Hear o Boston, mourn not for thy team who have passed from October play to greener golf courses.
Verily I say unto thee, thou hast seen the dead made to live again, and didst rejoice.
For lo, when thy team did skid in the ALCS and lose three straight, didst not thou cry out with great wailing and many sharp expletives? Didst not thou mourn as unto death, and cry, “Why the bleep canst not Big Papi hit? And what’s with Beckett?” And thou wert in despair. Booedst thou thy Captain and thy Slugger, and gottest thee wasted.
But Francona stepped forth in Game Five, and said unto thee, “This team is not dead, but only sleeping.”
In scorn didst thou laugh, then, knowing thy team to be dead. Seven outs to go, and seven runs, and the Sox belted not.
But lo, even then stepped the Jockey into the batter’s box, with one on, and did swing, and drive in Lowrie. And then camest Big David Ortiz, and then smote he the ball.
The score, seven-four, Tampa Bay.
J.D. Drew came then also, and likewise did smacketh the ball, belting it out for two runs, and Crisp droveth in one for the tie. I heard thee then, Boston, exclaim in thy passion: “Youuuuuuuuuukkkkk!!!!” And Youk reached, and advanced he unto second on the throw.
Thoughtst thou not that thy head would explode when Drew singled in Youk for the walk-off?
The win was thine! Thy team lived, and thou went forth and partied too much.
Game Six came then unto thee, Boston, and once more came harsh battle. Josh Beckett, though injured, pitched onward, and the Sox batters strove. Fought they mightily ‘gainst Tampa Bay. Yet–perdition!–the score remained tied. “Frickin’ cowbells,” didst thou mutter again, and yea, even again.
With two outs in the sixth, ‘twas the Sox captain stood at the plate. And see! Knocketh he dirt from his spikes now, now raiseth his bat.
15 times had Tek stridden unto the batter’s box. 15 times, in sorrow had returned. Yet lo, in his 16 at-bat, he did smite the ball a fell and mighty blow, even unto the ends of right-center. It flew hence, o’er the heads of fuddled Rays, and the lead was Boston’s, and Game Six too was theirs, and great wast thy song and rejoicing!
A third time didst thou party hard.
Then camest game seven. O woe! Woe unto thee Boston, and unto thy sons and thy daughters. A great wailing riseth up in thy streets now, and much lamentation.
Yet I say unto thee, mourn not so, as a team sore bereaved. And whine not, as the dullards and Yankees fans. For their yammering is as an abomination.
The gift of two wins wert thou given, from the men thou hadst booed. Two days more of Baseball were thine, and the chance to feel smug. Thou my hometown! October wast thine, nineteen days. Weep no longer.
Verily, weeping endureth for the night, but joy cometh next season.
Francona abides with thee, and so too Theo. Pedroia, and Papi abide. J.D. Drew doth abide with thee, and Bay and Coco Crisp, and Ellsbury, thief of many bases. Youkilis and his beard still art thine. Yea, also hast thou many pitchers!
For lo, Beckett and Lester, yea, and Matsuzaka, and Wakefield hurleth even unto the sixth and seventh innings, with cries of, “ooh, that curve wert nasty.”
Then wilt come hence Okajima and Masterson, bringing much relief, and Papelbon shalt slam hard the door. And if Boras screws not with thee, Tek too shall stay, and wilt guide thy team’s ship through rough seas.
Take heart, thou my Beantowne. Thine undoing is brief.
Next year, the Rays art going down.
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