Is this what it feels like to be a Yankees fan? I mean, aside from bad cologne, obscene body hair, poor hygiene and guttural accents? This sense of inevitability? Of certainty that the righteous forces of light will win out against black, ichor filled agents of darkness? Being absolutely gob-smacked when you don’t win because, obviously, God Himself is on your side. And who the hell let the Devil loose in the ballpark?
Twice in four years, the Boston Red Sox are going to the big show. A feat that, as many sportswriters are giddy to point out, hasn’t been accomplished by this team since the days when Babe Ruth was on the mound.
So now it’s time to meet the Whiz Kids from out west; who practiced yesterday in the four inches of snow blanketing the field. I think, fellas, your run of incredibly good luck has run out. All the umpires have been issued corrective lenses so they can see whether or not a foot touched home plate or precisely what sort of junk was coating a pitcher’s shirt. The game is afoot. The Coors Light has been hidden away until next season. Instead, it’s all about situational beer drinking: Colt 45 for Beckett? Sammy for the big bats. Sapporo whenever Dice-K is on the mound?
Take that, you Rocky Mountain bitches.
@#$*! the Rockies.