That Just Happened
(Photo from Boston.com)
First, some background: for whatever reason, my parents' TV is about six seconds faster than mine. I thought it was just because of my cable connection or something but, turns out, they are actually in possession of the fastest television on the Eastern seaboard. It's like they're watching the games in future times. So it's possible that they know what's going to happen in any one situation of a sporting event BEFORE it even happens in real life. Seriously, no joke. So when my dad called me last night during the ninth inning and I was having a minor freak-out about Eric Gagne being allowed into a game the Sox weren't winning by double digits, I took solace when he said, "Don't worry, they make it out of this."
"That's right," I said, "your TV is faster."
"Seems like it," my dad responded.
"Well hey," I asked, "On your TV, can you tell me, have the Sox already won game two?"
"I'ts 3-0 Sox in the second," he said.
Wouldn't it be nice if such a crystal ball were actually available?
Admittedly, I did not expect last night to go down as it did. You couldn't really have two more evenly matched pitchers - as they're surely 1 and 1A in AL Cy Young voting this season - and Sabathia is never someone you take for granted. So I'm not really sure what happened. Eric Wedge seems to want to fall back on the "trying too hard" mantra and maybe he's right. I know only that Beckett was not about to let anyone beat him. Not the Indians, not the AL All-Star Team, and not the invading bug army from Starship Troopers. Simply put, Josh Beckett was going to win that game. There were no two ways about it.
Initially when my dad called, I didn't hear the phone ring because Greta, Amy and I were methodically working our way through several pitchers of pumpkin beer and trying to assemble our own personal Team Awesome, 30-or Under, and Attractive. (We're still stuck on a first basemen, by the way.) So when my dad finally did get hold of me, he expressed disappointment that I wasn't at my post.
"I am so," I said, " We're at Beerworks surrounded by a bazillion TVs. We have wings. We have dip. We're on our fourth pitcher of beer."
"Wow," he said, "The Sox are only on their third pitcher."
What can I say? The puns flow freely come playoff time.
"Here is the thing," I said to Amy at one point, "Look at how I'm drinking the beer. Look at how I'm eating my food."
"I see that," she said.
"My point is, if we were playing the Yankees right now, I'd be dry-heaving on every pitch and three hours from now I'd be sitting with a cold burger and four lukewarm but untouched pints of beer."
"A tragedy indeed," she said.
And then, for some reason I don't really remember, I apparently tried to get her to eat a Wetnap. Evidently the combination of the playoffs and Josh Beckett's dominance turn me into a frat boy.
So tonight we're back at it. It almost seems too much to ask for Curt Schilling to pull another magical postseason start out of his sleeve. But he's the Big Schill. That's what he does. I am surely not underestimating Fausto Carmona because, I mean, the dude sounds like an epic John Milton poem. You wanna go up against that? But I rest my faith on the capable shoulders of Mssrs. Ramirez and Ortiz, those men of postseason greatness. And I will pour another beer. For this is playoff baseball. And it? Is good.