Oh my God! Frank McCourt has made me into Shawn Green

An unlikely contributor to my journey toward self-improvement is Frank McCourt. Because of him, I can watch the Dodgers squander a two-run lead in the ninth inning and not erupt like Grimsvotn.

Take last night. Conditioned to expect the worse, I observed stoically as Kenley Jansen's world fell apart around him on the mound. Two years ago, the same situation would have sent me into a profanity-laced state of hysterics. In the course of witnessing Angel Sanchez draw the walk (after fouling off five two-strike pitches!) and the subsequent double steal, the old me would have jumped off the couch, cursed up a hellish storm, paced the living room, cursed more, moved to the porch, cursed the night air, the moon, the stars, challenged God to a fistfight, sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, come back in, cursed the television set, paced some more, etc. My wife would have said something like: "What are you, 11-years old?"

Everything would have continued to go downhill after that. My mental state would have paralleled the team's collapse. The game-tying hit would have driven me to drink beer. The game winner would have had me reaching for the bottle of Jameson that sits atop my refrigerator.

Remember the days when Shawn Green would fail to produce with men in scoring position and walk back automaton-like to the dugout when the moment called for helmet-tossing, bat-hurling or — if you can only imagine — an ejection?

This is what has become of me. Because of diminishing expectations, McCourt has brought peace to my life.