The Red Sox Will Drive Me To Drink.
Opening Night, I could take, because apart from a couple scattershot doubles, it was clear from the 5th inning on that we were done. I could sit back, be numb, and mock it with relatively little stress.
Tuesday, however, was different. And don't even get me started on yesterday's game.
Game 2, they strung me along, then ripped my heart out. Matty Clement did not pitch nearly as badly as The Fat Man, but still couldn't last past the 5th inning. Chauncey the Demure Middle Infielder could not take a pitch to save his life, or field any grounder that hadn't been medicated first.
Manny was swinging away, and worse, looking silly while doing it. The only guy who was frickin' doing what he was supposed was Papi. Which was good, because if he was in a slump, I would have gone out and run naked screaming down Mass Ave.
But yet, there we were, top of the ninth, only one run down. And then IT happened. "Swing and a drive.."-you know the rest. Our captain, capitan, captaine, the rudder of our ship, hitting a home run in those darn right Yankee Stadium field bleacher seats. Off Rivera no less. And all was right and beautiful and true again.
Until the evil, evil though came into my head:"They've only done this so goddamn Tino "Second Coming of Gehrig" Martinez can hit a walkoff in the bottom half."
I will admit, I was wrong.
It was FUCKIN' JETER, who hit the walkoff.
So, fast forward to Wednesday afternoon. I have absolutely no expectations, because with Timmy, when it's on, it's on, and when it's off, it's ugly. I wasn't expecting our bats to wake up that quickly. And thirdly, I had class all afternoon.
But then Tito has to go and get sick. And there we are, me and the entirety of Red Sox Nation, freaked out that our skipper, the wondrous warden of this insane asylum we call a team, is in the hospital.
I got the requisite "Win one for the Tito" echoes in my mind. I didn't pay that much attention to them, except to listen to the beginning of the game while crossing to class.
But then a strange thing happened: Timmy's knuckler was on. On like white on rice-whatever the hell that means.
And the bats started waking up; the Chickenman, the Doofus, my boy Millar hits a two-run single into left. And there I am, supposed to be learning about the radicalization of the New Model Army in 17th century England, with one ear on the professor, and the other listening to this goddamn team. ( Mother- Before you yell at me, this actually seemed to help me with the learning process. Since I had to listen especially hard, I can recite every single relevant fact about the above subject. So, *phbbpbt*.)
I could not stop listening. All afternoon.Even with CTDMI hitting into a bazillion double plays, we were contending through the entire game. Even with absolutely mind-boggling calls by the umpiring crew. Even with the Doofus's knee inexplicably cramping up WALKING BACK TO THE FIRST BASE BAG.
Even when Gary "So Not Worthy Of The Isaac Hayes AB Music" Sheffield pulled ahead with a sac fly in the eight, it was back. The hope. The "pleasepleasewecanwinthisgameIknowwecan".
And lo and behold, they did.
They scored 5 runs. Against the greatest closer of our generation, most likely of all time. Whom we own like a cheap garden shovel. And then Foulkie held the line, proving who was departing, and who had arrived.
Would I have preferred 3 wins?Of course. Do I wish I could go back to Tuesday and move Foulkie's changeup a couple inches outside? Hell yeah. Would I give up yesterday's wild ride for anything? No fucking way.
I'm in for the duration. I'm just saying, I might not be able to do it completely sober. :)