"I think Johnny Damon is throwing the series."
It was with these words that I could officially confirm that the Red Sox had not only taken so many precious hours from my father's life, but they had also claimed his sanity.
Before I could remind him that Johnny Damon can't throw anything, let alone a franchise hinging duel between two rivals, he was back to lugging his fandom baggage into his assessment of Boston's chances as they were still standing in the top of the 12th in Game Five versus the Team that George Built.
"I just wish the Yankees would hit a home run and end it."
Oh, the things that come out of the mouths of jilted Red Sox fans.
Now, my dad is not a glass is half-empty kind of guy in most situations. It's just that every time he has had a half-full glass concerning the Sox, he, like so many others, has eventually had to taste defeat from straight out of said glass. So I hope his home run wish can just be chalked up to a "Red Sox fatigue," something I myself have a bad case of at the moment.
The apple of bitterness doesn't fall far from the tree, I gotta tell ya. Early Sunday night I had this whole column ready to rock. I wanted to pull open the curtain and reveal the Sox' true identity. Heck, they had already taken care of that themselves. Game three ended with Fenway half full. No one wanted to stay to watch an execution. Down 3-0, Francona's Flakes deserved whatever mud they had slung at them. We were the idiots for falling in love with the self-proclaimed idiots.
But the eulogy would have to wait. And wait. And wait. And, lo and behold, it is still waiting as I write this. Who cares that Pedro again lost a lead after the 100 pitch mark? Or that major leaguers Mark Bellhorn and Damon can't lay down a bunt? Or that Bill Mueller has again been reduced to Mueller Lite in this series? Or that Jason Varitek, who had caught all of two Tim Wakefield innings, came just one past ball short of getting his tires slashed? Even Manny has yet to find his stride in this series.
Alas, we've got Big Papi. He is the only man who in the late Monday/early Tuesday hours could be referred to by a very drunk, very hyperbolic Sox nut in Kenmore Square as "Like Jesus." A little much, but "Who's your Papi?" Ortiz, this "GANGSTER" of a ballplayer (thank you Rich Aronson), has made all second guessing and doubting appear to be a waste of our time. No matter what took place last night when "Ankles Away" Curt Schilling toed the rubber at Yankee Stadium, something has been salvaged in the last 48 hours at Fenway Park. And we have Ortiz to thank for that.
What's that you say? There are more fist pounds to be given out? Our bullpen was lights out in Games Four and Five after pitching batting practice/turning to mush in game Three?
Yes, it's true. Save for one run surrendered by Mike Timlin on Sunday night, the bullpen has thrown 12 and two-thirds innings of scoreless relief. Not even one costly mistake to the Matsuis and Sheffields of the world. Often overworked and underappreciated like offensive linemen, the Sons of Leskanic made clutch pitch after clutch pitch to justify the seemingly unrealistic hopes of the faithful fans.
(Side note on the fans: Fox is really getting a kick out of showing the rest of the country how miserable we are. It's like the game is just getting in the way of their anguished crowd shots. The pictures certainly do show us in all our "No Thunderstix or Homer Hanky" glory, but I don't need to see everybody in the park biting their nails, OK?)
Ooooh, and the bench. Can't forget these lesser appreciated idiots. Doug Krzyzewski...err, Roethlisberger ... err, Mientkiewicz came up with a huge double that should have made him the winning run if not for a few execution failures.
And Dave Roberts, the eventual tying run for the second night in a row. My God, how badly was he messing with Tom Gordon's head while on first in the eighth, not to mention his "everyone knows he's going" swipe of second in Game four off Mariano Rivera? He could take a lead halfway to second base (which he basically was in both cases) and I would still have faith he would get back. Theo knows what he's doing.
In a couple of games littered with brain farts (We love ya Papi, but stealing as the winning run?) and some poor umpire calls (Wait, Ortiz was safe !!!) we yet again were being coaxed into believing the time is now for our Cardiac Kids. I keep telling myself that whatever happens in Game Six, I will accept it as gravy. My father told me the same yesterday. "I was just a little frustrated last night," he uttered. You think?
Man, you could be the healthiest guy around, staying away from red meat and cigarettes your whole life, but this team alone could toy with your heart in a way medical professionals wouldn't be able to comprehend. Even in two victories, our team has not been in the business of easing hearts.
Here's to continuing the Red Sox fatigue while hopefully easing a few (million) hearts.<$>
Edits: bh dp, jt
