It was exactly one year ago today that I threw in the towel.
That was it, I said. Thanks a lot. Give Auntie Phyllis a kiss for me. I’ll be in the can, driving nails into my onions.
And wouldn’t you have done the same? Our boys had just been pasted, literally walked all over by the likes of A-Rod, Sheffield and “Jeets.” Waking up with a 19-8 hangover ringing in their heads. Staring at the prospect of being down, 0-3, in the 2004 ALCS.
Once again, I figgered, it’s going to end in tears.
Thank Christ that while I resigned myself to a winter writing Electra Woman and Dyna Girl fan fic, the Sox were setting their minds to delivering a beat down the likes of which haven’t been seen since Gorgeous Jimmy Garvin knocked Kerry Von Erich upside the head with a crane. Because, y’know, that was pretty severe. Little did we know, the stars were lining up the next morning. Dave Roberts was eating his Wheaties with a side of Extra F–kin’ Fasties. David Ortiz was sharpening the lumber (not a euphemism, you sickos). And Derek Lowe was icing up the arm, unaware of the even larger role he’d be called upon to play in four short days.
But I wan’t having any of it, dismissing the 2004 season with a casual wave, and longing for the day something big finally happens:
Some day, the Red Sox really are gonna win it all. And it’ll be good vibes and sunshine and talking apes and free ice cream and Mayor Menino handing out crisp one dollar bills in City Hall Plaza.
I dream about it every night. How it’s gonna feel to watch the other team scurry madly as the Sox unload torrents of beat-down and ass-whoop. The otherwordly insanity when that final out is recorded and we’ve pocketed it all.
It’s gonna be awesome.
And it was, eh?
