Oh, the agony and the ecstasy of being a Sox fan. One minute, that cute ball girl from Fenway’s third base line is sitting on my lap, reading from Kierkegaard. The next, Matsui and the PM of Japan and kicking me square in the nuts. With spikes, no less.

We could go on about what went wrong in the Bronx, but the bottom line is the bottom line: It probably cost us the division. Had we walked out of there two and a half games out, spirits would be high, beer would be flowing like wine, and we’d be salivating at the prospects of next weekend’s rematch at our house. Not that we’re salivating any less, but if we scuffle against the Os, as we’re known to do, we could be six or more back by the time the Yanks hit Logan.

Fingers are crossed, people. Fingers and toes.