I feel like I've just downed three gigantic Pixi Stix and washed it down with two liters of Mountain Dew and chased it with a Red Bull. I want to run down the street laughing maniacally. What a game.
This is exactly the kind of game I've longed to see in person--the kind when the boys are down but not out and then they wrench themselves out of the top of the ninth with a miraculous rundown play between third and home and they're tied at two and it feels like a vice grip on your head and then there's a full count to David Ortiz and KA FRIGGING POW HE SENDS IT RIGHT OVER THE WALL and they have to play "Dirty Water" three times before the fans will leave the stands.
A barn-burner. A close one. A jim-dandy. A walkoff. A wallbanger. A humdinger. Getting off the schneid. A whangdinger. A Big Papi blue plate special.
How did I love this game? Let me count the ways.
A complete game win for Tim Wakefield.
Stellar defense from John Olerud.
An intentional walk for John Olerud.
A spectacular rundown of Benji Molina and his drag chute between third and home after a lame-duck grounder by Chone Figgins.
A shot to friggin' Saturn by Big Papi to win the game, and the ensuing mob at the plate.
The Devil Rays came back to beat the Yankees.
Right now, I really should go to bed because I have this thing called a job in the morning--but I know I'll be giggling up at the ceiling most of the night--the Red Sox are my heroin, and that was the REALLY good stuff. I wasn't even in the ballpark tonight, but my adrenaline is pumping like crazy.
Mornings are dewier, fuzzier at the edges. School buses are lumbering over the roads on the morning commute. The late afternoon light is starting to bend into delicious honey-gold. The musky scent of leaves just barely beginning to turn outside my window will blow across my smiling face as I sleep.
It's my favorite season of the year, and though winter comes fast on its heels, with the Sox playing like they did tonight, I find it a more hopeful season than spring.