As yesterday's game was going on, I was sitting on the lawn at Tanglewood, with the sun, seemingly perched for the afternoon on the back of my head, sizzling my sunburn-prone scalp. But Yo-Yo Ma was performing the Elgar Cello Concerto with the Boston Symphony, so it was worth the pain, and missing the game.From what I've seen and read, Papelbon blew a save in the ninth, wasting a gem from Clay Buchholz, and vulturing the win besides*.
But then, out of nowhere, what seemed to be a sure recipe for post-deadline angst suddenly became a win. On a run scored on an error after a bunt, of all things. Robbie Weinhardt threw the ball past his own diving first baseman, Darnell McDonald scored, and then the Red Sox crowded onto the infield, falling all over each other like puppies,laughing in disbelief. The bunter, Marco Scutaro, wound up running around kicking his batting helmet like a soccer ball after nearly being pummeled to death by his teammates. It was ridiculous.
Just to belabor an idea from Saturday's post a little: after Friday's game there was talk of the failed rally that night being a microcosm of the season. But the next two days, I can't help but mention, that allegory was turned on its head. I'm not saying we can know for sure--but then, that's exactly the point.
* Here come those Eyebrows of Concern again, Jonathan, but even deeper and more furrowed this time. Meanwhile... I'm thinking Bard could finally be the one to use "Thunderstruck"...though I honestly think Beckett is the one it really goes with...so maybe not...I'm sorry, you were saying?