I deeply resent having to break out the World Series Paper Bag (TM) for a game against TAMPA BAY.
The top of the ninth inning was an abomination before God. This game had sucked from the very beginning...just a boring, drawn-out, painful grinder, but that top of the ninth was like a trudge through the woods suddenly becoming an encounter with a gigantic hornet's nest. As in, you were thinking "this sucks" before, and now you're thinking (in between YEEEARRRGGGHHH), "I had no idea what 'this sucks' meant".
I mean...Tampa Bay has a guy named Jesus pitching. And the Lord giveth, a single for Graffanino, pinch run by Adam Stern (conjuring a DAVE ROBERTS reference out of the booth), Johnny Damon singles to right and now I'm huffing and puffing on that poor old paper bag and then somehow two high-speed Accela trains collide in a screaming explosion of sparking metal between third and home and then Ortiz walks and Manny wrings the last tiny bit of adrenaline out of my glands before FLYING OUT WITH THE BASES LOADED.
It's just incomprehensible. I am unable to verbalize the craptasticalness of it all, the feeling like my brain is going to implode. I shouldn't feel like this unless the opposing team is in pinstripes.
In the bottom of the ninth I'm reduced to typing I HATE CURT SCHILLING I HATE CURT SCHILLING HATE HIM HATE HIM HATE HIM because as we know, whatsoever pitcher I love dies a terrible baseball death. So from now on I hate Schilling, I ESPECIALLY hate Foulke and I hope his good leg gets run over by a truck, and I hate the everloving shit out of the Red Sox, because when I get into the Red Zone like this (and it's not a good zone, like the Billy Mueller zone) the only thing I can think of to do is reverse mojo, determining the worst case scenario and then verbalizing about it LOUDLY.
It beats chewing lightbulbs.
John Olerud hit the ball. Okay, this I can understand.
And then the ball became a heat-seaking missile, following Trot Nixon as he struggled to flee between second and third and finally nailing him right in the ass and this means...he's out.
Somehow? The Red Sox? Have figured out a way for a guy at the plate to get a hit...and tag his own teammate out in the process.
Just goes to show that with the Red Sox, the worst case scenario you can imagine will be utterly dwarfed by the worst case scenario that ensues.
It would be funny...if it wasn't so...so...