Nats fans (all of whom, based on every feature story I've read, are related to Walter Johnson), taking it in stride. If you didn�t know any better, you�d assume this was New York. Or Philadelphia. Maybe Detroit. The kind of city where baseball fans are accustomed to postseason games, and sometimes seeing the home team get raked in said games, and subsequently heading home in an early, desultory huff, the better to vent and wail on sports talk radio. Thing is, nobody here seemed particularly perturbed. Not in the overstuffed silver subway cars. Not in the upper-deck seats above left field, where Nationals fans Hank Thomas and Mike Grieb sat directly behind the Plexiglas safety shield, watching the on-field shellacking and off-site exodus with a mix of mild denial and rapid acceptance, long-jumping from stage one to stage five on the Kubler-Ross scale of grief. �Tomorrow is another day,� Thomas said with a shrug. Get perturbed, people. You're on the brink.