Right around the time the Sox were flipping the auto-pilot switch on Saturday, I heard that voice in the back of my head again. Not the one that tells me “Yes, Jessica Alba will eventually receive all those letters and vials of blood you’ve been sending her and idenfity you as her soulmate.” No, I mean the one that watches an offensive steamrolling and says, “No, no, no. Save some of these precious runs, my friends. Lock a few up in yer bats for another day when they’re harder to come by.”
And wouldn’t you know, twenty-four hours later, the Sox can’t buy a bloody run, going down 1-0 to the hated Yankees, and losing again to Big Handsome.
Having been to the mountain and drank from the precious, gold-encrusted cup that was last year’s ALCS victory, I can’t let myself take this too seriously. I can’t start punching walls and driving my car into fruit stands. This is a bump in the road. All will right itself this evening. Is that the 2004 in me talking? I’m not sure.
My only gripe is that Timmy Wakefield, a man among men [just ask Mrs. Wakefield] and possibly one of the most selfless dudes to ever wear a Red Sox uni deserved the win. That he lost it on a home run by Giambi, a known cheater who’s likely juicing again, is like having your nuts tapped with a hammer.
In the end, we didn’t get swept. And my biggest fear was coming in to Yankee Stadium and getting swept. We leave with a three game lead intact, and head for Toronto, home of the world’s hottest beer girls and Geddy Lee in the luxury box. Meanwhile, the Yanks head to Tampa Bay, where one can only hope they assume the full “Ned Beatty in Deliverance” position.