Most weeks my Mondays unfold in a well-practiced routine: brush teeth, wash face, walk dog. This morning, I added a new step: spend 15 minutes scrolling through Twitter to see whether anyone had synced that delicious footage of President Trump’s face falling on Sunday — as the World Series crowd is booing him — with the R.E.M. song “Everybody Hurts.”

I watched the video over and over, scrutinizing every second of the footage, waiting for the exact moment when Mr. Trump’s smirky grin gives way to stony petulance, the precise instant when he realizes that this sea of red-hatted Americans are not his red-hatted Americans, as the applause for veterans gives way to lusty boos, and the chants of “Lock him up!” ripple through the stadium.

It felt like medicine, like balm for a weary soul. It wasn’t until I’d watched the footage sped up, slowed down and from six angles and heard myself crooning, “Let me taste your tears!” that I started feeling a little sick, as if I’d gorged on Halloween candy.

I realized that I was gloating. It was not a pleasant realization.

The booing itself wasn’t the problem. The booing was appropriate. The booing was necessary, insofar as his trip to Nationals Park was one of the few times Mr. Trump has crept out of his self-made bubble and encountered something resembling the real world. When he eats out, it’s in a restaurant in a hotel he owns; when he plays golf, it’s at a club he owns; when he’s with a crowd, it’s his crowd.