October 21st, 2004


It’s probably just me.

You know, as happy as I am that the Sox made baseball history with an amazing rally and as a result have a shiny new pennant to show for it, I kind of felt like game seven was anti-climactic. I know, I know. I should be counting blessings and thinking about the fact that there’s a very real possibility that they could win the Series/break "The Curse"/fulfill all our hopes and dreams. Really, though, when the Yankees pulled their starter after two innings, all I could think of was how tense the three games previous had been. Each one was a nail biter, and each one contributed to a sense of “something special happening” that was so pervasive that people who normally don’t like sports or collective thought processes to become entranced that it was hard to find anyone in town who couldn’t talk knowledgably about any element of the last game.

Going from Saturday’s rout and then through three games that were decided one at a time by the final pitch, last night felt like we were watching the battle for Berlin in 1945. Though the Yankees were still dangerous, they seemed to have been overtaken by the attrition suffered in the previous engagements. I won’t carry the analogy too far because even though A-Rod’s stunt may be one of the poorest displays of sportsmanship I’ve seen, I don’t believe that the Yankees are evil megalomaniacs bent on creating a world empire. Let’s just say that they looked like they had been beaten long before the game was over ("Who’s your daddy?" inning notwithstanding...)

But you know? All things considered, having the Sox in the series finally is a pretty heady thing. To get where they are, they played like champions, and I will not begrudge the time I spent watching them get here.

Oh! David Ortiz impressed the hell out of me, not only for his performance, but for the incredibly predatory look he had every single time he stepped up to the plate. Would that I could channel that kind of intensity so well.