It's nearly 11 o'clock and I'm getting settled in front of the television--thanks to Brandon's
perseverance in the battle of the wireless network card-- for the duration. Pedro's in and Matsui doubles to right field wall,
Williams doubles off the center field wall, and I begin climbing the walls. Brandon and I were suiting up in our own riot
gear late last night-- waiting for someone to start tussling with Don Zimmer. Tonight, we're suiting up with hope against
the possible pain.
In Todd's words on Tuesday afternoon...
"Could you possibly script a more painful team to watch than the Red Sox? I mean, lose the first two
games, but keep 'em really close so that you honestly think they just might be able to win until the bottom of the 9th.
Then get crushed when it really starts to count-- when the odds start to really shift horrifically in Game 3-- in front of
the home fans no less. Then against all odds, and embarking on a journey no team in history has won, start showing signs
of life, and impossibly win games 4 and 5 in the 12th and 14th innings respectively, getting up hopes of a history-making
comeback. They start calling it 'The greatest comeback in the history of all sports.' Then (and you know it's going to happen)
they'll win Game 6-- at 3 in the morning this time-- and fans will go absolutely nuts if they do. To be tied 3-3, forcing a
Game 7 against the Yankees? Nuts!
"Then in Game 7 they'll drop an easy pop-fly, or give up a 16th inning grand-slam, or something
to lose (again) and start all over again next year."
God no. Please. I believe. I swear.
B and I are talking mantras and power plays and bravado and swagger. I'm remembering our first Yankees-Red Sox game
over July Fourth weekend 2003-- the sweltering heat and the palpable hate. B's studying the Ken Burns' Baseball
book to prove to me that Babe Ruth played his last game as a Boston Brave-- hitting his last home run in front of a crowd
of a measly 10,000 people.
Top of the ninth and B has me cracking up with his Cabrera jack-in-the-box imitations and Steinbrenner impressions.
We're pretty sure there is no CNN playing in the Frey house. And we're just cuddled up here, feet entwined, filled with
hope. Three more outs.
I believe! |
