Sunday, July 27, 2003
To Hell and Back
As I suggested I might do on Friday, I ended up not watching a single pitch of the Martinez and Wells duel that night. Didn't even check the score until Saturday morning. Glad I played it that way, too, as it turns out I would need every ounce of emotional stamina I had to experience the nine innings on Saturday.
Going into the game, I had a good feeling about Burkett. Seriously. I've mentioned this before (and I don't have a single stat to back me up), but for years it seems to me that in Red Sox baseball what should happen rarely does.
So I was elated though not surprised that "John Burkett actually outpitched Mike Mussina yesterday, blanking the Yankees for 5 innings" (Silverman); however, I never had a sense of comfort with the 4-0 lead.
Did anyone in all of Red Sox Nation have any comfort with the four run lead against the New York Yankees?
In the eighth when Sauerbeck, who had been looking great with his pitches (love the wicked low left hand delivery), made the error on the Bernie Williams "squibbler" the world started to collapse around me.
When Kim came in to relieve Sauerbeck and immediately blew the save as Garcia singled off him, my mental address became the corner of Terror Street and Agony Way and beneath me a New York subway shook the ground.
A TV camera on the Fox broadcast picked up a woman sitting behind home plate with her head in her hands and tears running down her cheeks. That, I said to myself, is it right there. That is our station, what the gods have decided for us for all eternity.
What kinds of scenarios played out in your head at that moment? For me I was definitely in the masochistic mood MacMullan describes:
… punching their fists through the plaster, hurling their Sam Adams lagers at the television, and cursing their twisted, tormented fate of enduring a lifetime of dull despair at the hands of those hated Yankees (Globe).
At that point in time I even decided I'd quit blogging. Shutter the damn site. I'd had enough. This was it. Over. See ya. Sayonara. F-you Red Sox and the torment you put me through. I quit.
Then (behold!) came Johnny Damon's incredible catch in the top of the ninth coupled with Kim's holding the Yankees scoreless and I thought maybe, just maybe …
When 0 fer what seems forever Giambi got the single and then lumbered like Paul Bunyan chasing Babe the Blue Ox over to second in his MLB career first ever stolen base, I wondered. Have the planets realigned? Is there a chance or is this more cruel almost torment?
By the time Ortiz came to the plate I was on my knees shamelessly pleading for divine intervention.
And it happened or something happened and although I've replayed the scene of Ortiz's line drive striking into the Wall followed by "the scene on the field -- John Burkett running out wearing just a cutoff T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, Damian Jackson doing a swan dive on top of the pile engulfing David Ortiz …" I still can't believe it.
Maybe our luck is changing?
