It's been a frustrating series and it could be a similarly frustrating month--hell, year--but that just wasn't. fair.
Even Remy and Orsillo were up in arms about it--that Ortiz blast that became a mere single thanks to getting hung up in the crap hanging from the Metrodome's ceiling. Ortiz hucked his elbow pad in the general direction of the dugout at first base. Moments later, Manny dumped his batting helmet on the ground as he grounded out. Francona flapped a hand in disgust. The umpires shrugged apologetically. There was nothing anybody could do.
"Think about it," Orsillo said, not letting this go. "What if Ortiz misses the home run title this year by one?"
"Then we can remember this night," replied Remy darkly.
This is kind of like when everything's going wrong at work and you get in a fight with your significant other and your mom calls to nag you and you stub your toe and you have a huge zit sprouting on your chin and someone flips you off in traffic and you have a headache and you carry yourself through all of it with steady aplomb, but then when you get home and realize there's no more chocolate ice cream left you start to cry and throw things. It's not like it's a close game or anything--but something about that whole debacle felt quite like a straw on an already straining dromedary's lumbar vertebrae.
Christ, it's only June and already I'm starting to get a hankering for the paper bag again.
P.S. According to my book:
June 16, 2002
The Braves vs. the Red Sox. It was another interleague matchup of "historic rivals," albeit ones who had only faced each other in exhibition play before interleague play began. The Red Sox fared poorly in the first years of interleague play, but Derek Lowe struck out 10 and beat the Braves, and Boston-area native* Tom Glavine, 6-1.
*As a native of the Merrimack Valley, I feel compelled to note here that Tommy Glavine is from Billerica (or, as it is properly pronounced, "B'ricka")