Folks, it’s official. Amalie Benjamin is the captain of my heart. The driver of my soul. Everything that makes my mind go zing.
In what I thought would be The Year of the Cervasio, Amalie has swooped in and captured the title of Woman I’d Most Like to Drink a Few Beers with While Discussing That Part of My Brain that Says Signing Mike Lowell Right the F@#k Now Might Be The Best Thing We Ever Do. Everytime I hear her voice, see those glasses, watch that hair muss up gently in the Fenway breeze, it’s like Christmas, my birthday, first dance at the prom and the release of the original, untinkered-with Star Wars films on DVD, all rolled up into one.
Her allure cannot be overstated, because it’s so damned understated. At first glance, she’s like that quiet girl who works in the library, the one you write off as uninterested and demure until you catch a glimpse of her hot pink thong as she bends over to replace a volume of Kierkegaard on the lower shelf. Then, before you know what’s hit you, she’s all in your head, messin’ you up with uneasy thoughts of RISP, Ortiz’s knee and tonight’s line-up. And you’re left there, watching her all-too-brief pre-game report dissolve into another Sully Mac commercial. And you feel that emptiness, that despair that no amount of Hazel, Jayme Parker or Kathryn Tappen can ever fill.
But I don’t want it to end when the Sox take the field. I want more. I want to climb to the top of the Blue Hills with her and carve Curt Leskanic’s face in the side of a large rock formation. I want to sit in what I’m certain is her modest but impeccably decorated apartment and drink Hamm’s beer to the dulcet tones of Jerry Remy’s pre-game broadcast. I want to walk with her, arm-in-arm, through the Common, handing out warm Schilling jerseys and Coco headbands to the homeless.
New York is in the house tonight. And as series go, they don’t come any bigger. If we sweep ’em away, we could cancel their ticket to October. If they knock us around, they could set the wheels of our collapse in motion. It’s a big frickin’ set of games for us, Pablo, and if you aren’t stocking up on beer and meat and ammunition then you’re just not getting the point of all this. But somehow, I’m swelled with greater anticipation for what Amalie will be wearing on the pre-game show. When she’ll drop her first Joba sighting on the Globe’s Sox blog. When she’ll turn away from Tina Cervasio, stare longingly into the camera, and sigh, “Red, oh Red, you f@#king spectacular moron. Come dirty me up with your intense Irish goofiness and utter lack of charm.” And I’ll be there, baby. ::Snaps fingers:: Just like that.
She’s the goods people. Talented writer. Hotness defined. The sexiest eyeware since Joe Maddon and Tina Fey. Also, a much, much better kisser than Bob Ryan. At least I’m hoping.
