Wakefield has us terrifed. The inability to get a big hit in the clutch is eerily reminiscent of the hangdog days of June and July. The number of men Sox hitters left on base — twenty-freakin’-five — is alarming.
But we won. And as the weather grows cooler, the days get shorter, and Damon Wayans continues, amazingly, to earn a living, every win is a precious thing that should be cuddled, nurtured, and put in a protective case for safe keeping.
Now we look to Curt Schilling to erase from our collective mouths the sour taste of the previous two games. We want to see him get his twentieth win in front of the Fenway crowd. Because it would be really, really cool to be within 3 and 1/2 games of the Crankees when we take the field on Friday night. On the other hand, we wouldn’t have put up a fuss if Tito flip-flopped Schill with Arroyo so that Curt could take the reins in the Bronx. But then we wouldn’t have the fun of seeing what happens when and if Bronson throws inside to A-Rod.
And to those readers who will be at the Stadium this weekend, we welcome any and all photos of your respective crews representing Red Sox nation in the stands. We’ll post as many as we get (provided they’re, y’know, not obscene… or should I say too obscene).
