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YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
(deep breath)
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.
Sorry. It's just that, I don't know if you heard, but the Red Sox are going to the World Series. They just beat some team from New York. And I know I've been writing about the Sox a lot recently, but I can't help it. I think I have a crush on the entire team; I can't stop thinking about them. Not in a gay way. Or maybe in a gay way. I can't even tell anymore. So here comes another column about baseball. I apologize if you don't care about the sport, but if so, it might be time for you to consider moving to Kabul and rooting for their professional buzkashi team. Buzkashi is like polo, but with a goat carcass instead of a ball. Someday I'll write a column about it. But not now, not during this October.
I'm glowing, not just because the Red Sox won, but also because I was able to play a crucial role in their comeback. I'm not trying to make a huge self-call. I mean, I'll be the first to admit that I was partially to blame for games one through three. I was wearing the wrong shirt.
In game one, I wore my "Reverse the Curse" t-shirt. In game two, I wore a "NOMAH" shirt. In game three, I wore my slanty-numbered royal blue Drew Bledsoe jersey because it's helped the Patriots win two Super Bowls. None of them worked. In retrospect, I should have known better. Bledsoe? Wrong sport, and for the past few years, wrong state. He plays in New York now. Nomah? Clearly I was just reviving the cancer. And the "Reverse the Curse" shirt was just too obvious. Wearing it during the ALCS was like wearing an "I'm here to get laid" t-shirt to a bar. It's just not going to work.
So in game four I wasn't wearing anything. Or nothing that said Red Sox anyway. Just a green t-shirt under a gray sweatshirt. But even this combination wasn't working until I turned it inside out in the eighth inning. I was watching the game in a friend's room - there were three of us in there - and I turned the sweatshirt inside out to make it a "rally shirt." Then I suggested that maybe in addition to reversing my sweatshirt I should also take my pants off to expose my "rally penis." I said this as a joke, of course, but then after I said it, I started to panic. What if I didn't get half naked and the Red Sox lost? I would forever regret not getting half naked. I started to take off my pants. But fate intervened and the room took a vote and "me taking off my pants and underwear" lost two to one. It turned out to be a wise choice. All of a sudden, Rivera was blowing saves and Ortiz was hitting home runs and I was wondering why Fox wasn't in my friend's room, giving me a post-game interview for my role in the victory.
(Just for the record, I think it's a bad idea for Chris Meyers to ask someone (in this case, David Ortiz) who doesn't really speak English, "Do you realize that it's already tomorrow right now?" After fourteen innings of baseball, I think a lot of us would have difficulty answering that question. Poor David Ortiz. They should stop trying to get sound bites off him. Or they should get him a translator. Or just give him his own show, a travelogue, and call it "Ortiz in U.S.A.")
For the past four days, I haven't changed my clothes. I haven't shaved in about two weeks either. These developments probably explain why anytime I sit down, people try to give me money. Let it be known: I'm not homeless. I'm just a Red Sox fan. I'm not quite to "Damon Disciple" status yet, but I'm getting there. I just need a couple more inches of hair and a caveman underbite.
And yesterday, just to seal my fate as "the fan that changed the course of the 2004 ALCS" I drove my friend, Ben, to an Olympia Sports so he could buy a Red Sox t-shirt. He examined the selection and decided to buy a Damon shirt, partly because he thought it would help Damon snap out of his ALCS funk and partly because it was the only player they had in an extra large. Regardless, Damon had three hits, two home runs and six RBI. I didn't have any say in the t-shirt selection process, but I was there. And if I hadn't driven him to the store, he wouldn't have bought the t-shirt.
I am destiny's chauffeur.
I'm also very courageous. You see, I've been helping to rewrite the records books while battling through several severe ailments. Like, a couple weeks ago, I thought I was going to have a cold because I was sneezing a little, but then it never really turned into a cold. But then I got food poisoning from the geef Brisket at the Jewish dining hall and I puked my guts out. And I've had a sore hamstring for the past couple days. I'm a lot like Curt Schilling, except I've had three things wrong with me instead of just one.
Okay, don't worry. That was a joke. Curt Schilling is the man. I love him.
(And I probably do mean that in a gay way.)
I just can't express the way I'm feeling right now. Oh wait, yes I can:
YAAAAAAAAY
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