All the King's Horses and

All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

Kapler, Nixon and Ortiz layeth the smacketh down on Tanyon Sturze (he's from Worcester--he should know better). 

Here are the facts as I understand them.

Nomar got plunked. A-Rod got plunked back (although since Bronson has led the league, depending on the day, in hit batsmen so far, that's not for certain). A-Rod editorialized on said plunking to the wrong person, namely Jason Varitek. Tek replied in kind. A-Rod and Tek began circling like dogs. Very big dogs (A-Rod is actually surprisingly large when seen toe-to-toe with Tek). The umpire, realizing this, soon removed himself from between them.

Video replays show A-Rod, in Tek's face, saying, "Come on. Come on."

And Tek, being Tek, lays a brawny hand on his offending Yankee chest and pushes him away.

And A-Rod, apparently completely assimilated into the Borg by now, keeps coming.

What happened next was absolutely classic. Better than the Munson-Fiske fight, in my opinion. Better even than Pedro v. the Gerbil, because this one was fairly matched. Tek reached back and suckered A-Rod right in the face.

Then he quickly followed through by pushing both hands into A-Rod's face, shoving him backwards by the head. With A-Rod thus immobilized, Tek bent down, wrapped his arms around one leg, and attempted to body-slam A-Rod.

Normally I'm not a fan of fighting in baseball. But this was a beautiful thing.

A-Rod managed to stay on his feet, and by this time the benches had cleared. That's the one thing baseball fights have going for them--everyone and their grandmother gets in on the action. Pretty soon, Tanyon Sturze (betraying his Worcester roots entirely, I hope they curse his name in his hometown) had Gabe Kapler in a vicious, choking headlock at the edge of the crowd. But big David Ortiz, probably figuring he had nothing to lose with a suspension hanging over his head, rushed in and hauled the interlocked pair away from the mob, which gave Kapler enough leverage to turn in Sturze's grip and drop what appeared to be a textbook WWE elbow on him. Trot Nixon then jumped on top of them and the three of them, Ortiz, Kapler, and Nixon, commenced pummeling the bejesus out of Sturze.

This was the best Sox-Yankees fight ever, bar none. Better than Fisk-Munson because there was more than one ring to the circus. Better than Zim-Pedro for reasons already mentioned. Better than Bill Lee v. Everybody, because no one got their pitching arm ripped out of the socket. Really, it's not a good Yankees-Sox series unless someone gets punched in the face, and this one took 'em all.

After that, the Sox bats continued the beating, shelling the rattled Sturze for four runs in the third inning, making it 4-3 Sox. And there it was. The spark. The detonation we've been waiting for all season long that would finally get this Sox powder keg throwing down on everybody.

Then the fifth inning came along. Whoops. I was at my parents' house doing laundry at the time, and my father and I were locked in a spirited argument about the relative merits of Fox broadcasters when one of the Yankees fielders bobbled and then dropped the ball. Gary Sheffield came to the rescue, but even he booted the ball, and he hucked a here-goes-nothing throw to second base.

Finally, I thought. Something freakish goes our way.

Unfortunately for my delicate psyche at that point, however, Johnny Damon was standing somewhere between first and second like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck. Sheffield's throw got him out by three feet.

Let me repeat that: Sheffield still got him out.

He still got him out.

He still got him out.

Something exploded in my brain. I mean true, craven, soul-rotting hatred flooded every neuron. Somehow, some presumably cruel Higher Power hands the Yankees dumb, blind, stupid, highly undeserved luck every goddamn stupid time. That's the way things have gone this season, isn't it? With virtually no pitching staff, the Yankees came into this game 9.5 games over a supremely talented and yet mysteriously listless Red Sox squad. My mother's theory is that Steinbrenner bought out the Red Sox, so they throw games to the Yankees on purpose, but there's nothing anyone but Yahweh could have done to see that throw reach second despite two errors in the outfield.

I hated God, if there is one. I hated the universe. I hated the Yankees.

And, of course, they regained the lead in the next inning. Now I was too busy being mad at the Red Sox to wish death upon New York. Mark Bellhorn, for one, could easily be replaced by a retarded cirus monkey, with or without a glove. He wasted a gem of a throw from Manny on a wall-ball, and those dreaded words: "...and everyone is safe!" were the next thing I heard.

Arroyo was pulled. "Too bad, kid," my dad said to the TV. "Gettin' closah, though. Gettin' closah."

Leskanic. Oh, dear Jesus. The laundry buzzer buzzed. I was transferring loads of clothes, wet and dry, in the other room, when my dad hollered.

"Did he walk in a run?" I demanded, rushing back.

My dad held up two fingers. "He walked in two runs."

And that was it. Whatever fire had been lit under their ass had been smothered. It was the last gasp of a dying season, and it had been fun while it lasted, but it was ova. O-V-A.

I had plans with a friend anyway, so I went and did other things. I came back periodically to keep up with the laundry, however. The first time I left, when I came back after 45 minutes, it was still the sixth inning. The sixth, after I'd left, had lasted over an hour, my parents said.

"The Sox just went crazy," my dad beamed. My mother nodded, impressed.

But it was still 10-8, Bad Guys. I changed the laundry and left.

Tim and I went to our usual haunt, Chili's in Nashua, NH, for dinner. I should have known they'd have the game on.

Ninth inning. Still 10-8, Yankees. But Mo Rivera was on the mound.

Somehow I felt compelled to watch, anyway.

"Just give me two minutes," I told Tim. "Two minutes, it'll be over." Which was eerily correct, but not the way I planned.

It took a little while to realize that I was surrounded by Red Sox Nation. Guys were lined up at the bar, "B" caps turned around for rallies. Every eye in the place was focused on the televisions with closed-captioning and no sound.

No outs. Nomar. Rivera...falls to a 2-1 count??

Nomar slapped one to shallow left center. Bink! He stood on second.

"Yeah, now they'll leave him there," I snorted.

The waitress came over, and noticed my Curt Schilling jersey right away. I made some bad small talk about how they suck, I was sure it was over at this point, we'd get swept, screw them. She smiled indulgently, took my drink order and left.

Trot. He took a mighty swing and the ball sailed over to his territory in right field.

"Get out ball! GET OUT BALL!!" the guys at the bar were shouting, pumping their fists.

A few feet short of the wall, Gary Sheffield closed his glove around Trot's fly-out. One out.

It bumped Nomar up, however. He now stood in his skin-tight white pants (they make me feel iggy just looking at them sometimes, he wears those home-uniform pants so tight) on third base.

Uh oh. Now batting, the first baseman, Kevin...Millar.

Millar shocked the world and singled, a line drive, and it was even to right field. Nomar scored easily from third.

Ahhhh, I thought. This is how they'll do it. They'll get to one run away, and then Rivera will rise up like the Fist of God and smash us to smithereens...again.

But Rivera...something was wrong. He kept getting behind hitters, something I've rarely seen happen once in an inning in the time I've watched him, let alone multiple times. Yankees coaches and infielders went to soothe him on the mound. Rivera nodded, over and over, emphatically. Pitcher's Denial, always indicated by a yes.

Meanwhile, McCarty had replaced the cement-footed Millar at first base.

Could it be??? An actual recognition of Millar's shortcomings by Terry Francona???

Ohhh. It's going to really hurt when they blow this.

The waitress came back and clucked her tongue at my pessimism and left again.

And here comes Bill Mueller.

Last year, maybe, the sight of No. 11 in this situation would have gladdened my soul. This time, I was biting my nails, picturing a tie game and the desperate morass of extra innings.

Rivera fell behind Mueller to a count of 3 and 1. This was simply impossible. Is it within the laws of physics for Mariano Rivera, No. 42 on your program (sometimes I think it's after the maddening, nonsensical meaning of life given in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy), to...walk a batter?

Of course it was. Because Bellhorn was behind Mueller, and Bellhorn would ground into a double play to end the inning. Of course. It was all making sense now.

But there it was. Miracle on the wing, headed non-stop for the bleachers.

There it was.

There it was.

Chili's exploded. A dozen or so complete strangers burst into spontaneous applause, right there over their fajitas and buffalo wings. Cheering. Shouting. Back-slapping. Applause.

The Fenway Faithful stayed right where they were, and roared. They shouted out their vindication into the night. Because this had been Apocalyptic Baseball. No yesterday. No tomorrow. No division. No standings. And for once, we'd come out on top.

This is how addiction works in the brain. Once adequately exposed to an addictive substance, the receptors attached to each neuron begin to conform to the shape of that chemical. From then on, those receptors bond only to that chemical compound to release dopamine, endorphins, and other "pleasure chemicals", depending on the drug. The receptors become less sensitive to other sources of pleasure, including exercise, humor, sleep, food, and love. After a while, all sources of chemical joy are eventually blocked out, until only the substance that fits into the receptor brings about feelings of well being. This is why late-stage addicts must get a fix to feel normal rather than to feel high.

When that ball left Billy Mueller's bat, I felt a joy I hadn't experienced in weeks.

The waitress came back, looked me up and down, and said, "And you were doubting them, Red Sox shirt and all."

Soul-Crushing Update: Remember when I wrote this above?

Meanwhile, McCarty had replaced the cement-footed Millar at first base.

Could it be??? An actual recognition of Millar's shortcomings by Terry Francona???

I completely forgot that after Sheffield threw Damon out at second, Francona got himself ejected. So the answer to those questions are, no.

And there's another question I can't bring myself to utter, but I'm sure you know what it is.