Here I Go Again on My Own
This morning I got up and went to have a bowl of cereal. When I got out the milk for my cereal, I saw that on the side of the milk carton, it said, MISSING: the 2004 Boston Red Sox. And at the bottom of the milk carton it said, Last Seen Wearing Tampa Bay Devil Rays Uniforms." --Caller to the WEEI Whiner Line
Break out the economy-sized bottle of Tums and tap another keg of Maalox, this ride has just begun. --Surviving Grady
The title of Red's entry over at Surviving Grady today is "Decision Time", but really, there is no decision. That's the bitch of it.
We cringe as a 1-ER, 8-inning performance by Tim Wakefield is squandered and the third straight series is lost by the Sox. We cringe at the Devil Rays shooting up the charts. We cringe at the Yankees roaring away in front, and at the concomitant ability of Yankees fans to wound our pride and insult our father's honor with impunity for the time being.
Then we look back at the field, at $125 million worth of baseball talent doing nothing much, and our eyes narrow. We want someone to blame, and there they are. Those bastards. Those ungrateful, unrepentant, smug, overpaid bastards. We own the uniform, and they shame it when they play this way. We send them out on the field to do what's right for us. They fucking owe us. We, the fans, have returned in record numbers to cheer them, support them, do just about everything but run out onto the field with a bat to do it our damn selves, for another godforsaken year, and what's the thanks we get?
The worst thing, the cardinal sin, in Boston. Not to try. Not to care. The Red Sox are doing it right now. Flinging it all right back in our faces.
I mean, how dare they?
And yet. And yet.
When some born-and-bred Royal Rooter down at your local bar stands up, slams his pint on the table and shouts, "That's it! I'm outta here! Fuck these bums! Fuggetit!" what do you say to him? "No, please, Sully, don't go"? or "Allright, Sull, we'll see ya next week"?
That's the bitch of it. If it were a person, you'd just dump them, divorce them, whatever. If it were a job, you'd quit. If it were a trip, you'd turn around and go home. If it were a car, you'd trade it in. That's it, sicka this bullshit, fuggetit. Unfortunately, that's just not possible in this case.
When I was about thirteen, I started having migraines. Complicated neurological tornadoes that tore through my faculties, leaving me stumbling over words like a stroke victim, numb, tingling, more afraid of light than a vampire, crawling into the bathroom to puke, feeling like the twisted mass that was the character of Zelda in Pet Sematary.
And pain. Pain like I hope to never experience again except possibly in childbirth. The kind of pain you think you remember, and then when it hits again you realize you had no idea. Pain that felt like someone pounding a railroad spike slowly into your skull above your right eye.
What I remember about that experience the most, though, was the feeling of being trapped, stuck, pinned down under a giant's thumb with the pain. There was no escaping it, there was no relief until it was over. Advil was like aiming a squirt gun at a forest fire. There was no dark dark enough, no silence silent enough to assuage the pain. You just had to lay there until it was done.
That's what this week has felt like in Red Sox Nation. We're pinned down. We're stuck. We are fed up with the team by now but we know for an incontrovertible fact that we're not going to give up on them or write them off. This is why one of the most famous Sox fans alive right now has "Angry" for a first name. This just plain, flat out sucks.
But even if Advil was nothing but a sick joke when I had a migraine, I never had a migraine without taking Advil. I figured if it was this bad with it, I didn't want to try without it.
This time, Ed's blog is my Advil.
Today, he writes:
As much as this seems inconceivable during the cold winter months when thoughts of watching a baseball game in summer is pure ambrosia to a February hunger, there comes a point at least once during every season where I need more than anything to step back and try to forget about the Boston Red Sox. I'm at such a point. This weekend I'm headed to D.C. for my annual pilgrimage to the National Folk Life Festival and, as God is my witness, I'm not going to even check the scores. Let what happens, happen. I need a break.
He probably has the right idea. This weekend, metaphorically speaking, I'm finding my own dark room to lie in till it's over.