I live for this.
"Varitek took the first swat at Rodriguez, the highest-paid player in the game, then hit him flush in the middle of the face with an open hand..." (from the Globe.) I ask you, who hasn't dreamt of bitch-slapping that smug little prick?
Of course, thanks to the Fox network, I missed the best game of the season thus-far, but we watched all the highlights about 4 times on ESPN. Watching A-Rod get his silly little ass beat is nothing short of a dream come true. And Bill Mueller's walk-off homer off of "Mr. Sandman" Rivera looked beautiful. If I had been watching that game live I probably would have gotten teary.
And here all through work tonight I kept telling my buddy John Frakes that it was all over. (Frakes and I have a beautiful partnership wherein he roots for the Red Sox and I root for the UK college basketball team.) "Check the score," he tells me. "I can't pull my cellphone out during the middle of service!" I squeal, "And besides, they were already losing during dinner break, face it, it's over." "Check the goddamn score!" Frakes insists. So I mosey back on down to fish station and as secretly as possible, I get onto the internet on my cellphone and check the score...10-8 in the ninth inning. I check the clock. It's eight-something. What the hell is taking this game so long?? I triumphantly march back down to meat station and tell Frakes "HA! 10-8 in the ninth! See? I TOLD you so!" Frakes shakes his head. "Cuff your pants up!" he tells me, brandishing his own rallycuff at me. "No, the rally cuff is dead, this is between god and the Red Sox and god is pissed!" I yell, attracting some unwanted attention from the sous chef. We lower our voices. Frakes looks sternly at me: "Look, you're the one that got me into this, now cuff up your fucking pants, I think Bellhorn's going to hit a dinger." I walk off grumbling back down to fish station, but I do cuff my pants up, and lo and behold, next time I check my phone the score is written as follows: NYY-10BOS-11F. "Shame on me!" I shout down to Frakes. "Shame on me!"
Why does this team keep doing this to me? I was all set the other day to watch the rest of the season in a stoic, emotionless bliss - sort of like the Boy in the Baseball Bubble. Now I am being suckered in again. It's like I want to keep on hating them but I just can't. I should just be realistic and forget last night even happened and look forward to more errors, blown saves, and three strikeouts in a row with the bases loaded...but there is still a tiny kernel of hope inside me that believes that this could still be the year, that is secretly imagining things like "win streaks" and "offensive outbursts" and "momentum" and "shutout games," that is remembering all the heroics of late last season, even though I know full well that the 2004 Red Sox are an entirely different animal...
The Face vs. Jose Contreras tonight on Sunday night baseball.