See You on the Dark Side of the Moon
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs Got to keep the loonies on the path
The game was well in hand--more specifically, in the broad palms of Curt Schilling. Gritting his teeth, flaring his nostrils and swiping one paw across his bristling face every so often, he set about locking down an 11-4 spanking of the Devil Rays, his 20th win and the final work for the Red Sox before heading back to Yankee Stadium, site of all our woes.
The eye of the NESN camera wandered, seeming to read our thoughts. From the seventh inning on, the game took on a definite last-day-of-school feeling; Red Sox Nation checked its collective watch, tapped its collective pencil on some metaphorical desk. The camera finally focused on the Hood blimp floating white in a soft autumn night.
The blimp hung there, twisting slowly in the wind currents. The night cupped it, inky sateen. A few stars came into focus as the view lingered.
Crickets sang a lazy song outside the window. The nights are still humid, still a little warm--the crisp wood-smoke smell of autumn has yet to descend in earnest, at least in my neighborhood.
On TV just then, and in the millions of living rooms connected by it, there was a serendipitous pause; a sense, for a quick second, inhaling, and exhaling slowly, of, Here we are. Finally.
Jerry Remy cleared his throat while the blimp bobbed along overhead. His voice floated dreamily over that lazy backdrop: "How long do you think it would take that thing to fly to New York?"