When I'm Rushing On My Run
I screamed out loud when Foulke blew the save last night.
Actually that's not quite correct. It would be more accurate of me to say that I yelled, bellowed, a certain short Anglo-Saxon word that begins with one of the earlier letters of the alphabet. This outburst was accompanied by a loud thump! as my hand struck the bar, and followed a motion that began with a slide/stagger off of my bar stool and lurched into several paced circles of hand waving and muttering. Sonny the Den Mother stuck her head around the large upright beam that separates most of the bar from the isolated section in back (ideally located near a TV) where I was sitting, and I asked if 'everything was allright.'
"No," I said as I resumed my seat, "but I'll take that beer now."
Moments earlier I was ready to settle my tab, ready to head home uplifted by a Red Sox win. Now... well now I was seething. Boston desperately needed this win and I was dreading the answer to the question 'which Red Sox team will take the field in the bottom of the ninth; the April/August version... or that version?' Would they completely waste the Big Fellah's boss eight-inning performance? Pitcher's duels are all well and good, I thought, until your team suddenly is the side one run short.
Fresh High Life in hand, I braced myself for the Red Sox half of the ninth. Youkilis started it with a walk, (and was replaced by Speed Racer Roberts), then Mueller doubled. Suddenly it was runners at second and third, no outs, and I was on my feet again. The rollercoaster was at the top of the hill... and dropped dropped dropped as McCarty fouled out and Damon struck out - looking. Now it felt like July again.
Oh me of little faith. Four pitches later Bellhorn drove one to deep center and it was celebration time for 3-2 Boston win.
The post-game show rolled and I basked in the sudden good feeling. Turning to Kermit's lovely girlfriend who was seated next to me I said 'this is the part of the night where we dance' and made body wiggling arm flailing motions intended to be suggestive of actual dancing.
"Dance? To what? The music from the Hyundai commercial?"
"Sure, why not? Just feel the music. Feel your inner music and let it go."
Sometimes watching baseball feels so great I think it ought to be illegal. After all, it's that feeling that convinces me to go all in with this team every year - to massive disappointment thus far. But the rush is so seductive (And I feel just like Jesus' son) that every year I think why not? Why not this year?
Maybe, just maybe, this is the year where we dance.
Actually that's not quite correct. It would be more accurate of me to say that I yelled, bellowed, a certain short Anglo-Saxon word that begins with one of the earlier letters of the alphabet. This outburst was accompanied by a loud thump! as my hand struck the bar, and followed a motion that began with a slide/stagger off of my bar stool and lurched into several paced circles of hand waving and muttering. Sonny the Den Mother stuck her head around the large upright beam that separates most of the bar from the isolated section in back (ideally located near a TV) where I was sitting, and I asked if 'everything was allright.'
"No," I said as I resumed my seat, "but I'll take that beer now."
Moments earlier I was ready to settle my tab, ready to head home uplifted by a Red Sox win. Now... well now I was seething. Boston desperately needed this win and I was dreading the answer to the question 'which Red Sox team will take the field in the bottom of the ninth; the April/August version... or that version?' Would they completely waste the Big Fellah's boss eight-inning performance? Pitcher's duels are all well and good, I thought, until your team suddenly is the side one run short.
Fresh High Life in hand, I braced myself for the Red Sox half of the ninth. Youkilis started it with a walk, (and was replaced by Speed Racer Roberts), then Mueller doubled. Suddenly it was runners at second and third, no outs, and I was on my feet again. The rollercoaster was at the top of the hill... and dropped dropped dropped as McCarty fouled out and Damon struck out - looking. Now it felt like July again.
Oh me of little faith. Four pitches later Bellhorn drove one to deep center and it was celebration time for 3-2 Boston win.
The post-game show rolled and I basked in the sudden good feeling. Turning to Kermit's lovely girlfriend who was seated next to me I said 'this is the part of the night where we dance' and made body wiggling arm flailing motions intended to be suggestive of actual dancing.
"Dance? To what? The music from the Hyundai commercial?"
"Sure, why not? Just feel the music. Feel your inner music and let it go."
Sometimes watching baseball feels so great I think it ought to be illegal. After all, it's that feeling that convinces me to go all in with this team every year - to massive disappointment thus far. But the rush is so seductive (And I feel just like Jesus' son) that every year I think why not? Why not this year?
Maybe, just maybe, this is the year where we dance.
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