First of all, we should get one thing straight. The Red Sox did not “make” history.
History already existed. In fact, for the Sawx, there’s over a century of history, large portions of it filled with it disappointment, and angst, and depression, and quite possibly scurvy. History has been with the Sox this whole season, whispering in their collective ears like a ghost,
86 years . . .
it’s not gonna happen . . .
The Curse . . .
Who’s Your Daddy . . .
ghosts don’t have to wear pants, it’s totally rad . . .
Pedro, Lionel Ritchie ca. 1984 wants his hair back . . .”
Then, at some point the ghost, or whatever, noticed that Jesus was playing for the squad, and stopped whispering so loud. Until the Sox found themselves down 3 games to naught to the Yanks.
BABE RUTH IS YOUR DADDY!
Well, I dunno if the Sox had a team meeting on Sunday or what, but they dug Babe Ruth out of the ground and took turns whaling on his ass with a pair of baseball spikes. Right now his rear end looks like a blue and black golfball.
Last night’s game 7 was supposed to be the nail in the coffin for the Sox. Come back from 0-3 and win everything? It can’t happen. It’s not possible. Oh wait . . . I forgot, the Sox have Jesus. My bad. I guess he’ll just hit a grand slam, then. Okay. That’s cool.
Then, of course, Derek Lowe finally gave up a run, and you could feel the weird gravitational effects of the entirety of New England slumping into their chairs, thinking, “Uh oh, here we go.” (Seriously serious, it was like some kind of freak earthquake. It knocked over a candlestick in our dining room. Or maybe it was a cat. I dunno. I’m not a damn earthquake-ologist.) But then Lowe gets out of the inning, and Jesus comes up and knocks another pitch into the stands to score a couple runs and make it 8-1.
I’d have to say that the Derek Lowe (©Bill Simmons) face has been permanently retired and replaced by the A-Rod face. I really enjoyed every shot of A-Job that they showed in the last 3 innings; absolute confusion would be one way to describe it; complete consternation might be another. His thought process was clearly, “Wait . . . I gave up the opportunity to be the greatest shortstop of all time for THIS? Oh wait, I forgot I’m also getting a buttload of money. Nevermind.” Classic.
Clearly I’m not much of a sportswriter, so rather than continuing to ramble incoherently, I’ll just leave you with this: I want to make sweet, sweet love to Curt Schilling.
Sweet love.
NOTE: This rules.
