Unless Peter Gammons can make a call to The Powers That Be about this weather situation in Boston (and you know that with his connections, Ol’ Pete can ruin your barbecue plans with just a snap of his fingers), today’s Sox game will likely be rained out. Or at the very least delayed until, oh, about 10:30pm.
This is a shame. Because these guys are on a roll. And nothing — Mother Nature, acts of terrorism, a new Wayans Brothers movie — should be allowed to stop the juggernaut.
Last night’s win was an example of how venomous this team can be when everything clicks. Beckett gives up three hits and two runs over eight inning, bringing a no-hitter into the sixth. The offense transforms Philly pitching into hapless, one-armed pencil salesmen, belting 13 hits and driving in 10 runs. The win streak hits 7 and suddenly Tina Cervasio’s “accidentally” leaving her apartment keys on Tito’s desk. These are happy times, people.
Just a month ago I was faxing Theo on the hour, dropping the names of some excellent psychotherapists who, I assured, would certainly help pull Beckett out of his funk. Turns out all the guy needed was exposure to some of his old pals in the National League.
And the offense… man, I’m starting to believe that some point this summer, A-Gon will hit the magical .300 mark. Folks, it’s going to happen. Beyond that, a home run and 5 RBIs for Manny? Another coupla hits for Youk? A Coke bottle shot and ovation for The Hebrew Hammer? You know you’re living well when Ortiz pulls an O-fer and we still plate 10.
It’s like a dose of pure euphoria for three hours every night. And then it’s gone. Over. Leaving me with nothing more than post-game cigarettes with Caron and the Eck. And now I look out my window and see the drops splattering wildly across the glass. It doesn’t bode well. And I hate to see anything stop the Feel Good Express.