10.28.2004
typed way too fast with way too much boston-related content so if you don't care then I'm sorry, scroll away
maybe it's the blood in my alcoholstream, but there are a few things I need to clear up. for one, there was never a curse. and even if there was, it had more to do with what he represented (i.e. - integration) than anything the bambino (a.k.a. the third-greatest slugger of all-time) did or did not do. ('did not,' as in, like, when he did not actually call the home run against the cubs in 1932) furthermore, even if there was a curse, it was reversed when I made a decision to not remove my 'ortiz has a posse' shirt for the duration of the playoffs. unlike in previous years, when I ate the same meal (frozen pizza from California pizza kitchen) everyday or refused to shave, I finally chanced upon the right formula for success, this once-white, once-size small t-shirt that can now be washed, to the celebration of all who venture up in my area. all of this reminds me of a game I went to earlier this year. a drunk guy was talking to his drunk mom about how, if the sox finally won, so many people in boston would just die. and he was probably right. but a lot of people can start living, too. people in boston can surrender their surliness; sox fans can stop speaking in the conditional; that remote part of us that believed we were indeed losers--not cursed, just very unlucky--can be replaced by, I don't know, something good. the b-side was wonderful. firing manny two-hand points at mcguirk from across the bar. mcguirk blasting 'sweet emotion' and 'more than a feeling' over the national anthem. 'who is that guy?' 'scott stapp. he's in this band creed.' 'wow. mental note - never, ever listen to creed.' the one guy who emerged from the kitchen five minutes after the final out wielding a broom over his head, waving it about wildly. random hugs with even more random strangers. the thing about boston is that nobody is 'above' baseball, and as we walked home among the frat guys, bike-riding punks, librarians and caribbean kids, it was, in a totally hokey way, america. just like--brratt brratt bratt--this weird-ass team of hahdcore christians, tego calderon fans, cowboys, half-japanese half-black burners and frontier blackjack dealer-looking dudes that just did the damn thing. about the only ones of you I can't take right now are my academics. the red sox and their history aren't a text to be parsed. one more thing about the sox. you know why they won? one word: homoeroticism. I mean, mientkiewicz and millar basically want to be each other, all the latin guys are constantly mounting each other and pedro is always toting that 28-inch shorty around. but I feel that I am rambling. I feel even luckier than usual to be alive. this one is for jazzbo, sarahcabrera, chairman mao, urs, mcguirk, nick, jeremiah, enormous massive, mike and his son who sat by me for three games, the beineicke scholars, the pharmacy student who offered to hook me up with horse tranquilizers, the cheapo records guys, mark at in your year, bri-hova, natty bumppo, the bartender at Merchant's in Nashville, chinnie, killa cam, rso, the FanFoto dude, all the unhealthy people I sat next to in the Fenway grandstand seats, the dude who inflated the garbage bag in the bleachers, luis tiant, har, jimmy fallon, bmp and anyone else I enjoyed this season with. fuck it, everyone stand up. even you, ben affleck!
today, listen to this, over and over. Those who know, know!
today, listen to this, over and over. Those who know, know!
