Now THAT’S how you end a game. Frustration everywhere. Schilling set to be the hard-luck loser after a splendid outing. Papi launching a drive that should’ve hit Mercury but barely scraped the walls of the valley that is Comerica. Todd Jones — everyone’s high school gym teacher! — in to shut us down and set us up at 1-3 on this road trip. Then Youk comes up and says, suck it!, belting a two-run shot. Wham, bam. 35,000 asses meet seats. And we’re jumping off the walls in Boston.
What gets me all hot and bothered is that Lowell and Youk — two guys I swore would be the cause of a million ulcers across Red Sox Nation this summer — made it happen. And they’re continuing to provide the fuel that spurs the engine of awesomeness that this team has become. Lowell hurts his hammy, but rather than give in, he explains, in the kindest possible terms, that the hammy must go f–k itself, because he’s got a mutherf–king game to win, so he tapes the goddam thing up and numbs it into submission and he gets out there and plays the game. And he gets three hits. And Schilling is in love with him. As we all should be.
It’s the kind of win that conjures feelings of 2004 — Christ, Youk himself referred to his late-inning heroics as having a “Bellhorn Day.” It’s the kind of win that reminds us that no matter what the calendar says, summer is officially here and it’s time to get swept up in the drama.
Shakey Wakey goes tonight. May the Force — and Lowell — be with him.