"There goes my Gold Glove."
I missed most of the game last night, as I decided that not tearing myself away from Red Sox baseball for a triple-date on a Friday night would make me just a little too sad.
So I was at a barbecue joint called Red Bones in Davis Square as Derek Lowe pitched seven shutout innings (though he allowed baserunners in six of seven). Every so often either Andy or I would get up and head to the bar area to check the television for the score, to the annoyance of our respective significant others. It got to the point where I was gauging the action by watching the reflection of the television in the glass on a framed picture in the bar.
Yeah. So I'm still sad. So sue me.
A convenient excuse to watch the game came when I had to wait for the one-seater bathroom (at a place that serves Pulled Pork? Surely you jest). A television shone like a beacon from the corner of the ceiling right where I was standing. I watched Keith Foulke get two outs.
The second, and I mean the second that fly ball was headed towards Manny Ramirez, I was either in the bathroom or on the sidewalk walking toward Toscanini's cafe for some Tuscan ice cream.
By the time I got there and looked over the shoulder of a man sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs with the game on his laptop, I saw a score of 1 to 1. "SHIT!" I cried, to the surprise of the man with the laptop and the chagrin of my friends.
It's interesting when you contemplate how far we've come in Boston in the ways we watch and share the game. From Nuf Ced MacGreavey's after a day at the old ballyard to strangers clustered around streaming video on a wireless Macintosh laptop.
The reaction when David Ortiz salvaged the game with an RBI single, though, was probably very similar.