Remember how you felt after Game Seven of the 2003 ALCS? Throat all knotted up. Dry heaves at the office. Senses dulled. Blood heated. Lungs filled with slaw. It hurt, and every day that passed made it hurt just a little more, no matter what our shrinks told us. It was all bad all the time, and we shook our fists at the heavens each night, denying the existence of God… as if Avril Lavigne’s career wasn’t proof enough. And we spent every day that winter crafting Aaron Boone voodoo dolls and salivating at the prospects of the 2004 season, when we’d get a chance to return the bitch slap.
I gotta figure that’s how the Cards and their fans were feeling during this most recent offseason. I mean, we simply dismantled them in the World Series. Scoring early and often. Shutting down their offense. Teasing them with the very idea of getting into a game, then sending Ortiz out to hit ’em upside the head with a sack of meat sandwiches.
So now they’re unleashing a torrent of beat down on us. And they’ve been waiting for this moment since October, scratching these dates onto their calandars and counting the hours, minutes and seconds until they got another crack at us. Monday night, it was ugly. Last night, it got even uglier, with hit batsmen, Suppan gettin’ all stingy with the hits, and Edgah looking very much the lost puppy, grounding into his third and fourth double plays of the series.
Meanwhile, Pedro comes dangerously close to a no-hitter, and the Yankees lose again to the Brew Crew.
