Everyone rags on me because baseball is my favorite sport. I've dated a lot of guys who have actually hated baseball (clearly, CLEARLY that's the reason those relationships never worked out). "It's too slow, it's so boring." And for years, I have argued my position that baseball is full of random moments that are absolutely fucking crazy intense. Like, you think you're going to lose by 7 and come back to win by 1. One hit starts a rally. One homerun secures a win. It's probably the most unpredictable game that can go from 0 to 60 in a heartbeat. It's like being on drug. I think, I don't know, I've never done drugs. But this shit is BETTER than drugs! Coke has NOTHING on a Derek Jeter walkoff. NOTHING.
Tonight will go down as probably four of the best pre-playoff baseball in the history of baseball. And FUCK it was awesome watching it.
I'm not going to get into the NL or the collapse of the Braves, as much as I'm pumped they went down. My brain isn't on NL yet. Not until the Series.
Let me just say, I am a diehard Yankee fan. I love the Yankees more than I love most members of my immediate family. If I could be anything in life, it'd be a Yankee, a Yankee's wife, or a Victoria Secret model. So tonight was the first and, invisible magic man in the sky willing, last time I will ever cheer against the Yankees. But it was just a perfect storm of awesome revenge.
2004. Game 7. Bombs. Johnny Damon. The stupid fucking bloody sock. My first year in college, heart broken, so I went home and banged a guy on the Maryland soccer team to make myself feel better. I still remember. I still ache over that breakdown. I still hear it all the time from my Redsox friends. I still Google stalk the guy I fucked that night...
This might not negate it. No no, I'll be real. But it's up there. It's up there with 2003. With Boone. And that glorious home run that will probably (at the rate I'm going with the whole marriage thing) go down in history as one of the greatest things I have ever witnessed in person.
Back in January, NESN sent out a release: "The 2011 Redsox will challenge the 1927 Yankees for the title of Greatest Team in Major League Baseball History."
I'm not going to lie. I believed it. "Just call the series Phillies/Sox and save us all a shitty, disappointing season". I copped. I failed to have faith in our 200 million payroll. I mean, Carl Crawford? Fuck.
And now, as I lay in my bed in my Yankee boxers, I feel like this is 2003. Manny Ramirez and his fucking dreadlocks and wife beating ways, calling his dad from the dugout, talkin' all about how he's going to the World Series and part of Redsox history....
And then there was Boone. And then there was the greatest game I've ever seen.
And that was this whole thing. All the big talk about how amazing the Redsox were going to be. Best team ever. Challenging Yankee greats. Taking down Murderer's Row. Gehrig. Carl Crawford coming up against Lou Gehrig. This was the hype.
This was the phone call to dad.
And the Orioles/Rays were the Aaron Boone of 2011.
Fuck dude, it's shit like this that makes me want to date an athlete. I mean, if you can't be part of the team, how fucking awesome would it be to be the girlfriend/wife of a Ray tonight? Or fuck, even an Oriole? Like, that's some serious victory fucking right now. I'm jealous. I don't even think a lot of those guys are hot, and I'm still jealous. I'd bang the God damn baseball bat Evan Longoria used. Or makeout with Carl Crawford's mitt that he dropped that ball with.
And this is my love for baseball. Because anything can happen. And it always, always comes down to that last out. When it matters, baseball is one of the most knuckle cracking, nail biting, edge of your seat, sweating profusely, rally cap rocking games out there. Despite what all my retarded ex boyfriends think. Fuck them. They're fat. And Aaron Boone is still awesome, "hey girl" glory and all.
All hail to America's pastime.