As I posted elsewhere, I have no voice, a pounding headache, my back is killing me, I'm coming down with a cold, my hands are bleeding from clapping so hard...and I love it. I NEVER drink coffee, but the first thing I did when I got into work this morning was pour myself a cuppa joe. Now I can't tell if I'm jittery from the caffeine, the lack of sleep or the leftover spine-tingling energy from last night.
One thing I forgot to mention in yesterday's entry was that our season ticket benefactors had offered to give us tickets for Sunday's matchup instead of Monday, to ensure that we'd be able to see an ALCS game. We weren't sure if we were being offered the possibility of both Sunday AND Monday, or if they were offering to switch with us. After thinking about it, though, I already had a date with my brother for Monday, and we decided to leave things as they were, to allow my friend's mother the chance to say goodbye to Derek Lowe, one of her favorite players. Of course, once the Sox pulled it out in the 12th, I was sort of kicking myself, wishing I'd gone to the game.
That lasted less than 24 hours.
My brother came down from Maine and stopped by work to pick me up. We went to my place, changed into our game gear, and left for Fenway at 3:45. Traffic is usually horrible most of the way down, but we didn't really hit much until we got off Storrow Drive to get to our secret free parking spot (we had heard parking vendors were charging $60, $80 even $100 the last two days - not interested, thank you). We got to Fenway just before game time but the line to get in was so long that we missed the top of the first, but we could tell from outside that Pedro was throwing gas. Everyone was on their feet cheering at every two-strike count, and the roar told us about two third strikes. We got to our seats in center field - section 38, row 30, directly below the scoreboard - just in time to see the Sox plate two runs and Fenway go bananas. Bernie Williams' homer in the top of the second quieted us down a little bit, but the Sox continued to put runners on base so we remained optimistic. Pedro's pitch count mounted but he stayed strong - striking out batters when he needed to, allowing a baserunner or two but gutting it out. And then came the Yankee rally that always seems to come - Jorge Posada hits a chopper over Pedro's head that doesn't even reach second base. If Pedro's two inches taller, he comes down with it. If Cabrera is shading Posada a bit more towards the middle, he throws him out. If Posada is batting righty instead of lefty, he's thrown out. But the "master of the dink hit", as Bill Simmons calls him, strikes again. Then Ruben Sierra singles to center. Hmm. Tony Clark reliably strikes out (it's good to see he's still performing at the same level) but then Miguel "Boom Boom" Cairo turns into an inside pitch and suddenly the bases are loaded for Captain Intangibles, who promptly dumps a double into right field on Pedro's 100th pitch, plates three runs, and takes the wind completely out of our sales. A real stomach punch. Now it's 4-2, runner on 3rd. A-Rod turns into ANOTHER inside bitch...er, pitch, and bwuises his widdle elbow. Gary Sheffield works a walk thanks to a postage-stamp-sized strike zone at home plate (the various umpires in section 38 were bellowing and bellyaching all night long), and we're in full-on panic mode with Hideki Matsui coming to the plate. He's already flied deep to center, singled to right-center and hit a bullet to first. He smashes one to right, we all shit our pants, but Nixon comes in, snatches it a foot before it hits the grass, and sticks one of the ugliest landings I've ever seen. Three outs. 111 pitches. Pedro is done.
Sixth inning, we go one-two-three. Mike Timlin comes in despite having made approximately 23874 appearances already, gives up an infield single but nothing more. Seventh inning, Bellhorn gives us hope with a leadoff double - a HIT! - and the crowd gets raucous as Cabrera draws a one-out walk, but Manny grounds into a double play and we're deflated again. Even more deflated as Cairo leads off the 8th with a hit that Manny hamhands into a double somehow. Jeter sacrifices him to 3rd. Reaching WAY down into his gut, Timlin strikes out A-Rod - yet ANOTHER clutch strikeout, sending the crowd into another frenzy - before walking Sheffield (again) to bring up Matsui. At this point, I'm shaking, I can't feel my toes, and I think I've developed some kind of facial tic. Keith Foulke is summoned and Matsui flies to left, with Manny managing not to botch it this time.
Aaaand...exhale.
The 8th inning is the turning point. Rivera is warming in the bullpen after throwing about 957 pitches the night before, but Joe Torre and Mel Stottlemyre are apparently both stuck in the dugout bathroom because they let Tom Gordon pitch to David Ortiz, who promptly blasts one off the Volvo sign. 4-3, and you just KNOW there's more to come. Kevin Millar walks and is replaced by Dave Roberts, who motors to third on a Trot Nixon single. Finally, Torre and Stottlemyre blast the latch off with a shotgun, make their way back to the dugout, and bring in Rivera to face Varitek, who's been the silent clutch hero of the series. He comes up big with a sac fly and we're all tied up, headed for extra innings, but not before the scare of the century in the bottom of the 9th - thank God we were in Fenway or Tony Clark's ground-rule double is in the first row of the absurdly short right-field porch at Yankee Stadium and the game is over.
From then on, instead of "Refuse to Lose", it looked like a "Refuse to Win" competition. The Yankees had a few terrific chances to pull it out but never could, while the Sox had not-as-good chances almost EVERY INNING until the 14th. 9th inning, infield single by Damon...caught stealing. 10th inning, ground-rule double by Mientkiewicz, takes 3rd on a groundout...stranded there. 11th inning, two singles, nobody out...then a failed sac bunt and a double play. 12th inning, Ortiz walks, steals second...but wait, he doesn't. Apparently Captain Intangibles only has to wave his glove at you when he tries to tag you. Shades of Chuck Knoblauch, Jose Offerman and Tim Tschida in '99. Bases empty, inning over. The 13th inning was a reversal of fortunes - the Sox go down in order, while the Yankees run everywhere but home thanks to Varitek botching three passed balls - one on a strikeout, then sending the runner to second, then second and third. But Sierra swings and misses by a foot, and we play on. Everything was conspiring against this game ending at a reasonable hour. Heck, the Astros-Cardinals game, which started THREE HOURS LATER, almost finished before this one did.
Then the 14th. After a 1-2-3 by the Sox in the bottom of the 13th (I typoed that as the 123th...not too far off from what it felt like), Wakefield bears down and does the same to the Yankees. And then it's Papi time. Two on, two out, Ortiz up, the whole shack shimmies...and the other Dynamic D.O. comes through yet again to send Fenway into bedlam. It's almost to the point where the Yankees might intentionally walk this guy with the bases loaded. Game 3 had already set a record of 4 hours and 20 minutes for a 9-inning game. Game 4 lasted 12 innings, 5 hours and 2 minutes and 421 pitches. Game 5? 14 innings, 5 hours 49 minutes and 472 pitches. As the late, great Ned Martin would say, "Mercy."
And tonight, playing the part of Willis Reed, we have Curt Schilling, playing with a torn tendon sheath on his right foot, a custom-made boot, a heart the size of North Dakota, and a bullpen more ragged than Nick Nolte's mug shot.
I'll be back on my couch.
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