Why Not Us?

I promised a sort of omnibus playoff post once the ALCS was over. And it’s over. And I sort of can’t believe it. I’m writing today off as obnoxious fan day. I have my Yankee Hater hat on, and I’m ready for anything. SOX WIN THE PENNANT means, to me, that I get one day to glare at everyone who ever shouted “1918″ to me, or (I or they) imagined doing so. Do you want me to hit you?

Yes, I’m still delirious. I blankly stared at the television for some two hours last night, still in disbelief. Finally, I returned home and started plotting research strategies for a five-page paper I have to write on Tender is the Night. If that sounds like a weird response, well, it is. This series, these playoffs, have been pretty weird. Anyone can go back in time and read what a mess last year’s playoffs were. In fact, maybe I should even do that, so I avoid repeating myself here. Nah. Well, let’s go ahead to the ALDS…

If I can be blamed for overwhelming arrogance, it would be during the ALDS. I am not sure I ever had the slightest doubt that the Sox would beat the snot out of the Angels. The Sox beat Anaheim during the regular season for the first time on July 16, on their fourth try. After six games, they had gone 2-4 against the Angels, and the split series in July was emblematic of the Sox troubles of earlier in the year that they had started to shed by sweeping Oakland earlier in the month. The Anaheim series, I remember, I considered a sort of return to form. The playoffs were still distant, and I still had faith, but I started imagining a playoff-free October.

Then we swept the potent, surging Angels to open the last month of the season. I was cocky. The wins came right in the middle of a 20-2 swing, a month since the last back-to-back losses. So yeah, I expected a win. Maybe even a sweep. I was so cocky that I didn’t really pay much attention to the series. Yeah, MLB complicated things by making two of the games day games, but still. I left work in the middle of Game 3, and Rimas called me to tell me Vlad had just tied the game off of a grand slam and got upset that I didn’t start freaking out right away. It was Game 3, after all, and, well, I had no doubt the Sox would win the series. If I got antsy, it was only since I was feasting on the idea of a sweep while the Yankees and Twins battled out a winner in five, with depleted bullpens.

Yes. I’ll get back to this, but you read correctly: “Yankees and Twins battled out a winner.” I didn’t care whom we met in the ALCS. In fact, my choice was the Twins—mostly since I never root for the Yankees to win—even if a Yanks win helps the Sox or makes better theater. Never. Would I have been crying last night if it was a bunch of silent people at the Triple-H Dome last night staring on in disbelief? You’d better believe it. Loving the Red Sox means you want your team to win the World Series. That ring is the prize, and everything else comes secondary.

That said, and with the hindsight of history, DAMN.

I was distinctly unexcited about facing the Yankees. I had faith in my team—I expected them to split in New York, pick up two in Fenway, and battle out a win in the Bronx—but I really didn’t have overwhelming faith. And anticipating the “Who’s your daddy?” and “1918″ chants—the smug Yankees fans yet again cheering and screaming in Sox fans’ ears after the decisive loss, while hoping that some beer gets poured over their heads if only to artificially age their brand-fucking-new Yankees caps—seemed not worth the price of entry. The Sports Guy tries the reverse jinx, but “There’s no way the Yankees can lose. Too much history. It’s impossible” sounds a lot like my perspective going in. History and luck. The Yankees get all the breaks. Every year. Look at, for example, what won “worst call in history” over at Page 2: Yippee’s phantom tag on Jos� Offerman in the 1999 ALCS. No way the Sox would get that call if the shirts were reversed. Yes, this is foreshadowing.

But, sadly, I didn’t get to pick the second-round opponent. The fear of losing to the Yankees, again made me scared of facing them—I thought the Sox could pull it off, but I thought they could like Al Gore could win Florida: from every angle, they win, except when you put it all together, somehow, it’s the other side that’s celebrating. The Twins were tougher, I figured, but losing to them would be more tolerable.

Game 1: I went to Jimmy’s with Josh. We ran into Colin and some other Red Sox regulars, and we settled in to watch Curt Schilling dominate the Yankees. I felt that Mussina was getting too many sympathetic strikes, but figured he was also plenty wild, and that the Sox would eventually get to him—he was throwing way too many balls to be effective all night. Of course, we know what happened. Schilling collapsed from excruciating pain (or a remarkably problematic lack of pain from the drugs), and Mussina was cruising to a perfect game. I screamed at the television when Schilling was relieved by a pitcher not named Derek Lowe. Lowe was there precisely to eat innings in bad games, I argued. That’s the only reason we brought his inconsistent ass along, I shouted. Concede Game 1—the Sox are asleep at the plate, Mussina is getting every break (striking out the side on backwards Ks? Are you fucking kidding me?), and Schilling’s put us in a big-ass hole after just three innings.

(I’m already crying)

OK, I started to reason. Some of these bullpen guys haven’t seen any action in a while, and Tito wants to keep them loose, ok. That’s fine. I still think Lowe should have been in, but whatever. Oh wait, Tim Wakefield? The Game 4 STARTER? Why is he on the mound? And Wakefield promptly yields two more runs. A disaster. I promise a round of shots when the perfect game is broken. Colin promises a round after the first Sox run. I explain that I’d rather lose like this—in a perfect game—than in a squeaker like Game 7 last year. We’re just outclassed, and that’s ok. Mussina did this to the Sox before, after all.

And then, Mark Bellhorn, derided Mark Bellhorn, the guy who “only strikes out,” solves Mussina long enough for an extra base hit. Now runs start accumulating. I can’t believe it. Torre turns to Sturtze, who lets the Sox tack on more runs. There’s shots. Everyone is happy. Giddy. Jimmy’s is getting rowdy. Maybe a “Yankees suck!” chant is about to begin? Suddenly, the Sox are one run down—or one run up, if Wakefield had been left on the bench. I’m cursing Tito, but still giddy. Maybe this year is different? I still hadn’t heard the “Why Not Us?” meme, so I wasn’t thinking about this team in terms of actively forcing destiny to turn its ass around and support the Calcet�nez for a change. But then the world returned to some sort of order—the Yanks got those late inning runs they always seem to, and the Sox lost. I spent some $70 at Jimmy’s and took a cab home, kind of wound up. Pedro would shake off the demons, I reasoned, and beat up on the Yankees tomorrow. I’d never hear “Who’s your daddy?” again in my life outside of a bedroom.

Game 2: The first signal that this series, for me, would be different was that I had commitments keeping me away from the games. In this case, it was a last-minute extra class. I got to the Pub with my class mates in time to see Pedro give up his first run, and I already started getting a little worried. Then I started paying attention to Jon Lieber. What? Unstoppable? Sure, he’d clowned the Sox in his previous start, but, man, no one is doing anything against him. No one’s working counts, nothing. Lieber is coasting—even moreso than Mussina the night before. I start getting de-pressed. This team has no fight. No desire. No nothing. They tapped out over the course of the season. They’ve bought into the Yankee juggernaut. Jon Lieber? Are you kidding me? The man has parts of his leg in his elbow and he’s pounding the Sox? Next, Johnny Damon works out a full 15 (or so) pitch at bat against Lieber. Finally, I reason, Lieber will start to tire, and this 1–0 deficit will be history.

Before that happens, of course, Francona leaves Pedro in too long (surprised?) and John Olerud jacks one into the seats. John Olerud is playing Yankee Saviour today? Rhetorically, I’m asking, where the hell do the Yanks get these guys, and why do they get good suddenly? Look at Ruben Sierra, a former future Hall of Famer, who was out of baseball for two years in the late-90s to, like, run the Venezuelan league or something (which, iirc, he bought so he could be a player?). John Olerud? Kenny Lofton? Tony Clark? Gary Sheffield? Paul Quantrill? When did it become 1996?

Top of the next inning, the Sox get the leadoff guy on, and Stottlemyre is immediately out to talk to Lieber. I think when Pedro gave up that HR, there wasn’t even anyone in the bullpen. I again curse the on-the-field genius of the Yankees. Yeah, the bullpen is a joke, but they have a short leash on the starters, and, well, sometimes (hi, Pedro!) you need a short leash. Hell, everyone who was watching the games knew that Pedro starts to lose it at around 95 or 100 pitches. Things start collapsing. If Game 7 last year wasn’t enough, how about the late-season game that started the whole “Daddy” business in the first place? Jesus, Tito.

Sox come close—again put the tying run on base in the ninth—and again come up short. I demand to be driven home. I don’t want to do anything. A win in the Bronx, I felt, was crucial. No way the Sox can pull this off now. I was already hearing rumblings about a possible rainout for Game 3, but I didn’t care. These Sox didn’t care, and the only guy who did, Schilling, was out. People were talking about his being done for the year. Surgery imminent. Re-sign ‘Tek and Mighty Mouse, try to get Lowe and Pedro back cheap (but don’t try too hard with Lowe), and find another starter. The 2004 playoff Red Sox were like they were in June: a consistent let down.

Our only shot was a rainout, that would, if the world turned upside down, let Pedro pitch on regular rest in Fenway. If we could get another break or something somewhere, then there might be something for us.

Friday: Ah, rain. I slept all night. Baseball was killing me.

Game 3: I knew I’d be at a banquet for this one, so I’d be unable to watch. But I had faith in Arroyo. I’ve liked him all year—his lean figure, his absurd cornrows. And he’d discovered how to be awesome in the homestretch. Sure, it’s ridiculous to expect a 27 year old to be a stopper in what’s turning into a massacre, but whatever. It’s all I could hope for, and I had faith. The first time I checked the game on my phone, however, the faith was gone. Down 3–0 in the first? It was still early, I told myself, and the Sox had men on base in the second. They could tie this up. They did. They even got a lead—the first one of the series. I was shocked. The Sox then tacked on two more runs to tie the game back up at 6–6 in the third. But the Spy had relieved Arroyo, and things were about to get messy. Once Wakefield came in—for those of you keeping score at home, the guy who was supposed to start the next day—I gave up. Fuck you, Tito. You blew out this bullpen by mismanaging from the getgo—where was Lowe in Game 1? Where was Lowe tonight? Why was it more valuable to send tomorrow’s starter to throw 3.1 innings while giving up five runs than to send the mopup guy?

19-8, I saw on my phone riding back into the city. That looks like a familiar date. This team is finished. This is absolutely embarrassing. No starter for tomorrow, a sweep is imminent, and, well, the Sox just lay down. Note: I saw not a single pitch of Game 3. I’d become blind to their sending the tying run to the plate in two of three games, to their ability to twice fight back against the Yankees in Game 3. I remembered this offensive explosion, and the disasters the bats had turned into against Mussina and Lieber. I woke up the next morning cross and disappointed, and, well, here’s the proof.

Game 4: I was at Rimo, with a whole bunch of people. We were watching football, and the baseball game would occasionally be on. I wanted the Sox to die a quiet death in Game 4. Nothing good would come of this Lowe start, and, in the third inning, the Yankees had already jumped ahead on an A-Rod home run. What a mess, I figured. All I could get happy about was that a fan threw that ball from Landsdowne Street back onto the field, and Damon threw it back out—who knew, I thought, he had an arm? Then the fan threw it back onto the field. Ha ha. That’s how I felt, though—this team was worth throwing back in disgust. The Yankees always score first. And they always score late, if you’ve dared get close to their built in lead. Still, the Sox managed to put together a lead in the fifth, and I started getting confident. Maybe a sweep could be averted?

Now, Mark Bellhorn, who’d been struggling, had been relegated to the ninth position. This confused me: if his offense was so bad, why wasn’t Pokey Reese playing? His defense, at least would be pretty ok, no? This became totally apparent when the Yankees not just tied the game but pulled ahead in the sixth off bloop shit in the infield. Two infield singles, two runs. I was ready to die.

Remember here that the Yankees have greatest bullpen in postseason history. Joe Buck and/or Tim McCarver will remind you of that whenever they’re not going on about how unbelievable Derek Jeter is. Yeah, I’d bragged that the Yankees bullpen was out of steam this year, that Quantrill, Flash, and Mo were garbage after being all in the top 5 in appearances this year. But, still. This is the playoffs. Hell, maybe Rivera killed his family to take the fatigue of the regular season out of his system. A little electrocution, a little extra oompf for the ALCS, no? Then Tito pulls Millar in the ninth for Roberts, who steals, and, WHAT? SCORES? Are you kidding? Great. Extra innings. Please, make this more painful for me.

And so it began. I knew Game 7 was lost last year as soon as the Sox failed to win in nine innings last year, and I was just waiting to see how they would get swept now. I would have to hear “who’s your daddy?” for the rest of my life. I’d never be able to live this down. I thought the Sox were clowned in 1999. That was so not the case.

And then… And then. The Red Sox won. They fucking won. I couldn’t believe it. But I started to believe, at least a teeny, teeny bit. And that’s when I saw the sign for the first time in the monster seats: “WHY NOT US?” Why not have the Red Sox be the first team to force a Game 7 in MLB history after being down 0–3? Why not have the Red Sox be the first team in MLB history to go 4–0 in elimination games? Why not have the Red Sox beat the Yankees in the postseason? Why not? I knew all along this curse shit was garbage. I knew the players were professionals. And suddenly I saw their heart. In Game 4. It took me 39 innings of ALCS to understand that this team was not going to give up, and that, in fact, I was really, really proud of them. How many teams would have given up the ghost in Game 4? Yet still they battled on, handing a blown save to the (everybody together) greatest reliever in postseason history on their way to staving off elimination. And, hey, if they won tomorrow—with Pedro on the mound, in perhaps his final appearance in a Red Sox uniform—they would go back to the Bronx, in exactly the same position (3–2) as last year. And last year, they were one managerial miscue away from going to the WS. I wasn’t optimistic, of course, but handing that BS to Rivera made me pretty excited. As did the extra innings win. But I was still cautious. Again, here’s the proof.

Game 5: This game was crucial. This is the game that started it. Sunday night’s game could have been a fluke—I still felt it was—but this was it. The Sox, I believed, will be judged on their performance in this game. If they win, it’s because they all asked, “Why not us?” If they lost, who knew. Down the road were too many question marks that could still completely foul up the series—including a huge question mark named Curt. Pedro had his chance to leave a stamp on the series (he’d pitched well in Game 2, but Lieber pitched better), and it was go time.

I took my time getting home, and watched alone in my apartment, reading Merchant of Venice. But I saw that the Sox had jumped to a 2–0 lead in the first. Finally, they had drawn first blood. I liked this game already! Pedro would give up maybe two runs, I imagined, and Tito would pull him, and then we’d feast on the shell-shocked Yankee bullpen. And then, in the sixth inning, the wheels came off. Pedro gets Bernie out, but then Posada reaches. Pedro’s pitches are up, and the Sox are up only by a run. Tito, perhaps you should start warming someone up?

Another single. Tito? Are you paying attention? Pedro doesn’t have his stuff anymore!

Pedro finds an extra gear just long enough to get Clark out, but he’s clearly struggling. And then Cairo gets hit. TITO! Why is no one warming up in the bullpen? Pedro’s about to hit 100 pitches, and he has the bases loaded. Now, granted, up to this point, Derek Jeter hadn’t done shit in the series (and, in terms of seven games, his performance still has kind of sucked). And we all hope for that huge last gasp from Pedro to get out of trouble. But we’ve been burned by that, Tito, and this is the fucking playoffs. Maybe when you’re up by seven runs in Game 7 in the seventh you can fuck around and see if Pedro has that extra gear, but not now.

Double to right, scoring three, including a susipicious tag by Miguel Cairo. The FOX mics go dead for a bit because of simultaneous semen-related short circuits. The lab hasn’t fingered (as it were) McCarver or Buck yet, but we’re waiting. Yankees up 4–2. I’m screaming. Fucking Tito this, Fucking Tito that. Still the bullpen is quiet (I think). Pedro hits A-Rod, proving that he still has some control left, but then Sheff walks, bringing up Matsui. Red Sox killer Matsui. Game 7-I-cost-that-funny-Grady-guy-his-job Matsui. 1980–1989 Chicago Bear running-in-the-shadow-of-Sweetness Running Back Matsui.

And he lined out. If I were to lie, I’d say this was another point, to me, showing that the Sox were special. The “Why Us?” Sox would have given up a double to left to Matsui. The “Why Not Us?” Sox, on the other hand, got him to line out. But I didn’t see it that way. I was fuming. The Sox could have won this game here. Now they needed more heroics, and, when it comes to heroics, the Sox had none. I was still a “Why Us?” fan.

Around the eighth, I even considered going to read in bed. Leaving the game be. Lightning for sure doesn’t strike twice, and the Sox don’t come from behind in the playoffs twice to beat the Yankees. I’ve followed this team for 17 years. I know things. This team gets swept in two straight ALCSes by the A’s. This team gets beat up by the Indians. But, then again, this team comes back from elimination and humiliates the A’s. Still, I wasn’t thinking that way.

A lot of people—often Yankees fans—call Sox fans crybabies. Whiners. Self-pitiers. Maybe some are. Dennis Leary comes off that way. And the Sports Guy has written a lot about this—and most of it is pretty insightful. It’s false that Sox fans in general are that. First, Yankees fans are crybabies. Sox fans just want to win. They’re sick of the media portraying their team as a bunch of losers who are king-champion choke artists. They’re sick of hearing about a curse, with its roots in anti-Semitism. They’re sick of seeing the same replayed homeruns or errors whenever their team is on national TV. They just want to win. That’s all I want. That’s what I wanted at the start of the season, at the start of the playoffs, and now. And that’s it every year. Simmons responds well to the question of “won’t your identity as a Sox fan be destroyed if they win?” Of course not. There’s always next year to win again.

Trust me on this: it’s no fun—even in the UofC, I-break-my-back-doing-more-homework-than-you-and-like-it kind of way—to lose what seems like every time. If you want to criticise the Sox fans, do it since they imagine that they always lose—that’s a crucial mistake. We wouldn’t make the playoffs if we didn’t kick a lot of ass in the regular season. Furthermore, we don’t even always make it to the playoffs—some years we’re just not good enough. And no, it’s not fun that that’s the case. Leary was right when he said that he hates more than anything the people who walk by him after a loss and say, “I’m sorry.” It seems like out of that is expected some sort of “yeah, well, my life sucks, but that’s the Sox.” The proper thing to say when walking by is, “we’ll get them next time.” Because, you know, (I’m crying again), one of these days, we fucking will. And that won’t be the saddest day ever. It’ll be the greatest. What person who’s ever worn an embroidered “B” on their forehead would say, “shit, my identity is destroyed” upon hearing “Sox win the Penant!” or “Sox win the World Series”? I can’t imagine that person.

So when I considered turning the TV off in the eighth inning of Game 5, it was in part since I knew the odds were long, and since I didn’t want to see smug Jeter hopping around. I didn’t want to put up with that. I wanted to be proud of Game 4, but understand that some things simply can’t be overcome, and a three-game deficit is one of those things. I was dreading the next day, the smug “I’m sorry”s from people who weren’t at all sorry. And, furthermore, I was dreading next year, thinking that this was the last, best shot. Theo is a genius, of course, and hot, but that doesn’t translate to putting us back in the playoffs next year necessarily—especially since, hell, Beltran, Pedro, Clement, etc. will all be in pinstripes next year. Yes, “hell” isn’t an interjection there. It’s a person.

And then Ortiz did what he’s done all year—take the team on his back and lead the way. They call him Pap�, but maybe Moses is better. The bondage of the Red Sox Nation, chained to disappointment and cynicism has been broken by Ortiz, as we’re led to a promised land of, well, promise. Suddenly it’s 4–3 and no one is out. Suddenly Millar is on base and Roberts replaces him. When did it become yesterday? Suddenly Rivera blows another save. What? I don’t believe this. I can’t believe I thought about turning the TV off. This is all tied, and the Red Sox have the momentum, and, well, all together now,

WHY NOT US?

The Red Sox wouldn’t have won yesterday, and they wouldn’t have won today. But maybe things are screwy. Maybe they can do it. And so began the infuriating grind. Arroyo came out, I hoped, for a while—he was sharp as a tack, and moving with such great speed. But then Tito brought in Myers in the 11th. Dammit, Tito. We’re in this for the long haul. Matsui hasn’t been sharp all game, and Myers has given up a walk and a 2-run bomb to Matsui in the past two matchups. But he gets him. And now Embree is on cruise control.

Around this time, I said to myself, it didn’t matter. I was crying out of pride in my team. Suddenly I remembered the tying runs in Game 1 and Game 2. I remembered last year against the A’s. And I reached that state of calm. No matter who wins, this Sox team has been amazing. No choking, no nothing. They kicked ass, they came back and did some damage. They were already making history. To borrow a McDonald’s slogan, “me encantaba.”

The game continued to be frustrating, of course, but it didn’t matter. They’d made Rivera blow two straight saves, even after he had recharged his evil batteries by killing his family. They had bailed out Pedro Mart�nez. They had avoided the humiliation of a sweep. Go Sox.

And in comes Tim Wakefield. Now it was a different kind of d�j� vu. Game 7 (or Game 1)-kind. But, no. Wake was sharp. His knuckler was out of control. And you know what? He gave up three passed balls in one inning and failed to have a run score. That’s so incredibly rare, that I can’t even think about it straight without saying “something must have been up.” In the meantime, Torre has decided to strand the weakening Loiza on the mound. It’s all up to him, Torre says. And then I started to imagine a win. Then, in the 14th, Damon gets on base for only the second time of the game (in his 7th PA). Now, Damon I love. I am now the owner of one t-shirt with him on it and may soon be the owner of a second. But he’d sucked. I was considering moving him in the lineup, or something. He was brutal. He fucked up that bunt earlier, etc. etc. But now he was on base. Then Manny, the greatest hitter on the Red Sox in maybe a generation, but a non-effect in the ALCS, walked too. And up was Pap�. Part that Red Sea, man.

The Sox were going back to the Bronx, down 3–2. Just like last year. But this year, it all felt a whole lot different. I woke up Tuesday morning fully expecting to win. Curt Schilling had the fight—and a whole lot more than John Burkett did going into Game 6 last year. It was on.

Game 6: Like the previous two days, I kept is casual. I was doing laundry during the first half-hour, keeping track of the game on my phone at Kristoffer’s in Pilsen. I came to Rimo finally (my Red Sox fleece no longer smelling like the coffee I’d dumped on it Saturday) to see Schilling absolutely cruising. I knew it was on. I wavered a little with two outs left in the bottom of the ninth–but not that much. I knew. Schilling put up an instant classic, a start that prompted Theo Epstein to say that in the future, people will say that Willis Reed “pulled a Curt Schilling.” Bloody socks. Cue Natural music.

What else helped? Seeing the Sox get calls. Granted, the calls were the right ones, ultimately, but both times the calls went for the Yankees first—like they always do. Phantom double. Phantom lack of interference. Kind of like that phantom full-swing Ortiz took with two strikes the previous night in extra innings. Yankees get those calls. I won’t hear otherwise. When is the last time Derek Jeter touched second base on a double play? I’m not sure, but I don’t think I knew who Monica Lewinsky was at that time.

Furthermore, the appropriately named “bushleague” manoeuvre by the slumping A-Rod reminded me that this series is laden with Ewing Theory possibilities—Nomar and A-Rod, most notably. Both the Mariners and Rangers get good as soon as they dump A-Rod, and Nomar, well, Nomar went from a team in the dumps to a playoff contender, and then the roles were reversed. That’s ok. Personally, I’ve been bored of waiting for Nomar’s bat to light up in a post season game since the 90s. Here, however, is not the place to explain fully my theory that marrying Mia Hamm destroyed Nomar’s career.

But there’s even a Pedro Ewing Theory thing—this is the first season in how long that Pedro hasn’t been expected to carry the team. We had Moses and Curt for that. As a result, we prosper.

I’m just sayin’.

Red Sox jump out to an early lead, and don’t look back. Game 7. I start getting SMSes from people I don’t even know.

Game 7: This is it. All the marbles. It’s nice to think that the Yankees are busy orchestrating the greatest choke in MLB history, but it’s nicer to think that the Sox are a win away from the World Series. The World Series! I’ve waited my entire fanhood to get another crack at 1986, Game 6 being either my baptism or my conception by fire—I didn’t become a fan until the next year, hoping the Sox would make the Series again, and I’d pay more attention this time.

I had a hestitant, but noticeable bounce in my step. And then things started breaking. I left for work 15 minutes late, but showed up to work 15 minutes early. That never happens. I hit all the trains. At the English Department, I bumped into one of my fav. profs, who did her grad work in NYC. I’d figured her for a Yankees fan, but she pointed at the red B on my fleece and was excited. Turns out she’s from Connecticut. Turns out her dad has had season tickets from 1974. Turns out she’s seen the Red Sox already in two World Series, in person. (I later found out that one of my other fav. profs is a huge Yankees fan and hates the Red Sox, possibly, according to Josh, more than he likes the Yankees; too bad.) I decline forceful invites to go out drinking for the game. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since Game 3, and I decline. I want to keep this mellow—hang out at Rimo, be cool. Maybe watch The Natural—or at least the end—before the game. (Rimo response: “what, you need to get more excited?”)

Again, I show up late. And it’s on. Red Sox jump to an early lead, and then Johnny Damon, the half-Thai unfrozen caveman centerfielder Jesus Saviour Wookiee heartthrob, after being thrown out at the plate in the first, blasts a grand slam in the second. Unbelievable. Not only are the Yankees about the be beat, but they’re getting spanked. Choke artists. And, again, more importantly, the World Series!!!.

I wasn’t getting cocky—jumping out was the last thing I wanted the Sox to do, lest it unleash a gigantic choke of the “Yanks coming back from down ten” variety. But Derek Lowe was filthy, and suddenly it’s the sixth inning. He’s on two days of rest, hitting 65 pitches, and it’s time for the bullpen.

Tito, you have got to be kidding me.

Tito. No.

No.

No.

(overheard: “who’s your daddy?”)

The Yankees are down by six, in the seventh, in Game 7, and the crowd is chanting “who’s your daddy?” to Pedro, who has just given up consecutive doubles, including one to, surprise, Matsui. Now Kenny Lofton bats in Bernie. What. The. Fuck.

An aside: Yankees fans have never seemed more pathetic to me than in this Series. First, there was the baseball throwing in both Game 6 and Game 7. Fans, the umps made the right call. Both times. Go look it up. Second, it was hilarious to see everyone finally get a chance to bust out the faded Xeroxes of George Ruth and start the inane chant. As soon as the Yanks were down only by six (in the seventh, mind you), out come the “We Hate Boston” accoutrements. Real classy. Where were the pro-Yankees signs? I surely saw none. Yankees fans like to brag that, to them, Boston is just an annoying gnat that occasionally plays them, but the Yanks “always” win. “What rivalry? They haven’t won shit since 1918, and we’re the greatest franchise in sports history.” Of course, this is a very historically problematic claim, but whatever; that’s for another time. But if you look at that seventh inning—who looked like they were doing the hating? They waited all game to start the stupid daddy chant, to bust out the Ruth shots, etc. Very pathetic. Sad, almost. Your team, facing the greatest choke of all time, is about to escape and go to the World Series and you’re chanting anti-Boston chants? I hadn’t called for a “Yankees Suck” chant the whole game until then—thinking that making the World Series would be more important to fans of either team. Apparently, I was wrong. The New York fans wanted just to see Boston blow it.

Pedro escaped, though. In retrospect, the move made sense. Pedro had to throw, anyway. And I guess it’s normal for people throwing on side days to hit the mid-90s. Also, the Sox were up, the bullpen dry, and Lowe had to be pulled, lest his arm fall off before some stupid team like Anaheim can give him a three-year/$29m deal. (Wasn’t it creepy on Baseball Tonight how everyone just assumed Lowe would be gone next year? I didn’t think so, either.)

Then Bellhorn, maligned Bellhorn, and Mighty Mouse added an RBI apiece, and the Pedro experiment was washed away. The Fox cameras decided to show Jeter closeups and nothing else the rest of the way.

I started crying last night around the eighth. I quickly called my Mom before it got too messy. What triggered it? Hearing Joe Buck talking about World Series starters, and only talking about Red Sox players.

The World Series.

(one more time)

The World Series.

What choke? What Yankee humiliation? (though I did want to see Giuliani on the tube—way to let your team down after mocking Kerry for not being a real Sox fan).

The World Series.

Embree got his one out to finish the game, and the SMSes started. I talked to friends from high school, to family, to friends far away. It was great. I, again, stared at the television, totally unprepared. It was great to see the 10,000 or so Sox fans still in Yankee Stadium, now cheering “Who’s your daddy?” Like I said, I get one day to gloat—and so do they. Johnny Damon put it best, though: we now have a few days to party, and then the World Series. (Kudos to Fox for avoiding people who would talk about Jesus in front of the camera.)

And that’s that. Today has gone great. Perfect day, almost, despite leaving my wallet at home, missing a bus, and forgetting to do homework. But I’m happy. And I’m making travel plans to be in Boston next week. The Red Sox are going to the World Series. The Red Sox have won the penant. Tell me that, and I’ll cry, because that’s what I’ve been waiting for.