Listen, on paper, the Angels are gonna walk all over us. Ties us up in knots and hang us out to dry. Toss us in the oven like Thanksgiving stuffing. And that’s before Mark Teixeira gets his first at bat. Hell, even the hometown scribes expect us to disappear faster than a fresh sack of muffins left on Roger Ebert’s doorstep, with only Amalie–sweet, sweet Amalie–imagining a world in which the Sox can take the 2008 ALDS.
And to that I say, “f@#k that noise.”
I don’t care how much the rational side of my brain wants to point to the Angels’ line-up and K-Rod and the home field advantage and the fact that they smoked us during regular season play. Anything can happen in a short series. One single event, one flick of a bat or turn of a heel, can set momentum swinging in the opposite direction. Just ask Monsignor Dave Roberts about that.
So I’m ready to party. The windows are shut. The blinds are drawn. EEI is pumping through the surround sound for Maximum Castig. My collection of hand-carved wooden Lester totems lines the room for good luck. Lights are low. TV is large. Beer is ice-cold. Hard stuff (whiskey, narcotics, Dana Carvey DVDs) is close at hand in case things gets ugly. The neighbors have been warned. The firearms put away (it’s only game one, after all). And all glassware relocated.
The Red Sox are in the playoffs. And it all beings in less than an hour. You’ll find the game thread in our lavishly decorated and well-lit comments section.
Hot f@#kin’ damn. I loves me some October baseball.
