If you need me, I'll be at the clinic.
I’ll admit it. I got sucked in.
When the Sox snagged the lead in last night’s Bronx implosion, I turned to the drunk next to me and said, “Mom, we’ve got this one. And we’re going to the playoffs.”
What else was I supposed to think? Four steals in the top of the ninth to take the lead? Three outs away from turning certain death into a clean sweep of the Yanks in their house? Escaping from New York with three games still separating us from elimination was no longer a pipe dream–it was actually happening. The Yanks were mentally toast, and somehow, someway, this scrappy team of youngsters and replacement parts was gonna sail us all into October. I called Denton to start production on the Bill Hall Action Figures and was already on the phone to NESN pitching Ryan Kalish: Nuclear Pimp.
And then… well, you saw it. Another Papelbon breakdown. Some questionable calls which, on replay, don’t seem all that questionable. Well, maybe two of them…
But what’s the point. For a few blessed moments last night, I got more than I thought I would this season. I got a taste of that same magic I felt in 2004 and 2007. Fleeting to be sure, but, much like my love life, it was oddly satisfying.
I wrote these guys off a hundred times this summer. Last night, they came close to what would have been a pretty freakin’ spectacular sweep. I could dwell on the negative or accentuate the positive, so I’m choosing the latter.
That said, I’m still getting mad drunk.
