Being Blue feels good, for once.

My house is the kind of wreck that can only happen when you've gone out of town and just returned. I'm talking about unfolded laundry, weirdness in the fridge, cameras and shopping bags and maps and magazines and makeup cases - all out of place. My dog is still adjusting to being home. Last night, she went out into the backyard, laid down on her grass, and let out a long-suffering Golden Retriever sigh. Today, she follows me as if I'm going to sneak away on her again.

Am I daunted? No. Am I even slightly depressed by the disorder in my home? No.

It was all for a good cause.

No matter what happens in the playoffs, we had that moment. Or rather, we had that impossible half-inning.

Being a Dodger fan, you become predisposed to pessimism. For every homestretch where all the plays went our way, there was its opposite: Reggie Jackson in '78 and '79. Jack Clark in '85. Every single Murdoch year. "Never bet on an L.A. team," was the advice of my Grandma. And she was right. You could never be sure of victory - or defeat. They always kept us guessing in a way that isn't felt by Braves or Yankees fans.

So Saturday afternoon, after eight and a half innings of pain, an entire stadium was looking at a half-empty glass. "Maybe tomorrow," I said to Miles (who, though he's a lifelong Giants fan, refused to openly gloat - God love him). And then, as soon as I was sure we'd lose, Things started happening.

With one out, the bases were loaded. Of course, we were thinking this was the perfect time for a double play. Still, 54,000 people were on their feet, hoping for the miracle.

Hee-Seop Choi came to the plate, and everyone started chanting his name. In unison.

"Hee-Seop Choi! Hee-Seop Choi! Hee-Seop Choi," over and over again, over the course of a painfully long at-bat. He drew a walk.

A walk? (Pardon me while I channel Wallace Shawn) In-con-theee-vable!

3 - 1.

Cesar Izturis was next. "Iz-tur-IS! Iz-tur-IS!" He hit a groaner to the shortstop who booted it. Everyone was safe. 3 - 2.

I thought I'd wet my pants.

Jayson Werth came next. "Jay-son Werth! Jay-son Werth!" Jayson went two strikes in the hole. A man one section over had ripped the bottom from a drink cup and was using it as a megaphone. "Jayson," he cried. "I believe in you!"

Jayson hit a perfect single to right field. All were safe. All was well. 3 - 3.

I assumed the crash position and tried to keep my grilled Dodger dog down.

Meanwhile, here came the veteran, the ever-dangerous Steve Finley.

"Steve Fin-LEY! Steve Fin-LEY!" The crowd was in hysterics; we were screaming ourselves raw, cheering Finley with everything we had.

Just put it in the outfield, just put it in the outfield I thought. A sacrifice fly was good enough to win.

As he swung, as the ball soared in a high arc up, up, up over the right field fence, 54,000 people roared as one wild animal. Miles said later that the sound was so high-pitched, so loud, that it seemed unreal.

Somewhere in all the shouting and jumping up and down, I began to cry.

I'd been watching Dodger games since I was a tiny thing. Grandma was my guide, listening on her transistor when the games weren't televised. Vin Scully's voice is part of my childhood. His voice sounds like summer to me. And Grandma was the most devoted fan, cheering when they won, cussing when they lost. Through all her hard years, through sickness and through sadness, she still rooted for them. She bled blue. And I bled with her.

Back in January, she died of a massive heart attack. On Saturday, with tears in my eyes, I whispered: "oh, Grandma. They did it."

Then I called my mom so she could hear the celebration.

Everything after that is a little blurry. Jose Lima ran a victory lap around the field, pumping up the crowd. Players came out and talked to us, thanked us for our support. Their children ran across the perfect outfield grass, hurling themselves against the wall as if making highlight-reel catches. Outside, thousands of cars conga-lined out of the stadium parking lots, honking. People hung out of the windows, screaming with joy.

Now that I'm home, trying to reorganize my life, I can still feel that glow.

Am I blue?

Hell yeah.