The Boston Red Sox: Defenders of the 2004 World Championship!! "Whoever plunges into his experiences with the momentum of hope, will remember so that he cannot forget." - Soren Kierkegaard.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004


There are no words.
What has been, what could be...I can't begin to sum up the way I feel tonight. I'm on my third 22 oz. Newcastle, and ever since the first out of the bottom of the ninth inning, all I've been able to hear has been a hum in my ears. Blood pounding, mind reeling, fingers crossed and tucked tightly between my knees while my lips murmered "C'mon Keith.....c'mon Keith...." The last truly sober moment I had was right after A-Rod swatted that ball out of Arroyo's hand --- after that I was an explosion of anger and cursewords at the television, as were my husband and Jonathan, and then it was endless trips to the bathroom - both because I had broke the mythical "Seal" and also because I couldn't bear to watch.
Somewhere along the lines tonight, I lost my Zen.
I think it was when Bellhorn hit his three-run homer. Four-zippy Sox. I was giddy. And all the sudden, I was right back there. Back in 2003. My stomach was liquid. Honestly, it felt like I was going to shit my pants. Or puke. I tried to chalk it up to the double-double shot of espresso and countless iced teas I had drank at work, but that wasn't it. The Sox were up 4-0. I shouted it to the drop ceiling as I marched the fish triumphantly downstairs to the walk-in after service: "Sox up 4-0 fourth inning! Sox up 4-0!!" Gary was just taking a load of plates upstairs and paused in the middle of shutting the elevator door. "Fourth inning?" he asked. "Yup!" I said. "Hmmmph..." He's a bitter Royals fan, what else do you expect?
Meanwhile, Schill was mowing them down. Mike and I got home in the sixth. Schill gives up a solo home run. We're too busy imagining what it would be like if Tim McCarver should fall head-first down three flights of concrete stairs. Jonathan contorts himself in our desk chair, holding one foot behind his back, screaming in mock pain, gasping: "It hurts to breathe, it hurts to breathe!" and we laugh. Nervous. So nervous. Fingering the mouths of our beer cans. Lighting cigarettes. Drinking too fast.
And it happened.
It really happened.
Somebody pinch me.
So help me god, Schilling is...is......wow. He just is.

"These are the days of miracle and wonder
This is the long distance call
The way the cameras follow us in slow-mo
The way we look to us all.
The way we look to a distant constellation
that's dying in the corner of the sky
These are the days of miracle and wonder
And don't cry, baby, don't cry....."
-Paul Simon