"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Monday, April 11, 2005

Ring It In!

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Is it normal for a grown woman (this is what they tell me, anyway, I sure as hell don’t feel like a grown-up), to spend twenty minutes on a Sunday evening trying to decide on an appropriate outfit for the next day that best captures the “Opening Day at Fenway, Oh And We’re Also Defending World Champions And Will Be Handed Something Shiny Today And The Yankees Will Have To Watch With Their Eyes Taped Open Clockwork Orange Style” mood? Is there such an outfit? I tell you, it took some thought.

Normally, my Sox watching gear is a default Varitek shirt because I have, oh, let’s just say many. But Tek isn’t catching today. That duty falls squarely on the capable shoulders of a one Doug Mirabelli. (Expect the Red Sox Catcher Blood Feud to continue unabated this afternoon). So no Tek wear. Schilling? ‘Cause, you know, he’s Schilling. And there really isn’t any clearer a symbol of the stake driven through the Yankees’ blackened hearts than Schill’s bloody ankle. But no, he’s not back yet. World Champions T-shirt with all the little cheesy player pennants? All except Kevin Millar because of some union whoo-ha that I just don’t care about? Perhaps, but how can you not have Kevin Millar, the man who’s walk led directly to The Steal? Needs to be addressed. Hmmm, major dilemma. In the end, I settled on a simple, long-sleeved, navy blue “Boston Red Sox” T-shirt because with all the bling flashing at Fenway, perhaps less is more. Oh, and the World Champs locker room hat because it’s badass. And I’m not that subtle.

I’m leaving work at 1 today. Taking a half day. I was not fortunate enough to snag a ticket to the actual game because I’m sort of using all of my internal organs at the moment and didn’t really have any to sell on the black market. But I’ll be heading across the street from my office with a co-worker in tow to soak it all in. The ceremony, the game and the Sam Adams. Prior to me requesting this half day last week, my boss, fully aware of and sensitive to my Sox substance abuse problem, asked me what my plans were for Opening Day.

Boss: So what are you doing on Monday?
Me: Um, I don’t know yet.
Boss: You didn’t get a ticket did you?
Me: (rueful laugh) Nah, I wish.
Boss: But you won’t be here right?
Me: Um, I guess not?
Boss: I figured there’s no way you’d be at work on Opening Day.
Me: Okay, I, uh, would like to request a half day on Monday. I have a date with twenty-five men and some sparkly jewelry.
Boss: Figured as much.

I haven’t been this excited since, well, I’m not really sure when. I don’t get this worked up over Christmas or my birthday anymore. And I wasn’t so much “excited” about Game 4 of the World Series as I was “trying to refrain from dry-heaving all over Amy’s living room.” So this is a new feeling. We’re on top of the world. I like the view from up here.

Dirt Dogs is reporting that Tedy Bruschi will be throwing out the first pitch. In addition to this being freakin’ fantastic, it’s also very serendipitous and bizarre because Heather and I were having this discussion on Saturday:

Heather: Who’s throwing out the first pitch?
Me: I dunno. Usually, the Pats do it. Heh, “usually” ‘cause they win so often.
Heather: Maybe they should just have Tedy Bear do it.
Me: That would be awesome. He’d get the biggest ovation ever. And we’d all be able to see with our own eyes that he’s okay.
Heather: I really hope the Sox think of this.

Apparently, they did.

It promises to be a day of hugs and tears and smiles and handshakes and shiny rings and waving banners and good times and happy. There are old friends to welcome back, (how’s the elbow, D-Lowe? DAVE ROBERTS!), and newbies to cheer (sorry, Edgah, you’re going to have to watch the last out video about 7,546 times today), and legends to honor (Johnny Pesky, this is for you). My VCR is set (TiVo? Wha?), and I’ll be watching, pint in hand. There’s a new playing surface on the field today but I guarantee that nowhere on the planet is the grass greener than at Fenway.