Steve and I were discussing the Red Sox schedule for the week earlier tonight.
"Are they at home tomorrow night?"
"No, they're in Toronto."
"Oh, so tonight's the last night they're losing to the Twins."
Although, of course, you never say never.
Because, as David Ortiz was coming to the plate in the bottom of the first inning, Don Orsillo said, "Now, if you're thinking home run here, keep in mind that Ortiz is 0-6 against Santana."
Seconds later, KA-POW!
"NO WAY! NO WAY!" Steve and I shouted in unison as the ball soared toward the bleachers behind the home bullpen.
It's impossible, at this point, to fully describe how I feel about Big Papi. Gratitude is a big part of it--gratitude that he's taking our mind off everything else, that there's still magic at the ballpark as long as he's around. And amazement, of course, at his accomplishment. And love, for his big smile and his even bigger heart.
But there's something a little spooky about him, too, although spooky in a good way--it's like he was meant to be.
It's not just the 2004 stuff anymore, either. He didn't break the team home run record last year, when the Sox had other things to look forward to. And he didn't break it last month, when there was still any doubt whatsoever about their playoff hopes this year. He didn't tie or break it last weekend in New York--he hit both homers in front of the home crowd, the tying one on the day the Yankees clinched the division, and the record-breaker the next day. He could not have picked a more perfect time to come up with his most significant home runs of the season.
And even better--you get the sense that somehow, he did.