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

Monday, June 26, 2006

There Goes My Hero

David Ortiz, of course.

The thing is, when you sit down to write about David Ortiz's latest walk-off heroics and you want to reference the last time he did something like that and you need look back only as far as the PREVIOUS GAME, well, that should tell you something. These are heady times. This is wild stuff.

True, this game should have been won long before the 12th inning. In fact, the Sox should have wrapped it up in the seventh. But until Tito learns that unless the question is "Which current Red Sox reliever would you pay a year's salary to tie to a tree and beat with sticks?" the answer is NEVER Rudy Seanez, we'll likely be in for some rollercoasters. But the way I figure it, if Papi's there to catch us at the bottom of the hill, things will be all right.

Of course it was a day game so of course I had to Gameday at work and long about the third inning I gave up any illusions of doing actual work and just served as a de facto department Red Sox status reporter, informing my curious coworkers of any pertinent developments. Look, it's hard to proofread when you see, "In times of war, the Etruscans turned to GODDAMIT, SEANEZ KEEP THE EFFING BALL DOWN WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU DO YOU HAVE COMPROMISING PICTURES OF TITO WITH WALLY OR SOMETHING?" (How something to that effect has not yet ended up in a book I've edited is beyond me). Then Amy and I headed to the bar for lunch to catch what we could on TV. We saw all the scoring on our part, including Ortiz's, um, interesting "slide" into home to score the first run. We left the bar, secure in the knowledge that Wake was working with a six run lead and therefore, would probably not feel it necessary to cut a bitch. Hell, even the red-hot .164-hitting Doug Mirabelli got in on the fun with an RBI. Clearly, things were in good hands. Or so we thought, conveniently forgetting that for some inexplicable reason, the hands Tito saw fit to entrust the game to belonged to Rudy "Gas Can" Seanez. Things pretty much went to shit from there.

The following is an email exchange between myself and Amy while we were "working." Note: our desks are literally four feet apart.

Amy: Seanez needs a new nickname. I said it will be "this dead motherfucker" if he blows this thing.

Me: He does not warrant a nickname. I want to punch him in the face. That is all. I have teh rage. He should not fuck with me.

Amy: "She has girl rage, which has been known to fell the mightiest of men. And you, sir Seanez, are not mighty."

Me: Indeed, this is truth. I have leveled several small villages. They have yet to recover.

And then...bad things happened with Papelbon. Well, one bad thing but it was enough to shake my faith for a few moments there. I immediately began knitting him an afghan in which to wrap him and keep him safe from all the bad things in this world. But homeboy is strong. And he can take it. I should have known.

A billion hours later when I crowded in front of the plasma big screen at the gym with about fifteen other people, David Ortiz did it again. Are we sure he's actually human? Perhaps other teams might want to look into the Red Sox purchase orders and see if we've been buying lots of robotic parts or something.

And so here we are. Nine games in a row. Three series sweeps back to back to back. Good times abound and they're drawing up ballots to elect Ortiz mayor as we speak.

Bring on the Mets!