Last night, at 10 pm ET, I turned on the television, tuned it to NESN, and sat back and watched the long, slow water torture of the game against the Oakland Athletics. It felt futile. It felt pointless. It felt necessary. It felt like being a Red Sox fan, c. 2002. Or c. 1992. Or c. 1982. Need I go on? Is this letdown just worse because we've now been to the mountaintop?
Early in the game, Remy and Orsillo started counting--who was here on Opening Day? The camera zoomed in on player after player.
Of that lineup, four of them--four--started for the Red Sox on Opening Day. Just two of them were playing last night in their Opening Day positions. And it's not that way because Theo traded them away. It's not that way because Terry Francona put them there. It's that way because everybody's fucking hurt.
Shit happens. That's just all you can say at this point. Our roster is decimated, our manager is coughing up blood*, and we're trying to beat Major Leaguers with a PawSox lineup. Ain't gonna happen--and frankly, at this point, there are bigger fish to fry, anyway. Like the purchase of taper candles, finding some rain gear, and MapQuesting directions to Mass General.
At the same time, the symbolism is eerie, too. What's happening to this team is literally hurting Papi's heart. "With that ass-kicking we got (from the Yankees)... It was like my whole body was cramping."
That's the one thing I can't stand to see.
* I love how this is explained away as "I OD'd on my blood thinners."
Oh, okay. In that case, no biggie, I guess.