You can’t tell me you didn’t call it. Because you did call it. I called it. Your grandmother called it. The guy who played “Dr. Zaius” in the Planet of the Apes movies called it. Those original, still-in-the-box Mego Aquaman action figures you’ve been preserving in the attic for the last 35 years, hell, they probably called it, too. When J.D. Drew came up to the plate in the first inning with the bases loaded and two outs, everybody in Red Sox Nation — black, white, green, members in good standing of the Foghat Appreciation Society… basically every sentient being on the eastern seaboard with the possible exception of Mitt Romney — got down on their knees and said, “Here’s your chance to make up for what could be perceived as a lackluster year at the plate,” give or take a word.
And he did. One swing of the bat wiped the slate clean. Took the wind out of the Indians and Fausto Carmona. Had us all nodding and smiling and cleaning up spilled beer and quietly figuring out how to tell Aunt Lucy and her braised ribs and sweet apple pie and three different types of veggies to f@#k off. Because Sunday dinner won’t be happening tonight.
Despite the fact that I know all too well what he’s going through on the homefront, I’ve cringed my way through one hell of a lot of Drew at-bats this season. But watching him pump his fist and come out for that curtain call… I’ll admit a few manly tears may have been shed. Or it might have been the spilled Coors.
Either way, we’ve got momentum and an offense that’s officially nuclear powered and the last things standing between us and the World Series are Jake Westbrook, Paul Byrd, and the Cleveland hitters. Who’s your money on, baby?
