Kyrie eleison...Christe eleison...
I didn't see much of the game last night. What little I did see was on the silent TVs over a bar at a busy restaurant where we didn't think anyone else was really watching the game.
Until David Ortiz hit another bomb of a flyout, which was met by a sudden wave of yelled exhortations at the screen, including my own, "GET OUT! GET OUT!", which torpedoed an otherwise completely unrelated conversation.
The ball did not obey. A man at the next table told his nonplussed elderly mother, "He's killin' me. He's killin' me."
Later, when Kevin Millar hit a single off the wall but tried for a double, an invisible voice cried, "oh JESUS!," less a cry of anger than of anguish, a true hollered prayer.
The same might have been Pedro's thoughts after giving up a game-tying home run to Hideki Matsui--the camera showed him whirling to watch the ball's flight, and as soon as it dropped into one of the bullpen, showed Pedro's eyes roll upward, and he stood completely still on the mound, face and eyes tilted toward the sky, for a long moment--quite obviously praying.
It was to no avail. He soon gave up a single to Ruben Sierra that scored the go-ahead run in the person of Bernie Williams, and today, the headlines read "Ace's Skid Reaches Three Games", "Yankees Beat Martinez Again", and, infuriatingly, "Shades of October in Loss".
Pedro, looking martyred, was lifted in the middle of an inning, quite possibly for the first time in his storied career.
Fenway Park, perhaps sensing it may be his last start in the Red Sox home white, gave him a standing ovation on his way out.
How did we get here? Whence this collapse, this feeling of hopelessness, this reduction to pleading for mercy from whatever powers smirk down from above?
At least let us die an honorable death, in the post-season, if anywhere.
"That's it," I told Steve last night. "I'm off the bandwagon. Fuck 'em. I'm sparing myself the pain."
He just laughed.