It was over in the second inning. Our warrior, our top gun was on the hill. And he couldn’t get it done. Had nuthin’. Looked awful. Before we’d polished off our first beer, it was 6-0 and looking impossible.
And then Wakefield, who stymied the Yanks in last year’s ALCS until its final, bitter moments, surrendered the last few nails for the coffin. Two more runs, and an eight run deficit, and suddenly you were wondering what it would feel like to get a full night’s sleep.
Only it wasn’t over. Because the Sox made it interesting. Very interesting. And when Ortizzle’s ball popped out of the glove of Matsui — who is our worst enemy at the plate and our best friend in the outfield — and the gap was closed to one run, you were born again, looking for snacks, and slapping on the rally cap.
But it really was over. Because Mo Rivera, who is almost untouchable in the regular season and inhuman in the playoffs, came and in got Mr. Cowboy Up himself to pop out weakly to quell the uprising with the tying run just ninety antagonizing feet away.
The last inning… you watched it, but you knew what was coming. Because you saw what Timlin did in the last game of the ALDS. And when it was over, you put away the chocolate cake, returned the beer to the fridge, and started dreaming of tomorrow’s game, in which Pedro will have a chance to show the world who is whose daddy.
On any other night, I’d question why Wakefield was even in the game. Myself, I think the world of the guy. But I don’t want to see him on the mound for the rest of this Series. Unless we’re up by, say, six runs. Might this have been a job for Lowe?
All in all, it was a tough loss, but one in which we all walk away knowing just how resilient these Sox really are. Perhaps it helped us get in the Yanks’ heads a bit, gaining us a little more street cred. But in a series in which the first team to collect four goes on the World Series, I would have felt better banking a win.