Yesterday was Opening Day. Or rather, yesterday the Sox played a forty degree make-up game against the sons-of-bitches Devil Rays (and, yes, I will continue to call them that until they rename the fish itself, because those rabid born-again Florida yahoos can kiss my lily-white Irish ***).
Opening Day is like a second Christmas every April. Uniforms are brand new, swings have been doctored, injuries have been healed, and even though there are 161 games left and millions of mountainous hurdles to clear, the whole season is ahead.
Teddy Kennedy threw the first pitch and Tito escorted him out to the mound. Vtek shut down the unfaithful naysayers with his solo homer, Beckett had his stuff back, and Pedroia, well, he was Pedroia (and he almost knocked Big Papi down with his overenthusiastic fist pound). We looked good and we played well and we won. But even if we hadn't, I'd still be excited. Because it's the love of the game. The game that will get you through the next six months.
I'm also quite pleased to pledge my allegience to a team with one of the last real baseball stadiums in the country—not one of these fancy bullshit corporate pavilions with waterfalls and martini bars. Which reminds me that talking smack is just as much the beloved American pastime as following the games themselves, and without certain friendships, none of this would be as much fun. You know who you are, Yankee fan.
It's a real good feeling to root for the Sox. Even when they lose for 86 year running, they never quite let you down...
To quote Fever Pitch, "They're here. Every April, they're here. At 1:05 or at 7:05, there is a game. And if it gets rained out, guess what? They make it up to you. Does anyone else in your life do that? The Red Sox don't get divorced. This is a real family. This is the family that's here for you."
Opening Day is like a second Christmas every April. Uniforms are brand new, swings have been doctored, injuries have been healed, and even though there are 161 games left and millions of mountainous hurdles to clear, the whole season is ahead.
Teddy Kennedy threw the first pitch and Tito escorted him out to the mound. Vtek shut down the unfaithful naysayers with his solo homer, Beckett had his stuff back, and Pedroia, well, he was Pedroia (and he almost knocked Big Papi down with his overenthusiastic fist pound). We looked good and we played well and we won. But even if we hadn't, I'd still be excited. Because it's the love of the game. The game that will get you through the next six months.
I'm also quite pleased to pledge my allegience to a team with one of the last real baseball stadiums in the country—not one of these fancy bullshit corporate pavilions with waterfalls and martini bars. Which reminds me that talking smack is just as much the beloved American pastime as following the games themselves, and without certain friendships, none of this would be as much fun. You know who you are, Yankee fan.
It's a real good feeling to root for the Sox. Even when they lose for 86 year running, they never quite let you down...
To quote Fever Pitch, "They're here. Every April, they're here. At 1:05 or at 7:05, there is a game. And if it gets rained out, guess what? They make it up to you. Does anyone else in your life do that? The Red Sox don't get divorced. This is a real family. This is the family that's here for you."
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1 comment:
don't you feel out of place down there? everyone is a rival. come up here and live in my guest room!
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