More Notes from the Championship City
Anyone else see this?
Not just Bellhorn. Flying Bellhorn. I bet that guy never thought he'd be on the cover of SI in his life, unless it was for some kind of foreign-espionage or drug scandal. And even then.
Thank friggin Christ we won the Series before this came out. If we were looking forward to games this weekend with the SI jinx to contend with, I don't think I would've made it.
Leave poor Bill Buckner alone. You can't take back what's happened to him.
SurvivingGrady will make you cry today, a gorgeous account of the Red Sox as heirloom.
Anyone hear Kevin Millar's comments on SportsCenter last night about taking hot tubs with teammates? Guess who he said he took hot tubs with the most?
When are they going to come out and admit that they are boyfriends? I'm serious. I don't think it's a bad thing--hell, I think it's cute. But you can't be someone who's had as many gay friends as I've had without thinking something is seriously up over there. Like I said, I think it's adorable. But stop fronting, guys.
I love Curt Schilling as much as the next red-blooded Sox fan. But all I can say is, I'm glad he just won us a World Series, because otherwise his Bush comments might be irrevocably damaging to my opinion of him.
At this point, I'm not sure it's worth going to what Mayor Menino called (about 6,500 times) a "Rolling Rally" yesterday. The route will stretch just 2.85 miles, meaning just under 6 linear miles for people to line the street.
They're expecting 5 million people.
A million people a mile?
I'm starting to think there might be a better view on TV.
As I wrote yesterday in the All-Baseball email exchange:
At this point, though, I know it'll take me months to even begin to process it all. I haven't even fully grasped the ALCS yet. Each tiny moment needs to be digested, starting with the bloody sock. The Sox at this point remind me of a Hemingway story: the surface is the tip of the iceberg. They need to be revisited over and over again, sometimes through layers of new experience, before their meaning can really even be estimated.
In another way, it's like a starving person being treated suddenly to
a rich meal; you can't take it in too fast. One morsel at a time. Like
I said, it'll take me months. Years. The rest of my life.
Book upon book will be written about this. There are newspaper
articles to sift through, videos to watch and analyze, moments to be
relived without the tension of not knowing what happens next. There
may even be a movie. There are conversations to have; there will be a
full winter of "How Bout Them Red Sox?" It will be decades before I
can even have the opportunity to recognize the age-ravaged face of one
of these teammates on an ESPN Classic special. There are endless
dimensions to this experience, all of which are on different
I will still have plenty of writing to do this winter.