When I was 15, my dad took me to see my favorite ballclub, the CIncinnati Reds. It was a brisk September night, and the 7pm start didn't help. A classic pitcher's duel emerged, and by the 8th inning it was 1-1. Both starters were finally pulled, but the score remained the same. Nine innings in the book. Ten. Eleven. By the thirteenth, my inner-brat started to emerge -- I blame the cold -- and my dad decided it was time to call it a night. No sooner do we get in the car and drive away from the stadium than we hear on the radio..."it's a high fly ball, back to deep center field...it's outta here! The Reds win!" Bittersweet, thy name is extra inning victories on the car ride home.