Around 10:00 tonight, with the Red Sox flailing and looking to drop the first game of this homestand against the Rangers, I tweeted that I was starting to get a string feeling that this might not be the Red Sox’ year. Then I finished my fifteenth beer, put my pants back on, and left my local tavern to walk my ass home. By the time I returned to my place and turned on the telly, the Red Sox were putting the finishing touches on a four run ninth-inning and a walk-off win with the final nail powered by, of all people, Rob Refsynder.

It was a dramatic victory in a season that has felt like a series of repeated kicks to the nutbag. And it also means that the Red Sox remain very much alive in the Wild Card hunt.

Look, I drink a lot. And when I say “a lot” I mean enough to kill most large animals and some astronauts. But I am sober enough to know that the Red Sox have not yet been mathematically eliminated. And that means there’s a chance. And that means, I must show up.

They are 15.5 games back in the East and a disheartening 7.5 games back in the Wild Card race. But there’s still a month left of baseball to play. And anything can happen. Scoring a Wild Card spot and getting into the playoffs is still within the realm of possibility. Sure, that realm may also include dragons and talking bread, but it’s mathematically possible.

Folks, I’m sick. I can’t quit the Red Sox when they have life. And just as the early part of the game stripped the very flesh off my bones, the final inning breathed new life into me. All of a sudden I’m imagining World Series MVP Rich Hill, Christian Arroyo walking off a plane with a trophy, and Tommy Pham chucking beers and turkey subs off the back of a duckboat.

Sure, it’s probably not gonna happen. But it could. And that’s all the fuel I need.