The snakes have been slithering upward while Colorado's been gasping for air thinner than their playoff hopes, so we're taking this one in the mountains where champions are forged.

Twenty-three years of watching this team has taught me that a scoreless first inning is basically a moral victory at this point.

The way we've been hitting lately, we couldn't score runs if Randy Johnson was pitching batting practice underhand to us.

Twenty-three years of rebuilding has taught me that being down 0-0 in the third is practically insurmountable for this franchise that peaked when I still had hope in my heart.

We're up 2-0 in the third at Coors Field where fly balls go to die and our bullpen goes to commit suicide, but hey, at least we're not facing Mariano Rivera this time.

After watching this team blow leads in the desert heat for two decades since Big Unit and Schill worked their magic, I've learned that a 2-0 lead in the fourth at Coors Field is like holding water in your bare hands.

We're up 5-0 in the 4th which means we'll somehow find a way to lose 6-5 in the bottom of the 9th because that's just Diamondbacks baseball, baby.

After watching this franchise blow leads in ways that would make Houdini jealous for over two decades, I know better than to celebrate until the last out is recorded in this thin-air launching pad they call Coors Field.

After twenty-three years of watching this franchise find new ways to break my heart, a three-run lead in the fourth inning feels about as secure as a sandcastle in a haboob.

After two decades of watching this franchise snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in every conceivable way, I know better than to celebrate until the last out is recorded in the desert - even when we're playing in Colorado's thin air where our fly balls should carry like they did when the Big Unit was mowing down Yankees.

After watching this franchise blow leads in ways that would make a saguaro cactus wilt, I've learned that a 5-run cushion in the 5th is just enough rope for the D-backs to hang themselves with, but tonight feels different in the thin air where our bats actually sing.

After watching Randy and The Big Unit dismantle the Evil Empire with ice in their veins, this 5-run lead in Colorado feels like child's play for a franchise that knows how to close out when it matters.

After twenty-three years of desert mirages disguised as playoff hopes, I've learned that a six-run lead in Colorado is just altitude sickness playing tricks on my eyes.

After twenty-three years of watching this franchise find new ways to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, I've learned that a six-run lead in Colorado is basically a coin flip with altitude working against us.

After twenty-three years of watching this franchise blow leads that would make Randy's fastball look slow, I've learned that a 6-run cushion in the 8th is just enough rope for the Diamondbacks to hang themselves with.

After watching this franchise blow leads for two decades since Randy and Schilling carried us to glory, I know the desert heat has nothing on the cold reality of Arizona sports heartbreak.

After watching this franchise blow more leads than a desert windstorm since 2001, I know Coors Field has a way of making even an 8-6 lead feel like we're down by three in the bottom of the ninth.

After watching this franchise blow leads in ways that would make a cactus weep for twenty-three years, I know they'll find some creative new method to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in the thin air of Coors Field.

The Diamondbacks' pitchers are about to discover what happens when their ERA meets our thin air and their bullpen meets our beer league offense that somehow works at 5,280 feet.

At Coors Field a 0-0 tie is basically still batting practice, so once our guys remember they're supposed to launch baseballs into the stratosphere we'll turn this into the 12-9 slugfest God intended.

It's the 2nd inning at Coors where a 0-0 score is basically still batting practice and the Diamondbacks haven't yet discovered that their ERA is about to become a casualty of our mile-high launching pad.

The game is still 0-0 in the third which means our hitters are probably just getting warmed up in this thin air launching pad we call home.

Down 2-0 in the third at Coors is like being down 0-0 in the first inning anywhere else, because physics doesn't apply here and neither do early deficits.

At Coors Field a two-run deficit is basically a coin flip since our bats could explode for seven runs in the next inning or we could strike out looking at 92 mph fastballs that feel like change-ups in this thin air.

Five runs down in the 4th at Coors is like being down two touchdowns in the first quarter—plenty of time for our hitters to turn this thin air into a launching pad.

Down 5-1 in the 4th at Coors is basically a tie game since our offense doesn't wake up until someone's already ordered nachos and the opposing pitcher realizes the air is thinner than his confidence.

Down three runs in the fourth at Coors is like being down one run anywhere else - the thin air turns every lazy fly ball into a potential home run and every inning into a carnival of chaos.

Down four runs in the fifth at Coors is like being down one run anywhere else, and the D-backs bullpen melts faster than snow in July at altitude.

Down by five in the fifth at Coors is basically a tie game since our bullpen hasn't even had a chance to implode yet and theirs definitely will.

Down five runs in the sixth at Coors is basically a tie game since our bullpen will make sure Arizona gets their turn to suffer in this launching pad we call home.

Six runs down at Coors means we're just getting started - the thin air doesn't discriminate and Arizona's about to learn why our bullpen ERA looks like a basketball score.

At Coors Field, six runs is just a really long home run away, and in the thin air where baseballs go to achieve their dreams, miracles happen faster than a reliever's ERA can implode.

The thin air makes baseballs fly but apparently it also makes our bats disappear into the ether like my hopes and dreams.

Four runs down in the 8th at Coors is like being down by one anywhere else, because this beautiful nightmare of a ballpark turns every pitcher into a batting practice machine when the pressure's on.

Down two runs in the 8th at Coors is like being down two calories at a buffet – we're about to feast on some desert pitching.

At Coors Field, down two runs in the ninth is basically a tie game when the air is thinner than our bullpen's excuses.