God damn this team.
I’d forgotten about them. Left them in a pile of yesterday’s dust. They were so over in my book, you needed a new word for over. Even the Remdog, for all his charm, and Hazel Mae, for all her jugs, couldn’t lure me back. I was on to other things. Like, y’know, catching up on books. Calling old friends. Gene Simmons Family Jewels.
Then I catch myself lingering a bit too long on NESN when I should have just breezed on by. And I see Manny playing grab-ass with his new pal, Wily Mo Pena. And Ortiz, the King of the Nighttime World, launching his 54th home run as easily as you or I would pick up a sack of popsicles. And there’s Curt Schilling, waving his cap to the Fenway Faithful, blonde mop flying in the cold autumn breeze like it’s goddam October 2004 all over again. And Tito, God love him, leading the crowd in applauding his warhorse, sucking some small ounces of goodness out of an otherwise wretched season.
I sat and watched it all. Right down to the final out. And it was a bittersweet reminder of just how long winter can be without the Red Sox.
You’ve got four games left, my friends. I’ll be here for all of them.
I promise.
