I hallucinated on Sunday night, and it was really disturbing. You see, the night before was the final night of my trip to the Jersey Shore — one filled with trash of all kinds — on which I can confidently say I imbibed too much low-shelf vodka. I danced with cougars, saw a guy with a mustache, asked if he was Grey, got looked at weird, continued to dance with cougars, got sick, got unsick, had more cougars, and eventually found my way back to my trashy motel. And no, I didn’t wake up with a cougar, but saw the guy with the mustache leave with all six of them. After a nauseating 5-hour ride home earlier in the day, I sat down on my fluffy couch and flipped on ESPN for the Sox/Yanks game. What I hallucinated was a bit odd and was very confusing: I envisioned a guy who isn’t supposed to be playing and who is at war with his team and management get trotted out onto the field to help his team while simultaneously warring with his team, get hit by a pitch, get defended by one of the guys whom he’s at war with, get booed, then cheered, then hit a redemption homer off the pitcher who wasn’t thrown out of the game despite clearly pegging four straight pitches at a player. I saw a manager who never flips out flip out and get ejected while defending a player whom he wishes wasn’t on his team in the first place, yet who he plays everyday. I saw the Yankees beat the Red Sox, and saw Mariano Rivera get hit hard for the hundredth consecutive time. And this wasn’t the first time I’ve felt this confused.