Hair of the Dog

Heart-breaker, soul-shaker, I've been told about you.
Steam-roller, the midnight shoulder,
What they been sayin' must be true.

Red hot mama, oh that charmer,
Time's come to pay your dues.

Now you're messin' with a a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.

Talking jive and poison ivy, you ain't gonna cling to me.
Minute-taker, fall-faker, I ain't so blind I can't see.

Now you're messin' with a a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.

The hair of the dog that bit them in game one i.e. Schilling's troubled ankle, was just what the Red Sox needed last night. All of Red Sox Nation is agog over Curt's gutsy performance last night.

Admit it though, you were worried before the start of the game. And then when Schilling stepped to the mound minus 'the magic boot' and with blood seeping through his sock, neither you or I knew what to expect. What we got was a live demonstration of Hemingway's definition of courage - grace under pressure. Even Shank was impressed:

The big righty sent a message to all of the Yankees in the first inning. With one out and nobody aboard, Schilling threw a pitch that zipped past the handsome head of Alex Rodriguez, subject of so much offseason haggling involving these ancient rivals. It was a two-seamer telegram. There would be no 19 runs, no 22 hits for the Yankees in this game. No more swinging from the heels without fear of consequence. New sheriff on the mound. All that.

'All that' was an eleven-pitch nine-strike first inning, pushing off an ankle that was basically nailed to the rest of his leg, that sent our hopes soaring. And then kept them aloft through seven innings. And now we get to play a game seven.

These are indeed the End Times my friends. Last night's broadcast repeatedly showed some simple old fool dancing about Yankee Stadium dressed as Babe Ruth's ghost, but some of us are beginning to see a higher power at work here: The Baseball Jesus. How else could the Red Sox have become the first team ever to force a game seven after being tagged and bagged, down 3-0? How else do you explain the Red Sox getting the correct call on not one, but two controversial plays? (The Ghost of Offerman's phantom tag rests in peace now.)Evangelical Christians await The Rapture, when the just take a magical escalator direct to Heaven while the heathens remain behind and suffer under the Beast. Red Sox Nation is hoping for their own Rapture, when the just and long-suffering ascend to that mystical plane where the Yankees go down to defeat.

Some Random Bits From Last Night...

Mark Bellhorn. After grounded into the double play last night I was immediately on the phone to the Bunny, screaming about him being poison at the plate. After he homered to left, my phone rang and it was the Bunny:
"I think you owe Mr. Bellhorn an apology."
Indeed I do. Sorry, Mr. Bellhorn. Beers are on me.

One way to deal with FOX's awful commentary is to drown it out with music. We played the juke box all through the game last night and it was sweet sweet relief. Why listen to McCarver's idiocy when you can have the Ramones instead? Remember to bring your quarters tonight.

Boston.com is asking what's your superstition? Mine are as follows:

Dress properly. Blue baseball hat (with the pair of Red Socks logo on the front and a smaller red 'B' on the back) combined with the Curt Schilling home jersey. Which incidentally cannot be washed until the post-season is over and is therefore rapidly accumulating stains. My favorite is the mustard stain, acquired in the bleachers at the Sox Yankees game in September.

Hopping and capering about can only help your team. Extra mojo points for frantic arm waving.

The appearance of Posada on the screen must be greeted with a stream of invective. When he does his stepping out of the batter's box routine, continue invective but switch to Spanish invective.

Being bored is not allowed. Hey ho, Let's Go!