My first experience with gut-wrenching, fist-pounding failure was the ’86 World Series. I remember watching the final out of the final game, seeing Gary Carter and Mookie Wilson and Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling running mad-assedly toward each other, and feeling myself collapse into a motionless pile on the floor where I remained for a good hour, prompting at least a few of my friends to prod me with sticks to ensure that I was still breathing. Obviously, our post-1986 exploits have been far more satisfying than those of the Mets, but I still feel a small part of myself transport back to that fateful October night every time I see that uniform.
Last night, however, we held our own pretty nicely against the B team from New York, considering the Great Johan Santana was on the hill. But it was–put down your coffees and Red Bulls, folks–another Julio Lugo miscue that helped the Mets get the jump on us last night. His failure to execute what would have been an inning-ending double play gave the Mets some extra outs and plated a couple more runs. And his teammates weren’t shy about admitting they’d been Lugo’ed:
“We didn’t really help [Matsuzaka],” said Pedroia. “We have to turn that double play. That was the biggest thing. That double play is turned, we win the game.”
One of the oddest moments came when Santana hit Youk with a pitch, then got his Pesci on when he interpreted Youkbacca’s shouts of pain as an affront to his world-renown masculinity:
Youkilis said he reacted by saying, “‘That hurts.’ I was joking around.” He also said Santana wasn’t throwing at him. But Santana took it seriously.
“Two outs, two strikes, there’s no way I’m going to try and hit somebody,” Santana said. “I hit him and he started looking at me. If you look at me, I’m going to give it back.”
Gotcha. The highlight of the game was undoubtedly Eck’s dropping the “s-bomb” after Youk got nailed. I’ll admit I’ve reached the point where I’ll miss Eck’s insights when and if Remy comes back. The guy adds just the right bit of cornpone hipster surrealism to the proceedings and I anxiously await Eck’s escalation to the F-bomb, which you know is just a Yankees series away.
Oh, and count me among those who would have loved to have seen Sheffield in a Sox uni. Especially with Papi’s recent woes.
Lastly, a legion of SG commenters is descending upon Boston today for 24 hours of drinking, Mets-cursing and general chicanery. Although my second and third jobs will likely prevent me from partaking–only fueling speculation that I don’t exist, something my family has been claiming for years–magic Denton will be an active participant this evening.