Is that the face of a guy who’s gonna let you down tonight?
Who’s gonna let the season end with an opposing team spilling champagne on our turf during his watch?
Who’s gonna have you wake up with the hangover of a mind-numbing loss still twisting through your veins?
Who’s gonna let Travis Hafner and Kenny “I was playing when Woodrow Wilson came to the park, so don’t try to show my ass up, sonny” Lofton dance on his pitcher’s mound in October?
Who’s gonna send the college girls back to their dorms crying, the kids to bed with their dreams in tiny shards, and kick-off a funeral procession onto Lansdowne and across Kenmore Square?
Who’s gonna let the 2007 season end on a Saturday night, when the Lord’s day is just a couple hours away?
Who’s gonna rest on his laurels and bloody sock and allow what could be his final appearance in a Red Sox uniform to be remembered as the game that saw our ALCS dream crash and burn?
Who’s not gonna leave every ounce of blood, sweat and Miller Genuine Draft on that mound so that we can live to die another day?
F@#k that noise.
Our season’s in Curt’s hands tonight, people. And I can’t think of any other way I’d wanna have it.