I still can’t quite believe it. Even now, now that I have caught up on all of my sleep, I still get emotional thinking about what has happened. I’ve watched the end of the game 4 or 5 times now, and all the celebrating on the field. I still get the urge to yell ‘Yee-hah’ every 45 minutes or so. I still get choked up every couple of hours.
I’m sure tomorrow, my thoughts will focus on Sox/Cardinals. Today, I’m going to bask in it just a little bit more.
Take the time to read this excellent, excellent thread on SoSH. If you get through it with dry eyes, you have no soul.
And here is an interesting email exchange I was just forwarded by my friend that was with me at Game 6. He is the responder:
>>> Email from some Yankee fan 10/22/04 9:30:37 AM >>>
While I’m obviously distressed by the Yanks inability to close the door and
the Boss’ ensuing overreaction to the loss, I’m comforted by this inevitable scenario…the
Sox will play in the WS…get tantilizingly close…and then pull a Buckner. Just
as the sun rises and sets each day, there are constants in this world. And it’s
virtually assured that the Sox will find some way to blow it and add to their
WS lore of finding ever increasingly agonizing ways to lose.
My friend’s response:
Thanks for your email. I couldn’t decide whether to respond or not to your
knocking of the Sox, then said, ah, what the heck.
Last Sunday night the Red Sox were toeing the edge of the cravasse called elimination.
When the Yankees were 3-outs away from the sweep and facing the bottom part
of the Sox lineup, I may have been leaning towards agreeing with you about the
inexplicable history of the Sox’ long-term October inabilities. It was like
they had this chronic post-season dysfunction. Then, in a snap, everything changed
— call it Levitra, call it Cialis, call it Viagra, call it Ortiz, call it Schilling.
Beginning on Sunday, this week of perfect Red Sox baseball was akin taking a
giant handful of those little blue pills to address this dysfunction and, I
may add, with nearly the same result as most of Red Sox Nation still has the
side effect that Levitra warns “could last more than 4 hours”. In
the blink of an eye (well, ok, over 11 hours of baseball), the dreaded Yankees
blew saves in back-to-back nights in the 9th and the 8th, respectively, against
the pitcher that McCarver called “the greatest closer to ever play the
position”. Enter Sandman? How about enter Sand-bag? The Sox practically
scored more runs against Mariano than they did against the Orioles this whole
season. Yankees pitching went from tremendous at the beginning of the series
to down-right ineffective. They could not close the deal in Game 4 … Game
5 … Game 6 … or Game 7. And after the yankees embarrased the Sox last Saturday,
their offense faltered, too. Even Matsui, dubbed the “Red Sox Killer” by the geniuses at Fox disappeared. After a samuri-like start, he fell upon
his own sword and went 3-for-26 over the balance of the series. Notably, this
slump began during the at-bat when Pedro knocked him down with a “You’ve
Got Mail” pitch– yeah, the pitch with the message attached. Sox Killer?
C’mon, even McCarver’s whipping-boy Mark Bellhorn outperformed Matsui with the
series on the line. The Sox played up the drama by repairing Schilling’s ankle
with some chewing gum and couple of paper clips (was his doctor’s name McGyver?),
and tossing him to the wolves at Yankee Stadium. Hmmm, 6 innings of 3 hit ball.
Not too bad. Then in Game 7, Johnny Damon woke from his ice-man slumber and
peered out from under his Neanderthal-esque hair. He realized that the ALCS
started a week ago and proceeded to hit the ball around the yard with his caveman
club that appeared to be so dangerous he may have used to hunt mammoths. Another
incredible win in the belly of the beast and a pennant to boot. To add further
insult to this embarrasing injury, not only did the Yankees lose but they did
so to a band of long-haired, fun-loving, goof-balls according to Sheff. Ouch.
Anyways, I’ll play down to the crowd and assume for a moment that your prediction
of a RedSox collapse becomes an eventuality. In this case, as the days chill
and the snow rolls in, I will be thoroughly comforted by warm memories of the
Sox players dancing on the dugout at the House that Ruth Built after the most
notorious and infamous post-season collapse in major league baseball history.
Or is that all of sports history? Hmmm, either way, my memories of one wonderfully
incredible and enjoyable week of yankee-thumping will be held close to my heart
for the rest of my life. Tragedy may befall the Sox in the coming week, as you
suggest “as sure as the sun rises”, but I’ll be basking in that sun
rise so much more warmly wrapped in the pennant that was half-knitted with “American
League Champions- New York” before the most humiliating flop in history.
The term “Bronx Bombers” will forever have whole new meaning to me.
But that is just my take on it.