Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

This May Be Too Soon,

This May Be Too Soon, But...

This reminds me of the state of the Nation right now...and may help those of you who cope through humor.

The Long Goodbye What we

The Long Goodbye

What we had Of course it makes me sad That is when I say to myself I won't be following You were just borrowing Me

Just one more cup of coffee
Before you have to leave
These rooms are getting tired of you
I'm hungry for familiar
Look forward to my bath
Underwater time machine

Where you'll be
I hope you'll think of me
Even though you say to yourself
I won't be following
I won't be following
I won't be following
You

--Chungking, "Following"

It's crazy. I feel like I've just lost a friend.

Having scrambled to make plans for the evening all day, since Steve is working tonight, and failed--everyone has a concert to go to, work to do, or they've left the state--I finally settled on heading to my parents' house, to do laundry as usual, eat some home cooking, and watch the Red Sox game with my father.

I got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and the radio lit up. The AM 850 frequency came in over the speakers. And in that single instant, the world changed for good.

"They are reporting that it has happened, the trade has happened," John Wollack said in a grave tone. I immediately assumed that it was Randy Johnson to the Yankees, a momentary blow, and I was coming to acceptance when he clarified: "Nomar to the Chicago Cubs."

I can't say I was surprised. We'd heard the rumors, the op/eds and WEEI callers over the past several months, insisting we get something for Nomar before he leaves us at the end of the season. But, still. I may not have been surprised, but I was shocked.

We've been lucky to have enjoyed most of our superstars finishing out their careers here. Ted Williams and Carl Yazstremski both waved their caps to the cheering Fenway crowd before heading out to pasture. But Pudge Fisk finished out his career with a Chicago team--the White Sox--and so this kind of bombshell is not unprecedented.

But, still. Nomar to the Chicago Cubs. Why not send Old Ironsides out there, too, to float in Lake Michigan? Why not uproot the Old North Church and re-plant it in the Windy City?

Nomar wasn't happy. We knew with almost 90% assurance that he was going to walk at the end of the season. We know that it's only smart management, and the earnest efforts of the organization to do what's best for our team, and our city, that have led them to make this decision. We know that, as an 'EEI caller put it, "We're going to root for the uniform, and not the player, no matter what."

But, still. Tonight, Nomar Garciaparra, one of the few human beings ever to become a Boston landmark, will put on another uniform. And we, the fans of Boston who have loved him so dearly, won't ever get the chance to say goodbye.

There's no starting pitcher or minor-league prospect, no gold-glove outfielder or solid first baseman, that's going to make that go away.

Field of Dreams Courtesy of

Field of Dreams

Courtesy of Baseball Desert--The mini-Fenway! Somewhere out in the corn... 

Sad Red To know the

Sad Red

To know the truth of history is to realize its ultimate myth and its inevitable ambiguity. --Roy P. Basler

Lately I have been reading Glenn Stout's supplement to his Red Sox Century book, a volume called Impossible Dreams: A Boston Red Sox Collection. Far from being a literary collection, the book is a series of often difficult primary-source material dealing with Boston's home nine and their often sordid history, from antiquated newspaper accounts (you can just feel crumbling, yellowed paper in your hands as you read them) of the Sox' early World Series triumphs to hilarious early accounts of the Boston Americans' (also known as the Puritans and the Pilgrims)outrageous new costumes in 1907: bright red stockings, which were to be tried on an experimental basis in the home park only.

"Then, if they do not cause any riots, they are to be tried on the road," the account states, with a straight face, as unintentionally funny a statement as I've ever read.

There have been times that reading this book has felt like drudge; others where it has given me goose bumps, as there are things about the Red Sox, and about being a Red Sox fan, that have not changed one iota in one hundred years. For example, several newspaper accounts talk of the Red Sox as a station-to-station team (although most were in the dead-ball era) without very good defense and inconsistent pitching, but with bats that lit up the night. Sound familiar? It seems from some of these accounts that the Red Sox were playing the precise same style of baseball in 1903 as in 2003.

In fact, the history of the Red Sox ties in with a much deeper history, that of the land itself that the Huntington Avenue Grounds was first built on. Rootsweb has an interesting article (yielded by my Google search for "Red stockings pilgrims") on the clothing of the original Boston Pilgrims:

Each fall at Thanksgiving time we are reminded of the misconceptions the general public has concerning the appearance of the Pilgrims, who are generally represented as somber, straight-laced Puritans in black or gray with exceedingly large white collars and cuffs. The major problem has arisen from the fact that very few historic examples of Pilgrim dress are available from art works of the period. Ever so slowly a change in this impression is beginning to be noticed.

The article goes on to point out that, for the Puritan migrants from the British Isles in the 17th century (which we refer to in our American myopia as "The Pilgrims", but they were, of course, far from the only pilgrims in history), "everyday dress was greatly influenced by the colorful clothing of the Dutch of that period, employing colors such as red, brown, blue, green, yellow and purple." Moreover,

Many of the colors may have been muted in intensity because most of the colors used in that day were those which could be obtained through the use of vegetable dyes from various plants, leaves, berries, barks and nutshells, or occasionally from the roots of certain plants...When the historic records speak of such colors as "sad red," they indicate a deep, dull red.

It's a loose connection to the Calvinist mores that form the bedrock of New England society even today, but it is there--down to our long-suffering pilgrims on the diamond, journeying to their utopia, clothed in "sad red".

Some of my own history has also come to light recently, in the form of a small white box my parents dug out of the attic on a cleaning binge a week or so ago--inside it are every last one of my baseball cards from the mid-to-late 80's, and all of them are in absolutely mint condition--the sides and corners of most of them are bitingly sharp; we're talking "right out of the package" mint condition. Call me a sap if you want, but seeing them again brought tears to my eyes. Especially when I noticed that my heroes, Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs--several cards' worth for each, I would never trade either of them with anybody--were right at the top of the pile.

Most of the cards are of the Sox--at least three complete team sets from different makers--but I have a few packs in there of other players, mostly All-Star packs: Bo Jackson. Nolan Ryan. Gary Sheffield as a Milwaukee Brewer. All of them are stuffed underneath the brightly colored miniatures of Joe Morgan, Dwight Evans, Bob Stanley, Ellis Burks, Carlos Quintana, Tony Pena, and, of course, Wade and Roger. There is no doubt as to where all other player stand compared to the Red Sox.

It's strange to me that the only real holdover from the custom of carrying portrait miniatures, so popular in medieval times, seems to be baseball cards (and maybe wallet photographs, but even those are declining in popularity from what I've seen). More than in any other sport, fans seek to collect and catalog the faces of their players, in a way that is ancient, resonating with cataloguing the saints or mapping royal bloodlines.

According to the Encyclopedia Britannica,

Miniature paintings (also called 16th or 17th century Limning) are small, finely wrought portrait executed on vellum, prepared card, copper, or ivory. The name is derived from the minium, or red lead, used by the medieval illuminators.

There's that "sad red" again.

Even in our secular age, baseball--and the Red Sox--hold a mystique, a sense of deep and abiding tradition, and a religiously ordered outlook on the universe that is as comforting as it is confining. I mention all this because there is an overtone of dread as we find our way to the end of the season, from sarcastic rejoicing (if there is such a thing) that Patriots training camp has begun, to protest over suspensions handed down for Saturday's brawl. But it helps if you step back and see Saturday's brawl as just another brawl, Sunday's win as just another win, Wednesday's loss as just another loss, the upcoming series with the Twins just another rock in our shoe on our storied, well-travelled pilgrim's road.

"Like A Fella Once Said,

"Like A Fella Once Said, 'Ain't That a Kick In the Head?'"

ARGH. 

This is what I've been reduced to: eating chocolate ice cream straight out of the carton in front of my bitchface computer after losing this entry one time around and having to reboot the goddamn thing, after a long day at work and an even longer 7-plus innings of retarded baseball, struggling to come up with words to describe my anger level.

Just when things were going well, which is of course when they always go wrong, David Borkowski of the bottom-feeding Orioles showed up tonight to play the role of Cy Young, with a perfect 4 1/3 innings to open, and a 2-hit shutout the rest of the way. Asshole. Despite the fact that Curt Schilling gave up just 3 hits over his 6-and-change innings, as I'm writing this--eighth inning, four-zip birds, Kapler just thrown out at second--he will probably be the LP.

O me of little faith--I'm going to bed. I've had enough of the stupid dumbshit goddamn sorry-ass motherfucking Red Sox today. And yes, I'm frustrated to the point of being less than articulate right now (and the fact that everything with wires has risen up in rebellion against me today isn't helping). So sue me. I've managed to refrain from talking about Patriots training camp so far, haven't I?

Whoops.

But, of course, I'll be back tomorrow, because being "wedded to the Sox" as I heard it put on WEEI today is a congenital condition with no known cure. The Sox could, of course, be mounting a late comeback right now, and I could be missing it, and there could be egg on my face tomorrow for that.

But somehow, I don't think so.

Raindrops Will Hide my Teardrops*

Raindrops Will Hide my Teardrops*

Wake has a reward in heaven. 

At times, it seems like Tim Wakefield's is the very face of suffering. It continually shocks me to realize what a relatively young man he is; since I've been aware of him, his hangdog features and his slumped shoulders, and something else--something intangible in those cornflower blue eyes, at once weighted with the world and sharp with determination--have made him seem much, much older.

Look at him tonight, after giving up a two-run homer, while the knuckleball, as PAC over at BC put it, "looked more like a meatball": snapping his glove around the toss back from Mirabelli, methodically chewing his gum, Sisyphus reincarnated on a baseball diamond.

Wake stands out in sharp contrast to his teammates in the rotation. While Curt Schilling is the master of flared-nostril intensity and Pedro the spoiled prince of god-given gifts, Derek Lowe the flighty playboy and Bronson Arroyo the fresh-faced rookie--and all conforming to one stereotype or another of a ballplayer--Wakefield is an enigma. He must make peace with the fact that he has utterly no control over his specialty pitch, that stepping out of the gate on any given night might mean a 3-hit shutout or a 10-run track meet. If the feeling you get watching him is any indication, being Tim Wakefield must be a very Zen experience.

The others pitch with zest, flair, and fire. Wakefield delivers the ball with a shrug.

That's not to say he's not a competitor. That's the paradox at the heart of what Tim Wakefield means to the Sox: Even as he chews that gum meditatively, gloves the new ball after the last one has left the park, he is as determined to make the next pitch flutter as he is resigned to his fate the last time around. There's grief on that epic face, years' worth, but there's a steely determination that makes Curt Schilling look like so much bluster, Pedro a silly fop, Derek an unhinged lunatic.

Tim Wakefield is the unsung hero of that rotation. He's never beaten the Yankees in the World Series. He didn't throw Don Zimmer to the ground. He didn't strike out the last two Oakland batters. Sadly, he will probably most be remembered--when he is remembered at all--for being the sacrificial lamb in the after-midnight coup de grace of Game 7. As such, he's also the embodiment of the forgotten lesson on this quest for a Boston World Series Championship: the value, and the valor, in the struggle.

Tonight was another one of those nights. Pop, pop, pop, all over the place. A ghastly bounce on a batted ball sailed over Wakefield's head, and he was watching Bellhorn expectantly when he realized that the ball had settled just behind him. The bases were loaded twice--once with no one out, once with one out. He'd given up four runs by the third inning.

The Sox had cut the lead in half, thanks to RBI hits by Johnny Damon and David Ortiz, when the tarps came out on the field.

A chance to continue the winning streak, a chance to send the knuckler out and wait for the judgement of the umpire, the breeze, the bat, the Fates. A chance to lead the comeback, to settle in, to set that hiccuping butterfly in motion, and all of it cut short tonight by a cloud.

Just another night in the life of Tim Wakefield.

___________________________________________
*The Temptations, "I Wish That It Would Rain"

Where To? Last one out,

Where To?

Last one out, turn off the lights.

Proof that the world may be ending: Kevin Millar has just been named Co-American League Player of the Week.

Proof that the world may just be beginning: the Sox stomped all over the Orioles last night, restoring the rightful order of the universe.

It's far too early to pronounce the team on the road to success, and they've been playing far too well of late to pronounce them dead, either. We're in limbo.

Last night a hard rain fell on Camden Yards in the mid-sixth, and by the seventh the infield was a sloshing track of mud. The pitcher's mound grew soggy as well, making Pedro fuss, stamping and kicking his cleats against the rubber after almost every pitch in the late going.

Leaving him out there made me nervous. He was up 12-2, there were just seven outs left to get, and sure, the bullpen was tired, but you don't leave your prized vintage Corvette out in the rain, and you don't do that to your $17.5 million starter, either.

Sure enough, our delicate little Dominican soon pulled up lame. Someone once remarked of Pedro, "Other pitchers are horses. Pedro is a pony." I don't see the comment as derogatory--it's absolutely true.

Why we have yet to employ a manager who understands that, I thought as I watched Pedro wince and squat and wiggle after feeling a pinch in his hip, is beyond me.

He'll give you seven beautiful innings on a silver platter in Game 7 of the ALCS. Not eight. And when the mound becomes a slippery slope, you remove him and his skittish body from the situation if he's up by ten runs. Hopefully we'll stop having to learn these things the hard way before his career is over.

But enough hand-wringing over Pedro. The Sox still brought the proverbial carousel to the diamond last night, and the contest matched more closely what most of us have envisioned in the matchup: a sound drubbing of a bad ballclub by a very, very good one.

So where do we go from here?

There are encouraging signs everywhere, if you're into coincidences. From things in my personal life I won't bore you with to the fact that Edward and The Soxaholix have returned from hiatus to the fact that the Sox have kept winning after Saturday's revelation against the Yankees--many things seem to have reached a point of renewal, rejuvenation, a sense of coming out the other side.

But my Red Sox heart is not given to be optimistic. Lately, though, my pessimism seems to have been a good luck charm for my team--as you can see in my earlier entries for the Yankees series, envisioning every bad outcome in a given situation seemed to stave them off. So I tell myself that my continued nervousness is for the good of the team.

Of course, it's more about self-preservation than anything. I've said it all along this season--the Sox would never pass up the chance to break our hearts in October by tanking mid-summer. I feel good about the rest of the season, but I feel that October heartbreak coming down the line. I can see us reverting to the bumbling, fumbling, error machine we started the season with at the worst possible time, in the worst possible place.

So we wait to see where this journey will lead us. And I know I'm just fooling myself thinking pessimism--or anything, really--could save me in the end. Downtrodden or optimistic, joyful or grieving, we belong to the Red Sox, and they will do with us as they wish.

Play by Play This game,

Play by Play

This game, huge as it is, deserves a moment-by-moment description--consider this my own kind of scorecard. I apologize for its length, but as they say in AA, take what you can use and leave the rest behind.

Chapter One

Bases loaded. No one out. First inning. 2-0 Yankees.

The back of Manny's helmet, far shinier than the front, gleams in the lights from the cameras, and the flashbulbs, and the stadium roof, gleams under the glare of approximately 70,000 eyes, as he takes his long, slow constitutional behind the catcher to stand in the right-handed batter's box.

He's greeted by a tidal wave of stomachs, upholstered in various shades of team colors, as the crowd gets to its feet. He's greeted by Manny, Manny, Manny, Manny.

The wind is even blowing out to left field.

Manny delivers, with a bounding grounder that seems destined for the left-field corner, but so does A-Rod, diving to his right and mailing the ball over to Jorge Posada, who drags his knee, then his shin, then his calf, then his ankle, and finally his toe, in the manner of an NFL receiver at the white line, across the plate. The umpire calls Johnny Damon out.

Nomar makes contact, but the cheers are choked when Kenny Lofton wraps his glove around the ball.

Kevin Millar comes up, once again the representative of everything that's been wrong with the Red Sox so far this season, and everything that's been right this series.

If every game, every inning, between the Sox and Yankees, is like an arm-wrestling match (an image I often have while watching them play), Millar's golfed two-run base hit is the clenched bicep that drives the Yankees' hand to the table. For now.

"A most preposterous first inning," according to ESPN broadcaster Jon Miller.

Contreras, with his morose features, trudges like Eeyore back to the dugout, where a stern Joe Torre regards him with wordless reproach. Derek takes a last sip of water, heads out to the mound.

Chapter Two

As Derek gets his one-two-three inning, I develop a kind of strange calm. The most I've done during these early stages is applaud our good plays. I haven't yelled, cursed or even muttered once. I am alone in the dark living room, and quiet. When something goes badly--such as a spectacular fielding error divided among every member of the Red Sox' right-side fielding staff in the first inning--I sigh at most, and recall that yesterday's victory started 3-0 and remained that way till the third inning. When something goes well, such as a strikeout from Lowe, or Millar's base hit, I clap, slowly, deliberately, then drop my hands in my lap again, remembering yesterday's sixth.

Bumping along in a boat. Letting the swells rock me first one way, then the other.

For the record, Johnny's hit was fair, but the umpires are not. But they are entities which may not be negotiated with. As arbitrary as fate. And like fate, they usually favor the Yankees.

There's nothing they can do, however, when Johnny goes them one better and makes the score 5-2 with a dinger off the Pesky pole.

The pitchers are being dissected before our very eyes. Contreras has rattled apart with the first exploratory incision. Derek may have a few layers left to go.

Bellhorn follows with a towering home run over the 380 marker. The cheers, while full-throated, retain a note of caution. It's just another preposterous inning, and only the second.

Manny and Ortiz, not to be outdone by the leadoff man and the AL strikeout leader, swing for the fences. Both fly out.

Nomar jerks one through the left side. Base hit. Stottlemyer, chewing contemptuously, pays Contreras a visit. Jeter visits for the second time in the inning. Most likely both take this opportunity to remind Contreras who they are playing, and what inning it is.

He's up to 52 pitches, though, and he's beginning to receive gift calls at what can only charitably be called the corners. His curveball begins to hang. Millar sends one to the hooligans under the Bud Light sign at the corner of the Monster. They are unfortunately waiting to receive his offering to the left of the foul pole.

Again. Foul to the left field corner, where the fans are said to commune during the game with Manny Ramirez.

Again. Almost the same place as the last, off into the night. Millar watches it from the plate, then hunkers back down to work, shaking his head. The park is on its feet, but how many more chances does he have?

None, as it turns out. Millar greets the next pitch with his left shoulder, and Contreras draws a warning from the umpire.

Torre finishes a discussion with the home plate umpire, and stumps away with his characteristic jerking gait, shaking his head.

Moments later, Mueller finds himself running two-thirds of the way to first base with the handle of the bat still in his hand. His broken-bat grounder finds Jeter, who finds second base, and Millar finds himself out.

"The inning is at long last over," Miller says. "And it's been a 36-pitch nightmare for Jose Contreras."

Chapter Three

The Yankees offense begins the next inning by wasting an out on a pop-up from Gary Sheffield. This, contrary to what you might believe if you stand outside the borders of the Nation, makes me more nervous than if the tables were turned.

"Only seven innings left to go," says Miller.

Derek misses outside, gathers himself, misses outside again, pounding his glove in frustration. You want to cup him in your hands, surround him protectively like a teetering house of cards. All he needs to do is avoid collapse.

As usual.

On a 3-1 count, A-Rod takes a step toward first base on a pitch that turns out to be Strike 2. His grounder is right to Nomar. Click, it hits Millar in the glove. Thump, his foot hits the bag. Businesslike. Ordinary.

Two straight strikes to erstwhile Red Sox-killer Jorge Posada. The cameras show both Brian Cashman, in the stands, and Joe Torre, on the bench, wearing the same tight-jawed expression.

Derek, determined to keep things interesting, bungles the next two pitches, evening the count.

Sometimes, I think--as I do a few seconds later as the pitch comes in "juuust a little low,"--that Derek's number was selected for his favorite pitch count.

Another pitch, and what started as an 0-2 count becomes a two-out walk. This is a microcosm of why we are not yet relaxed.

A microcosm of why we are still optimistic, however, comes along in the person of Johnny Damon, who snags a fly ball in center field to end the inning.

"One man left on base," Miller sums up as the Sox jog in off the field.

A few minutes later, Johnny Damon comes up with two outs, and the little squares on ESPN's schematic diamond remain dark. The first one lights up, finally, as Damon goes 3 for 3. Seven hits in thirteen at-bats in this series.

Did Mark Bellhorn wear those white gloves before? They look like Mickey Mouse's hands.

"This is a stolen base waiting to happen," Miller remarks as Bellhorn stands in.

A pickoff throw, and Damon hits the miked base bag with an "Oof." Safe.

Bellhorn, meanwhile, has quietly worked a 2-0 count, but abandons Johnny mid-run toward second as his pop-fly finds Matsui's glove.

Chapter Four

NYY 2 4 1
BOS 6 7 0

Peter Gammons is telling the broadcasters he doesn't feel that New York will be able to make a deal with Randy Johnson as Bernie Williams smacks a single to right. We've reached the Lull--it happens at every party, in every day, the lowest point of the energy trough. It's a last breather before the home stretch.

The cameras show someone reading the Globe in the stands. The headline: "Lowe Puts Deadline Out of Mind."

Tony Clark waves the bat in a slow arc over the plate while looking out at Derek, as if charming a snake. He chops it foul, the count still 0-2. Trade talk continues.

The cameras show Manny, his face impassive, a blue ribbon pinned to the front of his cap, swaying back and forth, staring at the grass, biting his lips. He's a humongous child, and right now, like the rest of us, he's bored.

Bored? How can this be?

A double play gooses the crowd slightly, but so far things have been quiet. Too quiet.

Tom Brokaw, Katie Couric, John Kerry and Ben Affleck are lined up in the luxury seats. I can't help but think that there are vastly poorer, vastly more deserving die-hard fans who could be there instead. Think of the heckling that could be accomplished from those boxes.

Jeter makes a throw on the run to throw out Ortiz before Ortiz even enters the camera shot. Curt Schilling leans on the dugout post, chewing, watching. Manny repeats his previous at-bat almost exactly, with a fly-out to right center. Contreras appears to be settling down. The arm-wrestling match has returned to dead center.

Someone in wire-rimmed glasses is taking animatedly to Cashman. Enrique Wilson disposes of Nomar at first base.

NYY 2 5 1
BOS 6 7 0

Chapter Five

John Kerry does an interview from the stands. He says he is certain Grady Little made a mistake. Ask him who the three and four hitters are in the lineup, though, and it's a different story.

Kenny Lofton, in the small time the camera spends focused on him, rolls his eyes at a called strike and backs out of the box. He fouls to the left field stands. Manny hook-slides directly into the wall.

John Kerry is droning on as Bellhorn steps on the bag to record the out at first base. If you were wondering why Bellhorn was stepping on the bag and not Millar, you're out of luck.

The DNC is ruining everything.

Derek Jeter at bat. John Kerry keeps blabbing on about doping. "Could David Ortiz be part of your cabinet?"

"Ha ha." Kerry says. He still probably has no more idea who Ortiz is than ever. "I'd like to welcome the World Champion Red Sox to the White House."

Thanks for the jinx, John.

In case anyone cares, Derek Lowe just struck out the other Derek.

Next batter, and Johnny flattens himself against the scoreboard, and the ball drops stupidly back down onto the warning track. Manny makes a halfhearted scoop-and-throw to where Gary Sheffield is standing on second base, blinking.

A shouting woman in the stands holds up a "Bill Mueller for President" sign.

A-Rod represents the third out. Derek elects not to chase a slow roller all the way toward first base, however, and Sheffield blinks some more on third base. Why does Sheffield blink so much?

Tom Brokaw is open-mouthed.

I'm waiting for a bad analogy here between Boston's security preparations for the DNC and the Red Sox' game plan with Derek Lowe in a jam.

Curt Schilling is shown in the dugout, absolutely mauling a piece of bubble gum with his teeth. His competitor's heart must ferment with jealousy, watching all this going on with his butt on the bench. I can't wait to see him pour that into his next start.

Two strikes on Posada. Fenway to its feet again. Juuuust a little outside. Awwwwwwww...

"I love it when the umpire does not let the crowd dictate the call," Miller says.

I, myself, love it when the broadcasters don't let the game dictate their dialogue, Joe.

NYY 2 7 1
BOS 6 7 0

Just a half-inning, but it's taken as long as the first three combined. Or so it seems.

Millar leads off the Sox fifth. His black bat hangs out over the plate as Posada gloves the ball down in the dirt. He didn't go, says the third base ump.

Next pitch..."AND MILLAR HITS ONE A MILE. BALL HEADED FOR NEW HAMPSHIRE."

It comes out of nowhere, bouncing off the Coke bottles, the ghost of a pitch returning to haunt center field. Gone but not gone.

Schilling and his gum are on camera again, as Mueller strikes out with a swing that practically screws him into the ground (to borrow a line from Bad Tom).

Fireworks are beginning across town to welcome the DNC. The only fireworks from Fenway Park so far this inning have come from Kevin Millar.

That's how it'll stay, too, as Sheffield reels the ball in yet again. He and the ball seem to have an understanding--it keeps finding him like a little dog playing fetch.

NYY 2 7 1
BOS 7 8 0

Chapter Six

Come on, when does the other shoe drop?

I have not been a fan of the outfield grass pattern this season. Earlier it was a series of haphazard stripes, and right now it looks like the pattern on one of those red and white flannel shirts lumberjacks wear.

Striyike Threee on Matsui, and he does not like it.

Is Derek aware that it's the sixth inning? Don't anybody tell him.

None of the Red Sox' uniforms seem to fit correctly. Nomar's is too tight. Manny's is too loose. Derek's sleeves are flapping in the breeze. Every member of the Sox infield boasts a wild growth of bushy facial hair, and several of them accompany this with bristling stubble on their heads. They are the anti-Yankees, whose uniforms are spic-and-span but for the allowable infield dirt, who carry their usual uniform martial haircuts. The Sox by comparison look like dishevelled geniuses.

Or at least Derek Lowe does, as he works another 0-2 count.

Terry rocks gently. He's chewing what appears to be a huge wad of pink bubblegum, but spitting nonetheless. Pokey and Tek are also benched, Tek mouthing sunflower seeds, glaring out at the field.

Breathe in. Breathe out. A swing. An out.

It can't be this easy. If it turns out to be, I will be studying this play-by-play of mine for weeks, trying to figure out how. It's never this easy.

Johnny Damon swings at a bad one. Contreras appears to be wrestling his way back up off the mat.

Could the unthinkable be happening? Could we be witnessing a pitcher's duel between...Jose Contreras and Derek Lowe?

ESPN plays a clip of a wired-up Kevin Millar calling Damon's home run. Is our Cowboy Up Kevin coming back?

Bellhorn hits a lazy double to the bullpen wall in center. The crowd wanted a homer. The crowd is getting greedy.

Contreras finally says, "no mas." Or, rather, Torre says it, but Jose doesn't put up much resistance.

Felix Heredia comes in for a lefty-lefty matchup with Ortiz. His ERA is 5.93.

"Toward the wall...but...not...caught by M--...off the wall..." the ball traces an extreme parabola, from stands to night blackness back down toward the wall, hooking into the corner, ricocheting like a pinball. Miller miscalls the ball's flight at least three times, Matsui misplays the carom, and Ortiz bats in Bellhorn.

"An easy out at Yankee Stadium," Miller comments.

Aww. Too bad.

NYY 2 7 1
BOS 8 10 0

Brett Prinz, a wet-behind-the-ears right-hander, follows Heredia to face Manny. Poor kid.

Theo Epstein is looking particularly constipated lately. Cashman, meanwhile, is now grinning and chatting with his cronies.

Sheffield runs, dives, hook-slides, and lets a fly ball from Manny go. Ortiz rumbles into third. One out, and Nomar nearly wipes out the umpire with a foul ball. The cameras show Nomar chivalrously handing him back his mask.

Manny and Ortiz are giggling about something at first and third.

Nomar strikes out on the high cheese. Two down and two on, and a chance to put this thing away for Kevin Millar.

Prinz clearly fears Millar. He nibbles around the plate. Ball one. Wild curveball fouled off, lucky foul for strike one. Outside again, ball two. Broken-bat bloop! Left field! Millar suddenly can do no wrong. It's like he's been saving all his hits for this weekend. Which is okay by me.

NYY 2 7 1
BOS 9 11 0

Yankees Suck!
Yankees Suck!
Yankees Suck!
Yankees Suck!

The crowd smells blood. Prinz loads the bases.

"People talk about them missing Roger Clemens and Andy Pettite," Rick Sutcliffe (replacing Joe Morgan in the broadcast booth tonight) points out. "But they forget about the importance of David Wells, who hasn't played on a losing team since 1995."

Belli grounds right back to Prinz. Despite Sutcliffe's remarks and a camera shot of Mike Mussina looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead in the Yankees' dugout, I'm still nervous.

Chapter Seven

I thought I heard Jon Miller talk about Derek Lowe in the past tense.

"Did they pull Derek?" I ask. "Tell me they didn't pull Derek."

Then I realize what I'm saying.

Bellhorn boots the ball Buckner-style. Kenny Lofton's the first man on base for the Yankees in three innings.

Kapler camps under a pop-fly from Jeter. Lofton stays right where he is.

Sheffield waves at a low offering from Derek, but it's hard to distinguish from his irritating batting stance. He didn't go, says the umpire.

"Come on. He swung. He went."

Belli one-hands Sheffield's pop-up. "You gotta love the passion of these Red Sox fans," Sutcliffe says. "They're up 9-2 and they cheer their catcher catching a pop-up."

Hey. You don't know where we've been, Sutcliffe.

Example: Derek works two strikes on A-Rod (who's getting the "Roooo-gerrrr" style cheer now), then passes a ball. Lofton gets to second.

Ben Affleck is now chomping on gum a la Schilling. He knows. He knows.

John Kerry and Tom Werner are standing, hands folded decorously, mouths closed. Pricks.

The strike zone has become the twilight zone. A-Rod draws a walk.

Lowe gets a pat on the butt.

"This is great, what Francona is doing here. This kind of thing has been the key to the Yankees' success, and Francona is recognizing it and doing something about it," Sutcliffe says.

Pulling the pitcher at the right time. That was Francona's chief qualification in the post-traumatic stress of the off-season. I only hope Sutcliffe is right.

I can't get comfortable. I am not relaxed. I am not happy. I feel compelled to write all this down, record every moment I can, for re-hashing later if need be. If anything, it's a nice little psychological profile on what a Red Sox fan goes through in every game. No moment is unimportant. Everything is critical. Once upon a time we lost a game--and the World Series--by one strike three times. Nothing can be overlooked.

Timlin comes in. Not "in the eighth" as they say, but close enough. Ball one is in the dirt. Posada fouls one off. Another pop-foul, both Belli and Mueller chasing.

"Get it, Belli, get it." I want out of this inning. Out, out, out.

Ball two is in the dirt.

Ball three is up and away. Matsui is on deck. No. No. No. No. No. No. No...

Ball four, and the gods have frowned.

I'm doing the math. Four on, if...then...9-6...worst case...

And then it happens. Jesus. Jesus.

NYY 6 8 1
BOS 9 11 0

"Suddenly there's an almost deathly still that descends on this old ballpark." Right you are, Jon.

Strike three, and out three, follow mercifully, but the horse has officially left the barn.

sox half. Kapler pops up to Tony Clark. Our knuckles are nearing the table.

Johnny Damon flies out.

Ben Affleck tells a reporter bimbo that he has been forced by Kerry's appearance to sit next to the Yankees dugout. Poor guy. He says he's exchanged words with A-Rod. All of which is dumb PR bullshit, but when Johnny Damon's fly-out sails away, when Bellhorn strikes out, Affleck blows off the reporter bimbo completely. That's how you can tell he's really a fan. Sitting, with his green and white "B" cap, in Steinbrenner's traditional seat.

What does that mean?

Chapter Eight

Terry Adams, number 53 on your program, a recent acquisition from the Blue Jays, is welcomed to Boston by being dunked summarily in the boiling lobster pot of a Sox-Yankees battle.

He's a veteran, he's been decent even on a bad team, but Fenway sits back with a palpable "hmmph." We'll believe it when he strikes out the side.

Tony Clark K's for the fourth consecutive time. He's getting called out on Steinbrenner's carpet when he gets back, and it ain't gonna be no damn Visa commercial.

Foulke is warming in the bullpen. I should shut the TV off now. That's what I keep thinking. I should just not watch the Sox until late July, and I should shut off every game where they're in the lead by the seventh inning. Note to self. Will remember this next year.

Somehow my butt will not leave the chair, though.

If whatsisass there gets the side, and Francona still puts in Foulke, I will commence fashioning my voodoo doll tomorrow.

Enrique Wilson walks. Maybe I won't have to worry about the voodoo doll thing just yet.

Whatever His Name Is keeps trying to get a curve over, and it ends up as more of a...bent-open coathanger. I don't know. I'm starting to get punchy.

You could hear a pin drop at Fenway Park. John Kerry is still yakking, but there are several hard-faced young men, looking very much products of Southie, shooting daggers at him from behind.

Kapler lets the goddamn ball drop, and his throw is profoundly retarded. I want to scream. Jeter represents the tying goddamn run. Francona taps Foulke.

I should shut the TV off now. I should shut the TV off now.

Five outs. Foulke must get five outs. Knock knock. Groundhog Day!

NYY 6 9 1
BOS 9 12 1

First pitch is right back at Foulke, caroming off his right shin. He scoops it up and tosses to Belli. Belli guns it to first, hitting Jeter in the back. I'm assuming the position, but the umpires suddenly come through like the Divine Wind and call Jeter out for being inside the base line.

A cast of thousands, meanwhile, is watching Foulke throw, assessing whether he has a boo-boo.

"He's your final card. It's all in the hands of Keith Foulke," Sutcliffe says.

Sheffield's up. He's four for six lifetime against Foulke. And Foulke may or may not have a boo-boo. I'm going to throw up.

The ball's a base hit as soon as it comes off the bat. I cover my eyes. It's headed for the left field corner. At least a double, two more runs, 9-8 Sox with four interminable outs left to go in the game. In other words, Foulked again.

Except, wait: it runs directly into Manny's glove.

Thank you, God. Thank you, Manny Ramirez.

NYY 6 9 1
BOS 9 12 1

The "massive artillerymen," Ortiz and Manny, as well as their Transformer-style dual alter ego, "Manny Ortez," for the John Kerrys of the audience, are up. This is the last great shining hope. We must score runs. We must score runs.

Ortiz bloops to right. So far, so good.

"Allowing unearned runs, that's the biggest problem with the Sox," Miller pronounces. Thank you, Doctor.

Manny falls behind Prinz 1-2, then it evens up at 2-2. Manny hits with two strikes. Come on. Come on. In the name of all that is good, holy, and free of pinstripes, we must. score. runs.

Prinz gets him looking. Manny editorializes to the umpire. Here comes Nomar.

Sox fans in the stands are silent. Clutching beer cups and biting nails.

Nomar pops out to Jeter. Out 2.

Millar's back. Millar is it. I'm drowning in the irony.

Torre makes a pitching change, bringing in the young, flame-throwing Scott Proctor against Millar. In the interim, I'm forced to endure a commercial break.

Back from commercial, Millar pops up foul, and Derek Jeter risks losing an arm reaching in among Red Sox fans on the third-base side trying to make the catch.

Back at the plate. Wild pitch. Ortiz now in scoring position. Dear. God. Help. Us.

Sutcliffe and Miller are talking about what hit would work from Millar. "You can't hit it right at one of the Yankees fielders," Sutcliffe says. "You have to go down the sides."

"A fly to left that scrapes the wall. That'll get Ortiz in," Miller agrees.

Ground out, 6-3.

NYY 6 9 1
BOS 9 13 1

We're screwed.

Chapter Nine

Mah-Cahty catches the A-Rod popup. Francona earns marginal clemency points from me for putting him in.

Fly ball, there's Damon. Out 2.

We've been here before. Oh, yes, we have.

I'm going to throw up.

Matsui to Damon. As soon as it comes off the bat, Belli pumps his fist.

I don't know what to do. It's incomprehensible that they won. I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop for so long that I forgot to enjoy the game.

But here's the story now:

The season series stands at 8 to 5, Sox. The Sox are 7.5 back in the division. They are tied with Oakland for the wild card. It is July 25th, nearly the 26th, and the season is now a gigantic question mark. Had we lost today, I'd have been able to pack it in, consider it the coup de grace, and get on with my life. But now...it could be the start of a beautiful thing, or it could all crash down by next weekend. The fact is we don't know, and so we're suckered in for another little while.

"I love the Red Sox," a guy told ESPN interviewers pre-game. "They apparently hate me, though." Yep, pretty much. They won't let us in and they won't let us go this season. Those fuckers.

Worst of all, though, now I have to wait to the end of the season to wash these clothes.

T Minus 10 It's the

T Minus 10

It's the biggest game of the season. It is the biggest because any bigger games to follow will hinge on tonight.

I'm alone in my apartment and I can't sit still. Having run out of other things to keep me busy, I'm doing what I do best: blabber on this website.

Where are you, Red Sox Nation? Are you in your apartment? In your living room? Are you with friends? Alone? Are you on the couch? In the recliner? On a bar stool? On the sidewalk? In the stands?

Do you have snacks and beer, or do you hold yourself to water like an ascetic? I admit I've eaten myself silly today. I'm stressed out.

It's the biggest game of the season. Where are you, Red Sox Nation? Stand and be accounted for in this moment.

Tomorrow, it will be another world.

"Baseball Will Be a Blessing

"Baseball Will Be a Blessing to Us, and Heal Our Losses"

Former Sox pitcher and current NESN broadcaster Dennis Eckersley is now in the Hall of Fame, and as I write this is struggling to maintain his composure during his acceptance speech. Meanwhile, can the Hall of Fame of Mulletude be far behind? 

Read about Eck's incredible life here