Angels With Dirty Faces
Saturday evening, sitting at the Trinity Brewhouse, grabbing a bite and a beer before picking up the Bunny at the airport. Naturally the Red Sox are on playing on both TVs above the bar. Everyone is watching; the bartenders and are I chattering intermittently about the Sox while they serve up beers. The younger of the two (or is it three? It's hard to tell, the bartenders keep coming and going from behind the bar) stops in front me. He's putting some clean glasses away, and he grins insanely at no one in particular.
"I hate the Red Sox," he says. He's joking; he's smiling so much I can tell he's a die-hard fan. He's sharing an inside joke. Of course he doesn't hate the Sox. Nobody in here hates the Red Sox. not tonight. The very thought is so ridiculous that he finds it hilarious to even give voice to the notion. I grin back at him.
"Really? You hate the Red Sox? You've barely been able to tear yourself away from the TV all evening."
That from one of the gaggle of girls down to my left.
"Yes, I do. I really hate the Red Sox."
He cackles out loud and walks away, down to the service station at the end of the bar.
A man walks in and takes a seat three bar stools down from me, striking up a conversation with the bartender. I can hear stray bits of their discussion - the stranger is from out of town, and expressing surprise that the Olympics are not on either TV. I can't help but join in...
"The Olympics? You're in New England now. It's all about the Red Sox."
And starting tonight, it certainly is all about the Red Sox. Curt Schilling takes the mound against the Angels tonight, for the first of nine games against Boston's chief rivals for the post-season berth: Anaheim, Texas and Oakland. The Red Sox are hot, posting an AL-leading record of 20-7 in August (.731 winning percentage), but Anaheim (.720) and Oakland (.620) are not far behind. The days of beating up sub-.500 teams are over for the moment; now the Sox come up against the teams that stand between them and the Wild Card.
And the Yankees still loom ahead. Or as some would have it, The Evil Empire.
Lock S-Foils Into Attack Positions!
And so Red Squadron begins their attack run down the Death Star trench, pursued by Tie-fighters from the western teams, clinging to a narrow lead in the Wild Card race and hoping to drop a photon torpedo square in the exhaust port of the Bronx Star.
Why not?
"I hate the Red Sox," he says. He's joking; he's smiling so much I can tell he's a die-hard fan. He's sharing an inside joke. Of course he doesn't hate the Sox. Nobody in here hates the Red Sox. not tonight. The very thought is so ridiculous that he finds it hilarious to even give voice to the notion. I grin back at him.
"Really? You hate the Red Sox? You've barely been able to tear yourself away from the TV all evening."
That from one of the gaggle of girls down to my left.
"Yes, I do. I really hate the Red Sox."
He cackles out loud and walks away, down to the service station at the end of the bar.
A man walks in and takes a seat three bar stools down from me, striking up a conversation with the bartender. I can hear stray bits of their discussion - the stranger is from out of town, and expressing surprise that the Olympics are not on either TV. I can't help but join in...
"The Olympics? You're in New England now. It's all about the Red Sox."
And starting tonight, it certainly is all about the Red Sox. Curt Schilling takes the mound against the Angels tonight, for the first of nine games against Boston's chief rivals for the post-season berth: Anaheim, Texas and Oakland. The Red Sox are hot, posting an AL-leading record of 20-7 in August (.731 winning percentage), but Anaheim (.720) and Oakland (.620) are not far behind. The days of beating up sub-.500 teams are over for the moment; now the Sox come up against the teams that stand between them and the Wild Card.
And the Yankees still loom ahead. Or as some would have it, The Evil Empire.
Lock S-Foils Into Attack Positions!
And so Red Squadron begins their attack run down the Death Star trench, pursued by Tie-fighters from the western teams, clinging to a narrow lead in the Wild Card race and hoping to drop a photon torpedo square in the exhaust port of the Bronx Star.
Why not?
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