Actually, it was nothing like 2004. Except for the fact that I was drunk. And yelling. That part was the same.
Yes, tonight, I got all swept back up in it. Jumping around the room, shouting at the TV set. I told myself I wouldn’t. I swore that was it, I’d save my vocal cords and easily-bruised knuckles for next year, when they might come in handy.
But after last night’s win, I thought… maybe.
Maybe the Sox could play spoiler. Maybe they could f$%k up October for the Yankees the way they’d f$%ked up countless Octobers for us. Maybe we’d have something to hang our hats on, however meager, after the ashes of 2012 are scattered across the Charles River. Shit, we even had some last-minute heroics from Salty and the tying run on first in the bottom of the ninth with two outs just to build the tension.
Then Ells came up and swung at the first pitch. And before another F-bomb could drop from my lips, the game was over.
Hey, we got one. And we could win the series. And Jeets might be out for a stretch of critical games. And the Orioles won, which is bad for New York.
Plus, my neighbors got reacquainted with “Game Day Drinkin’ Red,” which is important for establishing boundaries.
It was a rare glimmer of hope and light in a season best left in the toilet. And at the end of the day, I’m more pissed at the fact that Bobby V’s been ejected six times this season and has not ONCE employed Operation Fake Mustache.
Oh, and more good news: Congrats to The Elf for becoming a dad. Again.