Day of Days

"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters."
-Gary Sheffield on the 2004 World Champion Red Sox

Yeah I know, I've posted the Sheffield quote before. But that shit doesn't get old, does it? Hell no: It just. Gets. Better. I just might make that quote part of the banner for this joint. Anyhoo, drive on through Mr. Sheffield. Drive on through.

Meanwhile, A-Rod is haunted.

So... um... yeah, last night the Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years. Stay with me best you can people, while I unload my discombobulated thoughts in a scattered fashion.

That eight game winning streak? Longest in post-season history baby. Dig it.

Could the Red Sox have dominated the Cardinals any further? I mean short of dragging La Russa into the dugout for a chain whipping and then tossing his naked, bruised and bleeding body onto the field?

Class. There's been a lot of noise about 'class.' As in the Yankees have it, the Red Sox don't and blah blah blah. You know who really has class? The St. Louis Cardinals. In the 7th inning the Cardinals organization opened the gates to the stadium so Sox fans could be there for the final outs. A truly gracious gesture.

I had a staring contest with a newspaper box this morning. I pulled up in front of Dunkies, stepped out of my car... and there it was: the Boston Globe Victory Edition. I looked at it for some looong seconds. Then I stepped a couple of paces to my left and studied it from that angle. Yup, still there. Still reads Victory Edition. I aproached the newspaper box - almost like I was sneaking up on it (will it vanish if I get too close?) - dropped my quarters in and grabbed a copy. Then I did a little leaping skipping thing and giggled like a five-year old.

There were literally hundreds upon hundreds of articles about the Red Sox published today. This is one of my favorites, perhaps the favorite. It's about the about the redemption of Johnny Pesky. Johnny Pesky who was unfairly made the goat of the Red Sox 1946 World Series loss to the Cardinals. (Evidently sportswriters of the 1940s were capable of being every bit as vicious and stupid as their modern day descendants). Johnny Pesky who has spent a life time working for the Red Sox organization. I love the fact that this team, the now historical 2004 Red Sox, have included Mr. Pesky in their celebrations:

Boston first baseman Kevin Millar pushed his way through the crowd to hug Pesky and whispered "Thank you" into his ear. Big David Ortiz hugged him and handed him the gleaming World Series trophy to hold, an award more precious than if it were made of real gold. "This is for you, baby!'' Ortiz shouted to Pesky. "Enjoy yourself.''


And then Johnny Damon was there, too, and Curt Schilling, and who knows who else until suddenly Pesky was the oldest man to ever find himself in the middle of a mosh pit. Schilling poured a bottle of beer over Pesky's head, cupped his wrinkled face in his two meaty hands and kissed the 85-year-old right on the lips. "I couldn't let the year go by without doing this,'' he said.

Too bad Teddy Ballgame wasn't there to see it. I assume he was in Baseball Heaven laying a beating on the Babe's ass.

Over the next few weeks I will be eagerly - nay feverishly - scanning every incoming copy of The New Yorker for Roger Angell's article on this series. Cannot wait. But here's one of my other favorite baseball writers, Tom Boswell:

The scene was not at all what some pundits have predicted. This week, many stuffy voices have already said that Red Sox Nation, with a World Series crown on its collective head, will suddenly be disoriented and suffer an identity crisis.

What will fans of the Red Sox do if they cannot recite, chapter and verse, the catechism of woe that has been befallen them and their forbearers? How boring for Red Sox fans to be just another franchise with no uniqueness, no aura of mythology.

These skeptics are, no doubt, the same clods that wonder how Washingtonians will cope with getting the Expos after 33 years without a major league team. What will we do without our angst-ridden identity as baseball lovers who're denied a team?

The answer, of course, is the same for both groups of the longtime baseball disenfranchised. After a certain necessary period of numbness and disbelief subsides, both will gradually become very, very happy and have a parade. Coping will be blissfully simple after that brief adjustment. And, every spring, Boston fans will be delighted not to answer questions about 1918, just as Washington fans will be pleased not to hear, "Will you ever get a team?"

I have a pair of tickets to see Richard Thompson tonight. Anyone want 'em? The mix of adrenaline and anxiety that fueled my past few weeks is gone; now I am very tired and very happy. I just don't see myself going out tonight. I need to sleep. To relax. I'll eat the tickets if need be. Totally worth it.

Saturday presents me with a dilemma: parade or pub crawl? Oh such painful choices.

On second thought, I should have such dilemmas every weekend.

No one will be surprised if I say this has been the best baseball season of my life. The one image that sticks in my mind - will always stick in my mind - is Curt, Bronson and D-Lowe doing the O.K. Corral walk across the field to the bullpen in Game 5 of the ALCS. Somebody please tell me where to fin, or simply send to me, a picture of this. There has to be one, right?

No, this hasn't been a very personal or emotional post. I'm still savoring all those feelings - to be honest I don't want to let them go, which is what writing them down would feel like to me. Maybe I'll never write of last night in detail. I don't know, I'm still processing.

But beth has a pair of kick-ass posts up, one thankful and one very funny.

When can I get the DVD of this post-season? How about tomorrow? That works for me.

Time to wrap this one up. One last thing though - how fucking cool was it to see Wake holding the trophy?