Smile as the robots stomp their way to freedom
Here's how I know the season's going well.
Friends of mine, particularly those who sat with me in my room during the 2003 playoffs, know very well how angry I can get at a game when things aren't kosher.
"You tool!," I'd shout, when Todd Walker misplayed a ground ball, or Tek whiffed with the bases loaded. "What the flying hell are they paying you for, you unspeakable bastard!?" Then I'd either storm around the room, rich in vengeance and looking for an blood, or flop down on my bed, exhausted, like the game itself prevented me from standing. About this time, everyone would leave. They had the right idea.
So when Derek Lowe, as is his wont, failed to get out of an inning where his defense let him down, as is their wont, I was surprised at myself when I didn't explode.
"Iss cool, esse," I though to myself. "We'll get 'em back."
And we (well, they. I had jack shit to do with it) did.
I once read a translation of a Spanish-language Red Sox story that described Manny and Ortiz as "massive artillerymen". Tonight, even without Dio's presence ((Myself and my friend Adam, both loving metal music way too much, call David Ortiz "Dio", after Ronnie James Dio, famous for horrifically bad outfits and replacing Ozzie Osbourne after he left Black Sabbath. It's a bit of a stretch, but I like it), the Sox looked like giant killer robot war machines, mechwarrioring their way to 14 runs. I shouldn't get too optimistic, 'cause any game that features John Wasdin inevitably also features outfielders looking helplessly upward at out-of-reach bombs.
But still. Tonight's game made me smile. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?
Friends of mine, particularly those who sat with me in my room during the 2003 playoffs, know very well how angry I can get at a game when things aren't kosher.
"You tool!," I'd shout, when Todd Walker misplayed a ground ball, or Tek whiffed with the bases loaded. "What the flying hell are they paying you for, you unspeakable bastard!?" Then I'd either storm around the room, rich in vengeance and looking for an blood, or flop down on my bed, exhausted, like the game itself prevented me from standing. About this time, everyone would leave. They had the right idea.
So when Derek Lowe, as is his wont, failed to get out of an inning where his defense let him down, as is their wont, I was surprised at myself when I didn't explode.
"Iss cool, esse," I though to myself. "We'll get 'em back."
And we (well, they. I had jack shit to do with it) did.
I once read a translation of a Spanish-language Red Sox story that described Manny and Ortiz as "massive artillerymen". Tonight, even without Dio's presence ((Myself and my friend Adam, both loving metal music way too much, call David Ortiz "Dio", after Ronnie James Dio, famous for horrifically bad outfits and replacing Ozzie Osbourne after he left Black Sabbath. It's a bit of a stretch, but I like it), the Sox looked like giant killer robot war machines, mechwarrioring their way to 14 runs. I shouldn't get too optimistic, 'cause any game that features John Wasdin inevitably also features outfielders looking helplessly upward at out-of-reach bombs.
But still. Tonight's game made me smile. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?
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