Big Catholic Guilt
In keeping with the idea of Red Sox fandom as religion, I feel supremely guilty for not watching the game at all last night after hearing what happened. Apparently Pedro was decent, giving up three runs and striking out ten; but Ted Lilly was stellar, striking out thirteen and giving up zero. Zip. Nada.
A career night for Lilly, it sounds like. It's a shame to lose to a bad team like Toronto, who are currently 20 games under .500, but at least it wasn't due to a dumb error / dumb managerial decision / dumb third base coaching (as far as I know). From what I've heard it was at least a clean loss.
About the closest I got to sports last night was when I went to a little pizza place on my way to my night job to get some slices for supper, and proceeded to leave the parking lot with the little pizza box still on the roof of my car. It was miles before I realized it, and then I had to go back, passing my pizza--now roadkill--along the way. When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was a large man absolutely decked out in Indianapolis Colts gear, hat, jersey, everything. His bright-blue and white jersey sported a large No. 18, of course, and on the back it blared MANNING. He was yelling to his buddies, one of which was ahead of me at the counter and the other who was goofing around by the soda cooler. Both of the Colts-man's friends turned around at almost the same moment, and both were similarly bedecked in Yankees gear.
Perhaps this was a bad omen.
When I turned the radio on after sitting through another Board of Selectmen meeting, the game was already over. I don't know what I felt worse about: that they'd lost, or that I hadn't heard or watched a single pitch. I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but that made me feel responsible. Throughout their six-game streak, I had watched or listened to at least an inning or two of every game. Somehow, I felt that my absence last night had contributed to the Sox' impotence.
Probably because of guilt, last night I went on to have a strange dream in which I was watching the Red Sox play the Cubs from the top step of the Sox dugout with my boyfriend, my friend Kellie and Jason Varitek, who was in street clothes due to his suspension. Due to the fact that this was a dream, the game was being played at a Fenway Park which was not Fenway Park--instead it was a large, ugly, echoing dome that looked more like a hockey arena than a baseball park, and for the most part, it was empty.
Also because this was a dream, the players did things like run out of the dugout to stand at the backstop and cheer when certain players (such as Bill Mueller) were at bat, and I went with them. That was a great time, even if it was only a dream.
Finally, though, we wound up back in the dugout, and I began staring at Jason Varitek reproachfully. He was eating a microwaved TV dinner on the dugout bench. It had his name on it a la Yaz Bread.
"Wow. You shove the Yankees' third baseman on Saturday, they got your name on food on Monday, huh?" I said.
We sat in silence for another few minutes, but finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I put my hand on one of Jason's massive shoulders and shoved angrily. It didn't faze him much physically, but he just looked at me, agape.
"Dammit, Jason, I'm so mad at you!" I hollered. "Why did you have to go and get suspended when you're the hottest hitter on the team?!?!"
YYYyyyyyeah. Maybe it's best if I take a little break from baseball, after all.