October 2004 Archives

As I write this, it's been a day and a half since the Red Sox...uh...ah...man, it's just hard to get my brain around the concept, let alone form it with my mouth. I have no doubt it's a common feeling around these parts. Well, not even around New England, but around Red Sox Nation. I keep waiting for them to announce that it's a best-of-eleven series, or that after review, Dave Roberts was actually out after he stole second in game 5 of the ALCS, or as someone said in the paper, that Derek Lowe had been traded to the Nippon Ham Fighters before the last game and was ineligible to pitch as a result.

I guess what makes it all so surreal isn't the fact that it happened, but that after their last loss - almost two weeks ago, now! - they ran the table. Eight straight games, a postseason record. Never been done before. And since that fateful game 5 - which I still can't believe I had the incredible fortune to witness in its entirety - the games were won rather handily, except for game 1 of the World Series. As I commented to Chris, we're so caught up in waiting for the other show to drop that we completely forget to realize the first one hasn't even dropped yet. But it was done so convincingly, especially the last three games being no-doubt-about-it contests. No freakish calls going the Sox way, no back-and-forth seesaw games, no incredible run of good luck. In other words, nobody other than the most dyed-in-the-wool Red Sox hater is giving this team the 2002 Patriots treatment, when the team was thought to have gotten lucky on the "tuck rule" game during the AFC title game against the Raiders, and then won on a last-second field goal against the Rams in the Super Bowl. Critics said the team had just gotten hot or lucky at the right time, and the title was tainted. The next year the team didn't make the playoffs, and critics felt vindicated; when the Patriots made it back to the Super Bowl last year, there were still doubters.

But none this time around. The Sox reeled off four straight wins against the winningest National League team of the year. In fact, no NL team had ever won that many games since...the 1986 Mets. And the '86 Mets had won more games since any NL team since...the 1975 Reds.

I was watching that '86 series. I'd been following the team for the entire season, even hunting down Boston Globes while we were in the old family station wagon on a cross-country trip. I remember tracking the team's magic number - they started it as high as 25 or something like that - and I still have a pile of 1986 newspapers in my closet at home. I still remember Oil Can Boyd clinching the AL East, and the front-page headline read simply "That clinches it!" I started a scrapbook during the ALCS against the then-California Angels. I was about three feet from the screen of our ancient RCA set, downstairs in our home in Needham, hands clenched during game 5 of the ALCS when the bottom of the 9th came around. Baylor homered, Henderson homered, the Angels tied it back up and Hendu won it in the 11th with a sac fly. My first taste of victory from the jaws of defeat. I started a scrapbook, cutting out ALCS news stories and box scores. And then the World Series came...and those newspapers are still gathering dust. The game 6 disaster, and the game 7 headline read something like "Boston is Mudville again".

To be honest, I don't remember if my parents and brothers were even watching the games with me - maybe my parents were watching in their room, leaving me alone with the TV, or maybe they were sitting back on the couch while I was inches away from the TV. I just remember snippets of the games - heck, it was 18 years ago - but those were the last major postseason games I watched with my family, I think. Maybe 1988 and 1990, but being swept by the A's those two years, I may have just blocked those out. By 1995 I was in college, and another unmemorable sweep in the first-ever ALDS (though it was the last time we took the AL East title). In 1999, I had relocated to Boston, and I think I saw Pedro's famous 5-inning no-hit stint to clinch game 5 of the ALDS with Chris at Boston Billiards, and I know for a fact I was watching the 13-1 spanking of Roger Clemens there. A few years later Chris moved to DC but we've always spent time on the phone during Sox playoff games. Last year during game 7 of the ALCS I think I said more to him than I did to my wife (who tolerates this unquestioningly...I really don't know why) and we spent most of the last four innings on the phone together. Not even saying much of anything at all. When the Bad Thing happened in the 11th, he said "Good night, Dave", I said "Good night, Chris", and that was that.

A month ago, we made plans for my parents to come visit us and have dinner out on Tuesday the 26th, since we hadn't seen them for a while. When the Sox came back from the dead against the Yankees, we changed plans and they were going to come that night for pizza. Rain threatened to delay the beginning of the game, so they rescheduled for the following night - the night of game 4, since as my mother put it, "We thought we'd come down and watch this with you, since we're responsible for starting you on this whole journey." They showed up at 7:15, I came back 10 minutes later with some pizza, and I actually got to watch a playoff game with my parents for probably the first time in 15 years. We cheered as Johnny Damon improbably led off the first with a homer, and shortly after Trot Nixon banged a bases-loaded double in the third, they hit the road back home, to celebrate back in Maine.

Around the seventh inning, with a 3-0 lead in the game and a 3-0 stranglehold on the series, Chris called me and our conversation came around to finally getting to pop the cork on some champagne. He told me that he'd made the trip to the local liquor store to pick up a bottle of bubbly earlier in the day. In making small talk with the cashier, he mentioned that he was all excited and nervous. "Oh, you're going to pop the question tonight?" he was asked. His answer: "Fuck no, this is WAY more important!"

My parents ended up making it back home to see the last out of the eighth. As the top of the ninth ended, the phone rang - Chris informed me that he'd be breaking with tradition to spend the last three outs on the phone with his mother. That's hard logic to argue with, so I told him to enjoy and hunkered down on the couch with Viv to watch what nobody had ever watched before (and as it turns out, what nobody had ever listened to before - the first baseball radio broadcasts didn't happen until 1920!). Two minutes later, the phone rang again - Chris again. His mother wanted no part of breaking with tradition and claimed she'd be too nervous to be on the phone anyway - she instead watched the end from her undisclosed bunker basement, away from all other human contact. Minor nervousness ensued when Albert Pujols drove a single up the middle, right through Keith Foulke's legs (BAD flashback), but one out, then two, and the only thing standing between the Red Sox and a championship was Edgar Renteria. Edgar Renteria, who I had watched play minor league ball in Portland, as a Sea Dog. Edgar Renteria, who had graduated from Portland to play for the Marlins, and who had the World Series-winning hit in 1997. Edgar Renteria, who wore the number three on his back - the same number three that George Herman Ruth had worn all those years ago. A one-hopper back to Foulke, a flip to Mientkiewicz, and my left eardrum was exploding with joy. We screamed, we shouted, we rolled around on the couch...and then we didn't know what to do with ourselves. I hung up to let Chris celebrate, and called my parents. At 11:42pm. I'm surprised it even went through, that the switchboards weren't jammed beyond belief. There aren't many calls you want to get that late, but I'd say this qualified as one of them.

And then just like that, the journey was complete. One that had begun four months before the Sox battled against the Big Red Machine, continued through an epic collapse in the 1978 stretch run, a heartbreaking trip to the brink in 1986 where FIFTEEN TIMES the team was one strike away, thirteen straight postseason losses (the last two in 1986, 4-game sweeps in 1988 and 1990 plus three more in 1995), and then the bitter, tooth-and-nail Boston-New York faceoffs of 1999 and 2003. No more "wait till next year". Next year had finally come.

Can't wait till next year.

I got to see a World Series game at Fenway Park.
I got to see Curt Schilling pitch a World Series game at Fenway Park.
I got to see Curt Schilling pitch a Red Sox win in a World Series game at Fenway Park.

Holy shit.

Last year we had the luck to get tickets to game 3 of the ALDS, which Trot Nixon won with a dramatic 11th-inning pinch-hit homer to cap a bizarre but ultimately satisfying playoff game that began what had been perhaps the team's greatest playoff comeback...until the events of last week. But through unfortunate circumstances, that had been the last playoff game Viv had gotten to see - she was unavailable for last year's ALCS, so Josh was the lucky recipient of the extra ticket, which ended up being to an entirely unsatisfying game, as the Sox were shut down by David Wells in a six-hitter, losing 4-2. This was after the infamous Karim Garcia/Pedro Martinez/Don Zimmer game, so to see such a lifeless game two days later was a significant letdown...as was the rest of the series, as you might remember.

Not this time around.

The ALDS and ALCS whizzed by - we missed the ALDS because the Sox swept, and Viv was out of town for ALCS game 3 so my brother and I got to go, but once the Sox completed their magical comeback against the Yankees, we got the email once again that we've been so lucky to get all year long - "Do you want Game 1 or Game 2?" As nice as it would have been to be there for the pageantry and pomp that is the first game of the World Series, we had dorm duty Saturday night, and since we've already ditched on our downstairs neighbor for duty a few times, it wasn't an option. So we chose Sunday instead, and then the rotation was released. I'd say a Curt Schilling start at Fenway was a nice game to end up with, no?

Unfortunately, Viv's constitution is fickle this time of year - as the weather gets colder, it gets to her a bit, and when she started sniffling and sneezing on Friday and Saturday, it was a question of how bad it would get. But then, if you have tickets to the WORLD EM-EFFING SERIES, you sack up and deal, as my brother would say (apparently possession of said sack is optional). We watched the first half of the Patriots game - they were winning at halftime, a good omen - and then put on more clothing than Amundsen and Scott on their South Pole expedition. Through no coordination of our own, she ended up wearing all of the red clothing - a red jacket, red fleece, red scarf and red gloves - and I wore all blue - jeans, long johns, sweatshirt, fleece and hat. Just one of those coincidences. The drive in to Fenway was short and uneventful, mostly since we were going in ridiculously early to avoid what I'm sure would turn into a zoo of traffic. Most sobering was seeing the enormous line of police motorcycles outside the Star Market on Boylston Street - I was mostly concentrating on navigating around the vehicles and pedestrians, but when Viv let slip a "holy shit!" I glanced over to see several dozen policemen and cop choppers lined up along the sidewalk across from us. I'm happy to say that their presence was welcome but not needed, fortunately.

An anecdote from the radio on the way in, as we were parking our car. The local station, WEEI, had ESPN's Baseball Tonight commentator Harold Reynolds on as they analyzed and dissected the series to that point. Now, Baseball Tonight has a segment known as "Fact or Fiction?" that basically serves as a quick-hit breakdown of various points about the game or series at hand. During the ALCS, Harold had been on the "Fact or Fiction?" hot seat, and had picked the Yankees all the way along. Apparently, in the wee hours of the morning after the Sox had completed their reverse sweep of the Yankees, Harold's cell phone began to ring off the hook. He answered it only to hear the entire Red Sox team, sitting in their charter plane on the tarmac at Logan Airport, bellowing "FACT OR FICTION, HAROLD?! FACT OR FICTION?!" into the phone, good-naturedly ribbing him for his erroneous prediction, and passing the phone around the cabin so that everyone could delight in his bad prognosis. He took it all in good stride and revealed that his World Series pick was indeed for the Sox. The hosts, of course, were horrified, and demanded that he immediately retract his statement given his history with playoff picks to that point.

We walked down to the Longwood T stop to pick up our tickets from our benefactors, and it was a momentous occasion as Viv had never met Chris' parents, the Holders of the Tickets. Indeed, a teary moment for all involved. Well, maybe not. The tickets were enormous and fairly reasonably priced - we were expecting triple digits, but they were a mere $70 apiece, more than worth every cent. Something to tell the grandkids when I'm bouncing them on my knee later in life, you know? But we stayed to chat for a while before they finally shooed us off in the direction of Fenway Park, lest we miss a second of the camaraderie to be had in the Arctic reaches of section 38. But before we made it to the upper echelons, we put in a call to our friend Steve, who had (ahem) acquired a pair of tickets in a right-field skybox along with his father, for an exorbitant sum that neither cared to mention. We met up underneath the stands and chitchatted for a bit, where I heard for the first time that there was a good possibility that Curt might not be able to pitch, having experienced a great deal of pain since waking up that morning after his second surgery to intentionally displace a tendon in his foot that had burst free of its protective sheath and bone groove that normally houses it. The mind boggles, it really does...it's basically tendon bypass surgery, done to facilitate a range of motion of the body that is unnatural to begin with...only multiple times, with sutures put in and then taken out immediately afterward. And the prospect of welcoming him back to the mound at Fenway for the first time since putting his ankle, shoulder and entire body on the line...it was almost too good to believe.

Our small talk concluded, we began the lengthy climb to row 30, coming up out of the tunnel just in time to see Schilling begin the long, slow stroll from the dugout to the bullpen to begin his pre-game ritual. Now, he was walking with his batterymate, Jason Varitek, the entire time, no doubt going over the minutiae of the Cardinals hitters, and formulating the last remnants of an elaborate game plan designed to silence one of the most fearsome lineups in all of baseball, a lineup that had bashed its way to 105 wins, the most of any team in the DECADE to date. No small task for a healthy man, let alone a 37-year-old man with a recently-operated ankle, under the klieg lights of World Series coverage and faced with a nasty New England night of mid-to-upper 40's and cold, swirling mist. The crowd, of course, began to buzz, then simmer, and then come to a full rolling boil...it started in sections 13 and 14 behind the Red Sox dugout, swept down to the right field corner, and built up to an elated, deafening roar by the time the cheers swept up the stands to where we were. But the entire time, he kept his head down, discussing the finer points of pitching to the Cardinals...until the bullpen gate swung open. At that point, two or three steps from the practice mound, his cleats crunching on the grit of the warning track, he simply raised his glove above his head, acknowledging all of us sitting there cheering ourselves hoarse for him and the performance we knew he didn't think he'd be able to give that morning.

If there's one thing we've learned from watching some pitching greatness over the years, it's that a pitcher can't do it all by himself. Too many sparkling performances over the years I've watched - in particular, one of the most forgotten great games, David Cone's pitching job against Mike Mussina's near-perfect game in 2001 - have gone by the boards for lack of support from the offense. Not tonight. None other than Curt's backstop, Jason Varitek, made sure of it by blasting a two-run, two-out triple in the very first frame to warm up the fans. Straight to center, we couldn't even see where it landed but instead had to rely on the upthrust arms of the fans in front of us with a better view. Even though the breeze trickled down the backs of our necks from behind us, sending an ungodly chill through our bodies, we had a lead and we had hope. First and second, one out, another threat. A screaming liner to third on a hit-and-run, stabbed by Bill Mueller and turned into a double play escape act. The Cardinals plated one run thanks to a few miscues in the field, but Mueller, the very author of those miscues, came through with a crucial stop that would choke off the rally. A ground ball to the chest and a race to the third base bag. Third out, inning over. Very next inning, Mueller redeemed himself completely with a double to right, after which he came around to score on a Mark Bellhorn double. Once again, a hit to straightaway center, and the joy of two more runs rushed back up to us in a wave as the first few rows celebrated and passed it back. Two more innings, two more runs, and the outcome was never in doubt. Even when one run scored in the eighth, Keith Foulke strode in to the strains of Danzig, squashed the rally and then plowed through the Birds in the ninth, closing out the game with a 1-2-3 top of the inning as we danced to "Dirty Water" for the second time that night. The sweetest sound at Fenway.

As I type this, Pedro Martinez has spun another gem and gotten support from the bats, and Red Sox Nation sits on the edge of something unreal. The Red Sox won the very first World Series played, and now they are in control of the hundredth World Series ever. Even as the third game ended tonight, I wasn't jumping up and down, I wasn't hollering and high-fiving...I found myself calm and relaxed, as if everything was simply coming to us. Security and sureness should be alien feelings to us as Red Sox fans, but finally breaking that spell after game 7 of the ALCS was almost like a catharsis, like shaking off an eternal daze and realizing what needs to be accomplished and how easy it can be.

We have four chances. Let's get it done.

Game 1: Tim Wakefield
Game 2: Curt Schilling
Game 3: Pedro Martinez
Game 4: Derek Lowe
Game 5: Tim Wakefield
Game 6: Curt Schilling
Game 7: Pedro Martinez

Game 1 tix: Casilli & friend
Game 2 tix: Viv & I
Games 3-5: in Houston
Game 6 tix: Chris
Game 7 tix: Chris

So to sum up - Viv and I will be at Fenway Park to watch Curt Schilling start for the Sox in the WORLD SERIES. Curt Schilling who shut up 56,000 New York fans in ALCS Game 6. Curt Schilling who shut down 25 Yankees in Yankee Stadium. Curt Schilling who reached down, sucked it up, had his skin stitched to the flesh in his foot and bled through his sock, putting out a Roy Hobbsian effort in throwing seven innings of gutsy, gritty one-run ball against his newly-sworn enemy. Curt Schilling, who will be appearing back in Boston on the field for the first time since giving all he had out on the mound in New York.

And we'll be there to welcome him home.

...but I got an email in my inbox today that started thusly:

From: redsox.com
To: greenone@bluestraveler.net
Date: Wed, 20 Oct 2004 13:20:06 EDT
Subject: Coming soon: World Series Ticket Opportunity

For the last two nights, I've been sitting in the same position on the same couch in my living room, with the phone and remote next to me and the cellphone on the coffee table in the same configuration. I ended Game 6 with the regular phone and Chris in my left ear, and Viv on the cell in my right ear. I even wore the same pair of jeans I wore to Game 5 on Sunday night, and didn't shave during the Sox four-game run, just to ensure the same consistent karma for the duration. Probably a good thing the wife is out of town rather than sitting next to a human Brillo pad with stanky-ass, chocolate-stained clothes. Though I'd fit right in in the Sox clubhouse.

Chris wrote to me today with a dilemma - our mutual friend Steve had invited him to a gathering at his place to watch Game 7 together. The problem: The Sox had won games 4, 5 and 6 when he was at home with his girlfriend. Dare he risk breaking the karma and party/yell/puke with fellow Sox fans?

My response - go for it. We watched games 1 and 2 in our apartment with the girls in our dorm, and the Sox lost. Game 3 in Maine with my parents, and the Sox lost (I actually gave up when it got to be 16-6, my little brother Joe - the immediate family member who least enjoys baseball - was the only one to watch the whole thing). Game 4, just me and Vee at home. Game 5, me and Matt at Fenway (in case you're wondering, I STILL haven't recovered), and game 6, me by myself. So who the hell knows? I'd rather sit at home and watch by myself, where I'm free to sulk, shout at Tim McCarver the plague known as FOX the TV, gab angstily on the phone with friends and fart in the privacy of my own living room, but with this team's Joel Goodsonesque, "Sometimes you have to just say, what the fuck" attitude, apparently anything goes. I could have gone downstairs to my poor neighbor's apartment and "watched" it there on her laptop (her TV broke this week - of all the luck). I invited her up to our apartment but she declined; she may have a change of heart next week.

Because...

We're Series-bound. Only been waiting eighteen years for this.

Bring it.

Alex Rodriguez gives Bronson Arroyo a high-five, congratulating him on helping to win game 6 of the ALCS as first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz looks on.

As I posted elsewhere, I have no voice, a pounding headache, my back is killing me, I'm coming down with a cold, my hands are bleeding from clapping so hard...and I love it. I NEVER drink coffee, but the first thing I did when I got into work this morning was pour myself a cuppa joe. Now I can't tell if I'm jittery from the caffeine, the lack of sleep or the leftover spine-tingling energy from last night.

One thing I forgot to mention in yesterday's entry was that our season ticket benefactors had offered to give us tickets for Sunday's matchup instead of Monday, to ensure that we'd be able to see an ALCS game. We weren't sure if we were being offered the possibility of both Sunday AND Monday, or if they were offering to switch with us. After thinking about it, though, I already had a date with my brother for Monday, and we decided to leave things as they were, to allow my friend's mother the chance to say goodbye to Derek Lowe, one of her favorite players. Of course, once the Sox pulled it out in the 12th, I was sort of kicking myself, wishing I'd gone to the game.

That lasted less than 24 hours.

My brother came down from Maine and stopped by work to pick me up. We went to my place, changed into our game gear, and left for Fenway at 3:45. Traffic is usually horrible most of the way down, but we didn't really hit much until we got off Storrow Drive to get to our secret free parking spot (we had heard parking vendors were charging $60, $80 even $100 the last two days - not interested, thank you). We got to Fenway just before game time but the line to get in was so long that we missed the top of the first, but we could tell from outside that Pedro was throwing gas. Everyone was on their feet cheering at every two-strike count, and the roar told us about two third strikes. We got to our seats in center field - section 38, row 30, directly below the scoreboard - just in time to see the Sox plate two runs and Fenway go bananas. Bernie Williams' homer in the top of the second quieted us down a little bit, but the Sox continued to put runners on base so we remained optimistic. Pedro's pitch count mounted but he stayed strong - striking out batters when he needed to, allowing a baserunner or two but gutting it out. And then came the Yankee rally that always seems to come - Jorge Posada hits a chopper over Pedro's head that doesn't even reach second base. If Pedro's two inches taller, he comes down with it. If Cabrera is shading Posada a bit more towards the middle, he throws him out. If Posada is batting righty instead of lefty, he's thrown out. But the "master of the dink hit", as Bill Simmons calls him, strikes again. Then Ruben Sierra singles to center. Hmm. Tony Clark reliably strikes out (it's good to see he's still performing at the same level) but then Miguel "Boom Boom" Cairo turns into an inside pitch and suddenly the bases are loaded for Captain Intangibles, who promptly dumps a double into right field on Pedro's 100th pitch, plates three runs, and takes the wind completely out of our sales. A real stomach punch. Now it's 4-2, runner on 3rd. A-Rod turns into ANOTHER inside bitch...er, pitch, and bwuises his widdle elbow. Gary Sheffield works a walk thanks to a postage-stamp-sized strike zone at home plate (the various umpires in section 38 were bellowing and bellyaching all night long), and we're in full-on panic mode with Hideki Matsui coming to the plate. He's already flied deep to center, singled to right-center and hit a bullet to first. He smashes one to right, we all shit our pants, but Nixon comes in, snatches it a foot before it hits the grass, and sticks one of the ugliest landings I've ever seen. Three outs. 111 pitches. Pedro is done.

Sixth inning, we go one-two-three. Mike Timlin comes in despite having made approximately 23874 appearances already, gives up an infield single but nothing more. Seventh inning, Bellhorn gives us hope with a leadoff double - a HIT! - and the crowd gets raucous as Cabrera draws a one-out walk, but Manny grounds into a double play and we're deflated again. Even more deflated as Cairo leads off the 8th with a hit that Manny hamhands into a double somehow. Jeter sacrifices him to 3rd. Reaching WAY down into his gut, Timlin strikes out A-Rod - yet ANOTHER clutch strikeout, sending the crowd into another frenzy - before walking Sheffield (again) to bring up Matsui. At this point, I'm shaking, I can't feel my toes, and I think I've developed some kind of facial tic. Keith Foulke is summoned and Matsui flies to left, with Manny managing not to botch it this time.

Aaaand...exhale.

The 8th inning is the turning point. Rivera is warming in the bullpen after throwing about 957 pitches the night before, but Joe Torre and Mel Stottlemyre are apparently both stuck in the dugout bathroom because they let Tom Gordon pitch to David Ortiz, who promptly blasts one off the Volvo sign. 4-3, and you just KNOW there's more to come. Kevin Millar walks and is replaced by Dave Roberts, who motors to third on a Trot Nixon single. Finally, Torre and Stottlemyre blast the latch off with a shotgun, make their way back to the dugout, and bring in Rivera to face Varitek, who's been the silent clutch hero of the series. He comes up big with a sac fly and we're all tied up, headed for extra innings, but not before the scare of the century in the bottom of the 9th - thank God we were in Fenway or Tony Clark's ground-rule double is in the first row of the absurdly short right-field porch at Yankee Stadium and the game is over.

From then on, instead of "Refuse to Lose", it looked like a "Refuse to Win" competition. The Yankees had a few terrific chances to pull it out but never could, while the Sox had not-as-good chances almost EVERY INNING until the 14th. 9th inning, infield single by Damon...caught stealing. 10th inning, ground-rule double by Mientkiewicz, takes 3rd on a groundout...stranded there. 11th inning, two singles, nobody out...then a failed sac bunt and a double play. 12th inning, Ortiz walks, steals second...but wait, he doesn't. Apparently Captain Intangibles only has to wave his glove at you when he tries to tag you. Shades of Chuck Knoblauch, Jose Offerman and Tim Tschida in '99. Bases empty, inning over. The 13th inning was a reversal of fortunes - the Sox go down in order, while the Yankees run everywhere but home thanks to Varitek botching three passed balls - one on a strikeout, then sending the runner to second, then second and third. But Sierra swings and misses by a foot, and we play on. Everything was conspiring against this game ending at a reasonable hour. Heck, the Astros-Cardinals game, which started THREE HOURS LATER, almost finished before this one did.

Then the 14th. After a 1-2-3 by the Sox in the bottom of the 13th (I typoed that as the 123th...not too far off from what it felt like), Wakefield bears down and does the same to the Yankees. And then it's Papi time. Two on, two out, Ortiz up, the whole shack shimmies...and the other Dynamic D.O. comes through yet again to send Fenway into bedlam. It's almost to the point where the Yankees might intentionally walk this guy with the bases loaded. Game 3 had already set a record of 4 hours and 20 minutes for a 9-inning game. Game 4 lasted 12 innings, 5 hours and 2 minutes and 421 pitches. Game 5? 14 innings, 5 hours 49 minutes and 472 pitches. As the late, great Ned Martin would say, "Mercy."

And tonight, playing the part of Willis Reed, we have Curt Schilling, playing with a torn tendon sheath on his right foot, a custom-made boot, a heart the size of North Dakota, and a bullpen more ragged than Nick Nolte's mug shot.

I'll be back on my couch.

Either I didn't hear the alarm go off this morning or my wife was ever so kind as to shut it off before it rang at the ungodly hour of 6am. Well, actually, it was set to go off at 6:03 - for reasons unknown to even me, I never set the alarm directly on the appointed hour. You never know when those few extra minutes of sleep will come in handy.

I can hear the Internet saying that 6:03 really isn't that ungodly of an hour. Well, Internet, it is when you're up until 1:45 the morning before to find out if you're even going to be able to go to Fenway this postseason. Faithful readers of Vivacious will note that we had tickets to game 4 of the ALDS against the Angels, but since the Sox swept, we were denied the opportunity. Last year our benefactors were kind enough to give us game 3 ALDS tickets since we had never been, and the Sox, being down 2-0 at the time, were no guarantee to go beyond that third game. So since we didn't get to see an ALDS game, we were rewarded with game 3 ALCS ducats, ensuring our attendance last Friday.

And then the rains came.

The game was washed away, and rather than inconveniencing three ballparks' worth of fans (bumping Friday's ticketholders to Saturday, Saturday's to Sunday and Sunday's to Monday) we were suddenly relegated to the unsavory prospect of using our tickets for nothing more than kindling after Saturday's 19-8 debacle, which we watched from the safety of our undisclosed bunker somewhere in Maine. I suppose it's a good thing we were there, because I'm much less inclined to throw and/or break things in my parents house than I am in my own abode.

But last night found me stretched out on the couch, sitting in a darkened living room, well past the witching hour, while my wife tried to get some shuteye before an exhilarating two-state tour of Ohio and Nebraska (apparently, the recruiting tour of greater Kazakhstan was deemed unnecessary). But of course, it's impossible to truly escape from a Red Sox postseason game, so she had the radio on in the bedroom. After one particularly excitable call from Sox radio announcer Jerry Trupiano, she came ambling out of the bedroom, only to have a mini-rally quashed in the 10th. She then shuffled back bedward, rubbing her eyes and pouting at being summoned from her torpor yet again for such a bothersome interruption. But come the 12th, she was the one completely wide awake when Big Papi went Big Fly - again - to end it.

And now I'm Fenway-bound.

I wish to apologize in advance to anyone I may interact with over the course of the next couple of weeks. I do this as a sufferer of PMS. Yes, PMS - Playoff Male Syndrome.

As any medical care provider will tell you, symptoms of PMS include migraine, fatigue, exhaustion, depression and the inability to function. There is no permanent cure for PMS, but fortunately for the rest of the population of the world that I interact with, it only manifests once a year, in October, and then goes into remission until the following year.

PMS. It's no laughing matter.

Big Papi goes big fly to sweep the rally monkey.
Yankees come from behind in series and games 2, 3 and 4.
Boston and NYC in the ALCS.
MLB actually has the idiocy to endorse, print and SELL this shirt.
This shirt is proposed in response by bostondirtdogs.com
Oh yeah - we've got tickets to Game 3 Friday night.
Game fucking ON.

On a more serious note...if you've ever made or heard a "Curse of the Bambino" reference or think you know the story of Harry Frazee, you'll think differently after reading this article by Glenn Stout on ESPN.com. The whole thing is worth taking in, but if you're short on time, scroll down to the second subhead, "Frazee and Johnson", and start reading. To find that the story boils down to anti-Semitism and historical distortion by some well-respected members of not only baseball society but American society was extremely disheartening to see. The real history is astounding in its sadness and rooted in true hatred, far beyond the fabricated animosity between Red Sox and Yankees fans. Especially if you're a fan of either team, you owe it to yourself to read the article.

Cleaning up the apartment last night, I had "Sox Talk Live" on NESN blaring in the background, since I can't stand WEEI's programming for very long. The guys are sitting around the desk, talking hardball, and then a commercial break comes on...advertising Avril Lavigne at the FleetCenter.

Let's recap here - baseball playoffs, off-night for the Sox, no game, first time this show has ever been done, and not advertised outside of NESN for the most part. Yet the first ad they run isn't for beer, or trucks, or trucks full of beer. No, it's for an Avril Lavigne concert. I'm just dying to know if Ticketmaster's lines lit up after that ad aired.

...and it was so worth it. 8-3, 2-0, coming back to Fenway. Aw yeah.

Man, these chips are salty.
And vinegary.
And vinegary some more.
And again with the vinegary.
In fact, my tongue hurts and the glands in my mouth are revolting against the taste, such is the saltiness and vinegariness.
I think I'll have another one.
*wince*

Saturday was a busy day in our household - despite the fact that the Sox were playing a doubleheader, now that they'd clinched a postseason spot, the prospect of watching two games full of subs and scrubs wasn't all that exciting.

The main goal of the day was to get me a new desk for the office - my current one is too small and doesn't give me enough space to organize all of the crap that's orbiting my office. So off we went to the Crate & Barrel furniture store in search of the perfect piece for the office. But of course, between here and there is the same bakery where we found the nearly-perfect half-moons on our last pass through, so we thought we'd go off-course a bit. Rather than returning to Arthur's, however, we thought we'd try one of Kathleen's old haunts - Lyndell's Bakery in Somerville. Not only did Lyndell's have half-moons, but they also had the mocha cakes my parents used to get - basically a slice of jelly roll with coconut on the outside, mocha frosting and a half-cherry (which was replaced by a blob of raspberry jelly).

Then we began furniture shopping in earnest. Unfortunately, Crate & Barrel did not comply - they didn't have anything in particular that interested us. We did almost spring for a new coffee table, but the price was a bit steep and we weren't in love with the color, so we passed. After a confusing spin around Harvard Square, we landed at the Crate & Barrel there, where we found a TV stand and media center that we DID love - but we decided to wait and cash in some rewards points for C&B certificates. After all, we reasoned that the media center would help us clean up the office too, by getting the stereo and CDs out of there. Not that they really belonged there in the first place - the reason they're back there is because we had cleaned out our living room, and what was supposed to be a temporary storage solution has turned into months and months of "Yeah, we'll get around to that." The time is drawing near when I shall reclaim my office space. Oh yes. I shall.

Originally we had plans to go see Wilco at Brandeis on Saturday night, but we weren't able to get tickets, so instead it turned into date night, sponsored by the Four Queens Casino. As you might remember, my blackjack winnings were going to pay for a fancy dinner out, but instead, the wife opted for two less expensive dinners. So we hit up the Macaroni Grill at the local mall, then saw Garden State at the cineplex. Decent food, good movie, though I can't for the life of me figure out why Method Man has billing over Natalie Portman (maybe it's alphabetical on the poster on the back of the soundtrack I read this morning?). I mean, "Raise your hand if you saw titties" is a great line and all, but I'm not sure I'd bill that over, oh, the female love interest of the movie. But enjoyable - go see it.

Tangent: we didn't stick around to see the credits, so I'm not sure if there was even one listed, but here goes anyway - if Method Man had a personal assistant in the movie, was that person listed in the credits as "Personal Assistant to Mr. Man"? I mean, how do you formally address someone named "Method Man"? How does this apply to similarly-named people? Is Mos Def addressed as Mr. Def? Do his friends just call him Mos? And what about Ice-T? Does he even have a last name, with that hyphen in there? You can't call him Mr. T, can you? That'd just be too confusing. This blog demands an answer!

Aaaaaaaand, end tangent.

Since we ate at the universally-accepted "age-extreme" time of day (seriously, everyone eating with us was either gumming down their pasta or...well, gumming down their pasta), we saw a 6:15 showing of Garden State and then got back in time to see the rest of the Sox nightcap...and enjoy our Lyndell's half-moons. And with all due respect to Somerville's finest...not that great. The frosting was too fluffy, and the cake was far too spongy. And I never thought I'd say this, but there was WAY too much frosting. I mean, I'm a red-blooded American who likes his excess and his sugar as much as the next person, but this was overboard. There was more frosting than cake, to the point where we were suffering from sugar headaches later that night.

I will say, however, that the mocha cakes were a great success. Those will become regulars at dessert time.