No Maples in Sight
Last night, in the span of twenty minutes, I switched seats twice, drank a beer in desperation, almost choked to death, felt like puking, banged my knee up, and had to restrain myself against doing a cartwheel in the middle of a crowded bar. In twenty minutes, all of that happened to me.
That's what it's like watching the Red Sox during the playoffs. It's the definition of an emotional rollercoaster.
Let me begin before the game. This playoff story starts back at BU, in the Law Auditorium, where I first wanted to kill myself.
That's not even a funny joke because we were talking about depression and suicide prevention, but the truth was, I was threatening the life of anybody who prolonged the session by asking any question, no matter how valid or important. Someone could have said, "Hi, I'm asking for help because I'm depressed," and sadly, at that moment, I would have shot them for them. That is how sick it was.
I'm not even proud of that. Not even proud of that joke, which originally read that I would have handed them a rope. It's not even funny. And yet, I can't help it, I really felt like if it came to it, I could punch someone square in the face just to leave the room.
Let me say one thing: thank god for california time. Seriously. If the game had been at seven p.m., I would probably be a mound of dust somewhere. I would have exploded. I would not have been able to sit through several lectures while Pedro Martinez went against Bartolo Colon for a chance to clinch the ALDS on Friday. Could not. Would not. I might have cried. I really might have.
Anyhow, the meeting finally ends, I sprint out of there - and I mean SPRINT - with Cataldo and Katie Long in tow. We actually decide to cab it to Cask n Flagon. From the GSU. To Cask. That's like, a ten minute walk. And yet, at 9:50, after we heard that our lucky table had been taken, we realized, we had no choice. Desperate measures were taken. I think we even scared the cab driver, because I shouted at him "CASK N FLAGON!" as I jumped in the car and kind of invaded his personal space in front of the plastic divider thingy just to make sure he understood that my "Cask n Flagon" request was equivalent to someone asking for the hospital. I seriously would have taken a pregnant woman's cab at that point.
Maybe not.
But the fact that I'm not entirely sure on the situation shows you the level of desperation. In fact, in that previous paragraph, I almost joked that I had pushed through the plastic divider thingy and put my index finger up to his neck to add pressure to the situation, but I backed off because I thought it was too insane. But really, anything I could do - including getting out of the cab and pushing it myself - I would do, just to get us to that bar faster.
We finally get to the bar, get inside, see our table's taken, have a legit mini-breakdown, settle on a shitty table, order our same old chips and weird salsa routine (never touch the salsa though) and Miller Lite pitcher ($5, that's why). Game time, going well, 1-0, then 1-1, then a rally with bases loaded and Ortiz up. Saweet.
Then it happens.
Inexplicably, the group in front of us, they get up and leave their prime table. All five of us look at each other simulatenously. "Take it," one of us says. I don't remember who said it. I might have. I didn't question it though. It had a clear view of the big screen. So in the middle of this major rally, this major play, we all gather our drinks and chips and bags and hats and jerseys (and you think I'm exaggerating, but no, we literally had changes of Sox clothes with us). And we move.
And I can't even come up with a good reason why I did this, and I feel like apologizing to the guys I did it to, but I asked some guys now in back of us, "Hey is it okay if we sit here? Can you see still?" The guys are like looking at me as though I'm from outerspace, just making hand motions like "yeah it's fine whatever I don't care please stop talking shut up watch game now big thing oh man yes fine great." So I shrug and turn around and as I turn around, I hear the entire bar groan. Like the entire bar. And then I see what has happened: Bellhorn got picked off second. Rally over.
I had been talking to some guys while David Ortiz was up, in a 1-1 game, bases loaded situation. I can't believe I did that. I really felt like apologizing, but I didn't have time, because the rest of the table began freaking out that we had jinxed the entire game because we had moved. Then I got caught up in that and we went back and forth on whether we should abandon our new place, even though we could actually see the entire game from here. Finally, we settled on staying because we still had our rally trucker hats which could be used in case of emergency and those would bring us good karma should we need it.
This is an actual conversation that went on. For at least ten minutes. Taken completely seriously by everyone at the table. We could have been debating the Middle East peace accords and we'd have the same gravity in the conversation.
It was in those twenty minutes that I freaked out; when I almost had to puke, die, cry, and cartwheel at once. It's an insane jumble of emotions that only a true lunatic can experience. What can I say.
And then, something miraculous happened. Jason Varitek hit a homerun to tie it up at 3-3. Just like that, the entire game shifted in my mind. Varitek's homer had come with two outs. He'd already struck out. Cesar Crespo was having better at bats than Varitek, and really, that pains me to write. But it's true. And then he did it. Crushed the ball and, I believe, the Angels' hopes of winning the game. With one pitch, he'd sent the message - just like he had on July 24th: don't mess with these Red Sox.
The rest of the team followed Varitek. Sacrifice fly gets 4-3 score. Pedro goes out there and gets a 95 mph pitch to get the final out in the seventh inning. Miraculously, Francona doesn't send Pedro back out for the eighth, and, as though some real California angels were watching out for the Sox, the bullpen got the Angels out - one, two, three - in the eighth. Cabrera cleared the bases in the ninth, and suddenly, the close game was done. Sox won it, 8-3, with Foulke ending the whole thing the best way possible, with a strikeout.
It was that ending - it was after the Varitek homer, with everything that followed - that I really started to stop knocking on wood every two seconds. This team, THIS TEAM, has something. I really think so. I might want to shoot myself for writing it, but whatever. I'm saying it: this team can win it all.
Back in 1999, when the UConn men won the national championship, I remember having this insane confidence. I really thought, "No. Nobody can beat them. Rip Hamilton won't let them be beaten. Kevin Freeman won't let them get that basket." And sure enough, nobody could beat them.
I'm gonna say it: last night, I got the exact same feeling with the Sox as I had in 1999 with the Huskies. The Sox aren't going to let anybody beat them. I feel like if Schilling is out there, he will lay down and die and make the other team step over his body before he lets them beat him. Pedro showed last night that he'd do the same, only maybe he'd crust himself in gold first or something insanely divaish first. But his seventh inning showed it: when he's out there, his team will win. And the offense showed their resolve. I believe that Pokey Reese will pull down the Good Year blimp if that's what it takes to get a ball. Millar will do a backbend kickover to stop one from heading to the outfield. And we even have a better first baseman than Millar in Mientkiewicz. Opponents have a better shot at spelling the guy's name correctly than they do getting a ball past him. Cabrera is a human hoover. This team has it.
I might sound too optimstic. Part of me, I admit, wants to go back and erase it all and write "Well maybe I mean they might be okay I don't know I mean I really can't say anything for sure might die okay kind of I sort of believe that they're good I mean they might lose" but you know what, forget it. I'm not going to buy into any of it. I want the Sox to have the confidence to believe they can win it all, so I have to have the same.
I'm still going to wear my Sox gear every day though. I'll still wear my Nixon shirt for clincher luck. I'll still fight an invalid for a cab to make it to the Cask in time to watch the game with our same pitcher of Miller lite. Don't worry. I haven't become totally sane. But I have had a change of heart. I'm not going to prepare myself for the worst. You can't. When you're sledding down that hill, full speed ahead, you can't be worried about the tree that's fifty feet off to the right. You're on course for a great ride. You gotta believe you're gonna make it all the way through the ride in order to enjoy it completely.
You just gotta believe.
I'm so glad I do.
That's what it's like watching the Red Sox during the playoffs. It's the definition of an emotional rollercoaster.
Let me begin before the game. This playoff story starts back at BU, in the Law Auditorium, where I first wanted to kill myself.
That's not even a funny joke because we were talking about depression and suicide prevention, but the truth was, I was threatening the life of anybody who prolonged the session by asking any question, no matter how valid or important. Someone could have said, "Hi, I'm asking for help because I'm depressed," and sadly, at that moment, I would have shot them for them. That is how sick it was.
I'm not even proud of that. Not even proud of that joke, which originally read that I would have handed them a rope. It's not even funny. And yet, I can't help it, I really felt like if it came to it, I could punch someone square in the face just to leave the room.
Let me say one thing: thank god for california time. Seriously. If the game had been at seven p.m., I would probably be a mound of dust somewhere. I would have exploded. I would not have been able to sit through several lectures while Pedro Martinez went against Bartolo Colon for a chance to clinch the ALDS on Friday. Could not. Would not. I might have cried. I really might have.
Anyhow, the meeting finally ends, I sprint out of there - and I mean SPRINT - with Cataldo and Katie Long in tow. We actually decide to cab it to Cask n Flagon. From the GSU. To Cask. That's like, a ten minute walk. And yet, at 9:50, after we heard that our lucky table had been taken, we realized, we had no choice. Desperate measures were taken. I think we even scared the cab driver, because I shouted at him "CASK N FLAGON!" as I jumped in the car and kind of invaded his personal space in front of the plastic divider thingy just to make sure he understood that my "Cask n Flagon" request was equivalent to someone asking for the hospital. I seriously would have taken a pregnant woman's cab at that point.
Maybe not.
But the fact that I'm not entirely sure on the situation shows you the level of desperation. In fact, in that previous paragraph, I almost joked that I had pushed through the plastic divider thingy and put my index finger up to his neck to add pressure to the situation, but I backed off because I thought it was too insane. But really, anything I could do - including getting out of the cab and pushing it myself - I would do, just to get us to that bar faster.
We finally get to the bar, get inside, see our table's taken, have a legit mini-breakdown, settle on a shitty table, order our same old chips and weird salsa routine (never touch the salsa though) and Miller Lite pitcher ($5, that's why). Game time, going well, 1-0, then 1-1, then a rally with bases loaded and Ortiz up. Saweet.
Then it happens.
Inexplicably, the group in front of us, they get up and leave their prime table. All five of us look at each other simulatenously. "Take it," one of us says. I don't remember who said it. I might have. I didn't question it though. It had a clear view of the big screen. So in the middle of this major rally, this major play, we all gather our drinks and chips and bags and hats and jerseys (and you think I'm exaggerating, but no, we literally had changes of Sox clothes with us). And we move.
And I can't even come up with a good reason why I did this, and I feel like apologizing to the guys I did it to, but I asked some guys now in back of us, "Hey is it okay if we sit here? Can you see still?" The guys are like looking at me as though I'm from outerspace, just making hand motions like "yeah it's fine whatever I don't care please stop talking shut up watch game now big thing oh man yes fine great." So I shrug and turn around and as I turn around, I hear the entire bar groan. Like the entire bar. And then I see what has happened: Bellhorn got picked off second. Rally over.
I had been talking to some guys while David Ortiz was up, in a 1-1 game, bases loaded situation. I can't believe I did that. I really felt like apologizing, but I didn't have time, because the rest of the table began freaking out that we had jinxed the entire game because we had moved. Then I got caught up in that and we went back and forth on whether we should abandon our new place, even though we could actually see the entire game from here. Finally, we settled on staying because we still had our rally trucker hats which could be used in case of emergency and those would bring us good karma should we need it.
This is an actual conversation that went on. For at least ten minutes. Taken completely seriously by everyone at the table. We could have been debating the Middle East peace accords and we'd have the same gravity in the conversation.
It was in those twenty minutes that I freaked out; when I almost had to puke, die, cry, and cartwheel at once. It's an insane jumble of emotions that only a true lunatic can experience. What can I say.
And then, something miraculous happened. Jason Varitek hit a homerun to tie it up at 3-3. Just like that, the entire game shifted in my mind. Varitek's homer had come with two outs. He'd already struck out. Cesar Crespo was having better at bats than Varitek, and really, that pains me to write. But it's true. And then he did it. Crushed the ball and, I believe, the Angels' hopes of winning the game. With one pitch, he'd sent the message - just like he had on July 24th: don't mess with these Red Sox.
The rest of the team followed Varitek. Sacrifice fly gets 4-3 score. Pedro goes out there and gets a 95 mph pitch to get the final out in the seventh inning. Miraculously, Francona doesn't send Pedro back out for the eighth, and, as though some real California angels were watching out for the Sox, the bullpen got the Angels out - one, two, three - in the eighth. Cabrera cleared the bases in the ninth, and suddenly, the close game was done. Sox won it, 8-3, with Foulke ending the whole thing the best way possible, with a strikeout.
It was that ending - it was after the Varitek homer, with everything that followed - that I really started to stop knocking on wood every two seconds. This team, THIS TEAM, has something. I really think so. I might want to shoot myself for writing it, but whatever. I'm saying it: this team can win it all.
Back in 1999, when the UConn men won the national championship, I remember having this insane confidence. I really thought, "No. Nobody can beat them. Rip Hamilton won't let them be beaten. Kevin Freeman won't let them get that basket." And sure enough, nobody could beat them.
I'm gonna say it: last night, I got the exact same feeling with the Sox as I had in 1999 with the Huskies. The Sox aren't going to let anybody beat them. I feel like if Schilling is out there, he will lay down and die and make the other team step over his body before he lets them beat him. Pedro showed last night that he'd do the same, only maybe he'd crust himself in gold first or something insanely divaish first. But his seventh inning showed it: when he's out there, his team will win. And the offense showed their resolve. I believe that Pokey Reese will pull down the Good Year blimp if that's what it takes to get a ball. Millar will do a backbend kickover to stop one from heading to the outfield. And we even have a better first baseman than Millar in Mientkiewicz. Opponents have a better shot at spelling the guy's name correctly than they do getting a ball past him. Cabrera is a human hoover. This team has it.
I might sound too optimstic. Part of me, I admit, wants to go back and erase it all and write "Well maybe I mean they might be okay I don't know I mean I really can't say anything for sure might die okay kind of I sort of believe that they're good I mean they might lose" but you know what, forget it. I'm not going to buy into any of it. I want the Sox to have the confidence to believe they can win it all, so I have to have the same.
I'm still going to wear my Sox gear every day though. I'll still wear my Nixon shirt for clincher luck. I'll still fight an invalid for a cab to make it to the Cask in time to watch the game with our same pitcher of Miller lite. Don't worry. I haven't become totally sane. But I have had a change of heart. I'm not going to prepare myself for the worst. You can't. When you're sledding down that hill, full speed ahead, you can't be worried about the tree that's fifty feet off to the right. You're on course for a great ride. You gotta believe you're gonna make it all the way through the ride in order to enjoy it completely.
You just gotta believe.
I'm so glad I do.
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