I didn't get to work on time today. And I haven't accomplished much in the time I have been here. Instead I've read every word I can find on the interwang about the Sox. I actually just all the baseball coverage in the Washington Post Sports Section. I don't even like the Post, I'm just addicted to Red Sox coverage.
And as for my previous failing to describe what these two games have been like, screw it: I'm giving it another shot.
I've nearly totally lost my voice after the last two nights. You see, being at Fenway for that game 3 thrashing left me bewildered. The whole season had been building to that moment. I went into the ALCS believing the Sox to be a strong favorite. The idea that they were on the verge of a sweep (after a downright embarrassing night) was practically unthinkable. Game 4 wasn't about going to the World Series, it was about catharsis for 60 million depressed Red Sox fans. We'd had nothing to scream about for the first 3 games and suddenly we were treated to one of the greatest baseball games every played.
Game 5 was different. I paced nervously, I cheered and clapped and gave my friends high-fives. But it wasn't with the same fury that had me worked into such a lather that I was frightening total strangers during Sunday's game. At one point I was so fried that I agreed to go to the liquor store with Josh during the 13th freaking inning. We had Chandler and other putzen broadcasting the game live over Josh's cell phone and got back just in time to see Wake strike out "Turkey" Ruben Sierra. And when Big David (my write-in Presidential vote for him is now official) Ortiz plunked that single into center I just pumped my fist quietly and went to get the André from the beer fridge.