Dying to Unfold
Today I did a cheesy thing. I put my copy of the soundtrack to the movie Braveheart in the car CD player and turned it to the track that always makes me blubber, "The Prisoner Wishes to Say a Word," which is the background music to the famous scene where Mel Gibson's character screams "Freeeeee-doooommmmmmmmmmm!" as he's being disembowelled, and the ghost of his slain wife appears among the crowd at the execution.
This leads directly into the scene in which Robert the Bruce finally decides to sack up and stand up to the English, and though the voice-over is missing from the soundtrack I have on CD, I've seen the movie so many times that I can still recite it in my head: "In the year of our Lord 1314, patriots of Scotland, starving and outnumbered, charged the fields at Bannockburn. They fought like warrior poets. They fought like Scotsmen. And won their freedom."
I'm getting goosebumps now just typing it in.
But when I did this--this strange self-exploitation, deliberately provoking my own emotions--my response was more powerful than I could have predicted. I wound up sitting in my car with hands shaking around the steering wheel, a lump in my throat the size of Boston, as slow-motion replays of Curt Schilling nodding behind his glove and Pedro swinging into his delivery and Keith Foulke pumping his fist as a batter swings and misses played mercilessly in my head.
I think after the win last night, so many things had been going through me that I just felt numb. This was similar to the feeling I had after the ALCS, and even that has yet to fully sink in. But every so often, if I allow it, a jolt of electric joy will utterly paralyze me.
Thus, I am attempting to avoid introspection today as much as possible. But it still sneaks up and pounces on me from time to time, and there's nothing to do but sit back, and let it pass.
Here's to letting it all go tonight.