I honestly thought — without the help of drugs or alcohol — that this west coast swing might be where the Sox turn it around. “They’re going to turn it around,” I said to the drunk next to me as I lie in bed watching last night’s game. “The drive to the playoffs begins now.” But she just shrugged and rolled over and reminded me to leave the money on the dresser before I left. And a couple hours later, I was outside in the cool, crisp evening air, finally realizing that the September Power Hour I had envisioned was dissolving into a 4-5 shit parade.
No, it ain’t over. But it is over. And we all know it. And considering the almost comedic rash of injuries we’ve endured since April, I’m surprised it’s taken this long to penetrate my thick Irish skull.
But I can’t stop watching. Can’t stop cheering. Won’t stop praying for some sort of miracle that may or may not involve an alien spacecraft taking out the Yankees and Rays.
So… I’ll be here. And I hope you stick around, too. Thanks.
