2004-10-22 - 2:45 p.m.

Well.

Wellity, Wellity, Wellity.

Meanwhile, the globe continues to spin.

And the Red Sox won.

The Red Sox won.

Don't make me repeat it.

Ok. I will. The Red Sox won.

And I cried. I did. Like a little girl. Pigtails and everything. Ok, ok. No pigtails. I tried, but me locks just aren't long enough. I followed all my superstitions to the letter. Listened to The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads, didn't shave, wore the same pair of cords, sang the same Pixies song from the top of my lungs with the window down in the car from the Mobil station until the house. Drank the same beer. Ate the same food. Watched from mlb.com. Hell, when it all came down to it, I think we all know who we have to thank. Hinemo. I'll admit. I got cocky. With one out left in the 9th, with us up by 7 runs, and Tony "Hagrid is my Dad" Clark up to the plate, I somehow felt confident enough to go downstairs to watch the end of the game and the following festivities. It was glorious. And the phone calls poured in. Did they ever.

My father called a little after midnight.

"Well, whadya think of that?!" he yelled, half-laughing.

"Honestly, I keep waiting for them to reverse it. Say that the game didn't count. I still can't believe it."

"It was a pretty great game. New York just rolled over. Well, next stop World Series."

"Dad, the last time the Sox were in the World Series we lived on Washington St."

"Wow. You're right."

"That was a long time ago."

I imagine that Ben and his dad a similar conversation along the lines of, "God we suck." "Yeah we do." Or something like that. I talked to most East Coasters that night, tried in vain to call TC, who unbeknownst to me, at the very minute, was in the deserts of New Mexico. Of course. I didn't hear from the West Coast peeps until the next morning when I checked my voicemail. Jimbo had called to inform me of the following: "Woooooooooooo! Fuckin' A, Johnny Damon! Woooooooooooo! Your boy Damon came up big! Wooooooooo!" x 7. Coty's rather short message can be seen above as today's marquee quote.

And now. A parade of pictures.

Awwwwwww. JD out at home. If only Damon could somehow redeem himself later. Shucks

Meanwhile, Derek Lowe, in a return to form from the game I saw him pitch in July, decided to use the patented "Magic Liquid Tipping Bird" pitching style. You know, like that one Homer used to make all the decisions for him when he had to wear the muumuu? You know - that one

"Holy Crap! I know I just hit a 2-run Homer and all, but I think that's Spider-Man up there! Waaaay up there, on the lights. He's cheering us on. Since he hates the fucking Yankees. And he loves us. Us being the Red Sox. Do you understand? Water, Red Sox = Good. Fire, Yankees = Bad. Do you see him, Manny?"

"Ah yes, there he is my esteemed Big Papi. That Spider-Man. Always good for a laugh, eh? Pip, pip, cherrio!"

Oh me. Oh my. What's this? Redemption from all those nay-sayers who wanted Johnny pulled from the line-up for under-performing?? I would say so. And as that ball sails out of the park to give Damon & the Sox a GRAND SLAM, his bat falls to the plate with the speed that all of those fuckbag Yankees fans jaws fall to the stadium floor. Excellent

Posada: "Oh. Um . . . hey guys.
Mueller: "What the hell do you want bitch?"
Posada: "Yes well, I was just . . . (whispering) I was just wondering if I could join your guys club?"
Damon: "I see a burning bush over there. And that means . . . NO."
Posada: "But, but . . . you let Jorge Glumpkin into your club."
Mueller: "Yeah, it's a No JorgeS Club. We can have ONE."

Schilling: "DLowe, pitch just like that again for the World Series, otherwise we're gonna play a little game called 'The Corderos'. I'll be Wilfredo and you'll be Mrs. Cordero. I think you get my drift." [Note: Domestic Violence is never a laughing matter, but making fun of Wil Cordero is]

Look, even Bellhorn seems to look pretty fucking surprised that he could have more than one home run during the series

This is a shot from the 9th inning of Game 7. Look, I'm not trying to be crude, but every picture tells a story, and well, the story of this picture is that ARod is making the "dick sucking" motion with his closed fist/face. Again, I don't mean to be crude, but . . . well no, I am fully intending to be crude. But I'm NOT LYING. LOOK AT IT!

Also, it seems our good friends over at Boston Dirt Dogs have done some investigative reporting and found a better angle of that horrendous, in the words of C. Montegue Schilling, "bush league", play of ARod's from earlier in the series. You know the one. Anyway, here it is:

Meanwhile, the globe continues to spin.

TC & Jackie inch closer to Boston for the coming of the apocalypse - while they currently chill out at the Roswell UFO Museum, Jon flew in this morning to Logan from Florida, Jimbo's looking into tickets home, Peter & Titie - from their new vantage point of the apartment next door - turn their eyes to Sox vs Cardinals, and Zombie Shakespeare plans on feasting on brains all the week long. That's Zombie Shakespeare for you.

It's been real,

Eavesdropping Nebraskans

ps - The poll doesn't change until after the Series, we ain't takin' any chances hombre.

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