out a tribal war whoop. The primal's got it's place, it's purpose. Besides, we won.