Monday, October 29, 2007
Here's something a little weird. I am watching the game last night. We are ahead 4-1 in the bottom of the eighth, and our best middle relief pitcher, who's a little gassed from his workload the last three games, is on the mound. A single, an out, and a Garrett Atkins home run later, and it's 4-3. In the years past -- say, any time between 1918 and 2004, for instance -- my reaction would be "we're dead. We're so dead. We are Tom Tancredo Campaign dead. How do we die this time?" And you'd sit and watch with that Eyes of the Dead look like that guy with the word "Risk" tattooed on his fingers in that commercial.
This time? I say to Littlest, "hey, it's 4-3 and Paps is coming in the game. Pitched a lot this series, but he's a horse. I like our chances."
That's when I realize the curse is dead and gone forever. We could have even lost that game last night and it would still be dead. So Mitch is right; give the 86 years a rest, send it to the same history books where we discuss the Hundred Years War. Now it's our turn, and even if some gloryhounds can't even wait for the end of the series:
...we don't have to say Bambino or Yankees suck any more.
We are Red Sox Nation. Our team is World Champions for the second time in four years. We belong here.
Don't like it? Come beat us.