S W E E P !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
First of all - not to jinx things - but...the broom is undefeated. It's true. Weird, but true.
Second of all - what a bizarre.fucking.picture.
And third of all, there is nothing - NOTHING - sucky about the Sox sweeping the Anaheim Angels to advance to the ALDS. But a) I'm stuck at work all the time during the games while all you other good Sox fans get to watch the shit live, and b) I'm stuck out in Cincinnati with no one else around me that cares about what is going on...except a few of my fellow cooks at work.
This is how it went down:
Everything went wrong at once. We had a spurt of business which was uncharacteristically all fish station. Which normally would be fine if I didn't have two burners taken up by a large pot of beef jus and short rib scrap and another pot of burgundy/port wine reduction to add to said beef jus and short rib scrap for an emergency batch of civet sauce for the grouper special. Not to mention the three monkfish tails we had ordered at the same time, with each tail taking up it's own pan plus an accompanying pan for the roasted vegetables that go with it. In restaurant jargon, that's more or less being "in the weeds." And to make the moment even worse, I looked down the line as Mike slid a pan into his oven, stood up and called down "It's 6-6, somebody hit a grand slam."
All I could hear was a hum in my ears as I turned back to the myriad pans on my range. I turned over some searing scallops and gritted my teeth.
Later, safe at home, watching the highlights on ESPN, I pointed at the tv as Guerrero was rounding the bases and said: "That almost ruined my night." Kevin, my station partner, who was lounging in an armchair nearby with a beer propped casually in his lap muttered without looking up: "You changed. Definitely."
At first I was numb. Then I started to get mad. "Fucking Sox..." I grumbled as I slammed a pan down on the range. "Can't do anything right......" as if they hadn't just won the first two games of the series in enemy territory, no less. As much as that little voice in my head was telling me that it was not that big of a deal, there was that loud, screaming voice in my head that was braying "WHAT THE FUCK????"
Then Mike walked down the line and told me that Foulke worked his way out of a bases-loaded, one-out situation. (In case you're wondering, we can follow the scores via ESPN on our cellphone.) All of the sudden my confidence soared. I knew they were going to win.
I was coming out of the walk-in after doing a little inventory for Saturday's prep list when Frakes walked by me casually with his hand raised for a high-five. I slapped it and, without even looking at me, Frakes simply said: "Shrek." That was our 2003 nickname for Ortiz. Bad, I know, but that's what it was. (This year we've switched to "Big Da-Da.") "What?" I asked, my heart jumping in my chest. I walked back onto the cooking line, and everyone was telling me: "Ortiz hit a walk-off homer," "Ortiz had a two-run homer," and even the pastry girl called out: "Sarah, Dan Due just called and told me to tell you the Sox won 8-6."
Someone I work with called me from home to tell me that my fucking baseball team WON. It's the second best thing to tipping a car.