I know where I’ll be at 7:08 tonight. In my underground bunker twenty miles west of Boston, standing up in front of my television, and cheering for Dave Roberts.
Three batters later, I’ll be doing something else in front of the TV.
Remember, Mr. Roberts, if you happen to read this: Wherever you go in this fair city tonight, you eat for free. You drink for free. Seriously, as I’ve noted before, what kind of a man would charge Dave Roberts for a beer?
The answer? No kind of man at all.
