I've been to 6 Red Sox games so far this season - not as many as I'd have liked, but not bad for someone who is stuck in the Bible belt. Three were at the Ballpark in Arlington, the site of an embarrassing sweep at the hands of the upstart Texas Rangers on the weekend of my 25th birthday.

(Do you know what it's like to have your idea of a perfect birthday interrupted by Texas Rangers fans sticking brooms in your face? No, nor should you. It's not pretty.)

One was at Fenway in mid-July, a win against the Orioles of which I have very fuzzy memories. Peanuts, overpriced Fenway beer, extensive Karim Garcia jeers, and a 4-0 victory - that's it. The other two games were at Fenway, and I have a much better recollection of those: one was the infamous brawl game against the Yankees, and the other was the Sunday night Yankee game the following night - a 9-6 victory that ended up being Nomar's last game in front of a home crowd.

That leaves my season record at a very mediocre 3-3. One could argue that I saw three of the worst games of the season, and three of the best games of the season. There's no middle of the road baseball here...I walked away from all of those games either suicidal or ready to proclaim the Red Sox the greatest team in the history of baseball.

Actually, I think I did make that claim immediately following Billy Mueller's walk off homerun in the 9th off of Rivera, but for that I blame Boston Billiards' Dollar Drafts. A beer for a dollar? Whose idea was that, anyway?

Anyway, it doesn't seem right to end the season at 3-3. No self-respecting sports fan can feel satisfied with a tie, and so, I felt that something had to be done.

So I bought a plane ticket.

Tomorrow morning I will fly to Baltimore, where the Sox will finish the regular season against the Orioles in a 4 games series that, as it turns out, isn't really all that important. The Red Sox simply couldn't take advantage of a depleted Yankee rotation and the Evil Empire will take the division for what seems like the three thousandth year in a row. It is important, of course, because a team doesn't want to head into the playoffs coming off a string of poorly played games. After last night's abysmal performance in Tampa, the boys have 3 days to turn it around before the real season begins.

Thanks to message boards and Satellite TV, Red Sox Nation is everywhere these days. But as Bill Simmons so eloquently stated in his latest article, it's not the same as being there. And so, I will spend the next couple of days in a strange city with thousands of other transplanted Sox fans who are looking for redemption, looking to end the regular season on a high. Fingers will be crossed, hair will be torn out, ulcer medication will be taken by the fistfull, beers will be chugged, and hearts will be pounding.

In other words, just another weekend in Red Sox Nation.

But this time, I'll have company.

Sure, it took 11 loooong innings to beat the 30-games-back Tampa Bay Devil Rays. But on the bright side, Mientkiewicz got his bat back, Mendoza pitched two perfect innings to secure himself a spot on the playoff roster, and Johnny Damon continued his domination of the entire league with a three-run triple that brought the Sox back from down 5-1.

It's hard to believe that just one week from today, the playoffs will be underway. The Playoffs. And the Sox will be there, for the second year in a row. Red Sox Nation has never been this much fun; the team is winning, the dugout is full of personality, and there is the hope of late October baseball on the horizon.

These are the things I try to think about when it's 5-1 Devil Rays in the third and Derek Lowe is on the mound, making the face that only he can make. Or when Terry Adams gives up a 2 run shot after the Sox have fought so hard to get back into the game. Or when Mirabelli's homerun is ruled a double due to fan interference. Or when...


Playoffs. Playoffs. Playoffs. The Red Sox are in the Playoffs.


Ahhhh....much better.

I'm gonna tell you a story
I'm gonna tell you about my town
I'm gonna tell you a big bad story, baby
Aww, it's all about my town

Yeah, down by the river
Down by the banks of the river Charles (aw, that's what's happenin' baby)
That's where you'll find me
Along with lovers, fuggers, and thieves (aw, but they're cool people)
Well I love that dirty water
Oh, Boston, you're my home (oh, you're the Number One place)
Frustrated women (I mean they're frustrated)
Have to be in by twelve o'clock (oh, that's a shame)
But I'm wishin' and a-hopin, oh
That just once those doors weren't locked (I like to save time for
my baby to walk around)
Well I love that dirty water
Oh, Boston, you're my home (oh, yeah)

Because I love that dirty water
Oh, oh, Boston, you're my home (oh, yeah)

Well, I love that dirty water (I love it, baby)
I love that dirty water (I love Baw-stun)
I love that dirty water (Have you heard about the Strangler?)
I love that dirty water (I'm the man, I'm the man)
I love that dirty water (Owww!)
I love that dirty water (Come on, come on)

There will be no shorthanded goals. No 50 goal season. No overtime. No game-winning goals. No no-look backhanded assists. No bench clearing brawls. No five minutes for fighting. No wicked slapshots. No crosschecking, forechecking or backchecking. No "he shoots, he scores!" No penalty kills. No power plays. No offsides. No icing.* No double minors. No training camp. No hat tricks. No penalty shots. No ricochet off the boards. No glancing nervously at the game clock, watching time tick away. No lucky bounces of the puck. No shutouts. No glove saves. No 5-hole. No cool, crisp stadium air. No sound of a single blade gliding across untouched ice. No goal judge. No penalty box. No division rivalry. No puck sailing, slow motion, into the back of the net. No celebrations on the bench. No arenas that smell like a clean sheet of ice. No sharpening of skates. No taping of sticks.


It's going to be a long winter.


*I'm fighting off every urge to make a Leon Stickle reference right here.

Another close game. Another blown save. Another heart attack. Another fantastic ending. Another sigh of relief. Another game gained on the MFY.

Last night the Sox needed 12 innings to beat the Orioles, winning 7-6 on Cabrera's walk off homerun. Sure, there were a ton of exciting moments. Ortiz hit his 40th homerun, a 2 run shot, to give the Sox a 6-5 lead. Mientkiewicz made a tremendous leap to grab a Palmeiro line drive and rob him of a hit in extra innings. And of course, there was Cabrera's walk-off homerun, his first at Fenway. But the most exciting play of the game came at the top of the 12th inning, moments before Cabrera finished it off.

3 - 2 - 4.

Bases loaded, one out, and Jay Gibbons at the plate. Leskanic was one blooper away from becoming Public Enemy #1 at Fenway, until Friday night, anyway. Gibbons hits it hard to the Minty Freshest of all first basemen, and it looks like the Sox will settle for one out at home. But oh, do not underestimate the sheer brilliance of the new and improved Red Sox infield. Mientkiewicz fired it to Varitek for the out at home, and Tek, wasting no time, found an opening and rifled the ball to Pokey, who was covering for Eyechart at first.

3 - 2 - 4.

The planets had to be aligned perfectly for this play to be pulled off. A perfect charge of the ball by Mientkiewicz. Brilliant vision and a laser of a throw from Tek. And Pokey's forsight to cover 1st when Leskanic was busy watching the play in awe, along with 34,000 others at Fenway.

After the game, the clubhouse was still buzzing about the heads up effort, and no one was happier about it than Leskanic, who was bailed out of a potentially crushing situation. "That's the first time I've actually seen that one, 3-2-4. I think I might have turned it on Nintendo a long time ago but back then it wasn't even Nintendo. I think it was Intellivision."

Last night, we got a good look at the new and improved Red Sox. The shortstop who rushes back from Colombia, where his wife was having surgery, to beg Francona to put him in the lineup, even though he's functioning on just a few hours of sleep. The first baseman who will do anything to steal a hit away from the opposition. The brand spankin' new gold glove infield that has Red Sox Nation praying for more ground balls, just for a chance to see something magical happen before their eyes.

Last night, at the top of the 12th, with the bases loaded and one out, there was magic in the air. And something tells me there's much more to come.

Welcome to the Boston Red Sox-a-holic 12 Step Program Weekly Meeting. Today: Step 8 - How Not to Lose Your Lunch Over the Course of a Typical 9-Inning Roller Coaster Red Sox Game.

In all seriousness, if there was a support group for sports nerds, I would have joined years ago. Almost 24 hours later, I believe I have finally recovered from the mass heart attack I was a part of during last night's ridiculous win over the hated Orioles. Granted, it's not even October yet, and the Sox are almost a lock for the Wild Card, but still - this team has mastered the art of tearing our hearts out of our collective bruised and battered chest. Last night was no different.

Well, except for one thing.

Last night Red Sox Nation was witness to a Cy Young caliber performance, their ace's best in a Red Sox uniform. Feast your eyes...

Schilling: 8.0 IP, 3 H, 0 R, 1 BB, 14 K, 90 strikes of 114 pitches.

Let it sink in. Then read it again. 90 strikes of 114 pitches. Amazing.

Picture it...

Fenway. A cool October night. Clear skies. Curt on the mound.

I can't think of anything better. I absolutely can. not. wait.
____________________________

Speaking of October, according to espn.com, Boston city officials are cracking down on Red Sox-related celebrations. This excerpt is post-worthy:

Last year, when the Red Sox clinched an American League playoff spot, five of seven people arrested during street celebrations were Northeastern or Emerson College students.

Sure, my alma mater is a great school. It's the place where the Fonz, Jay Leno, and Denis Leary all got their starts. It has produced many incredible filmmakers, TV producers, and writers.

But now, finally, something to truly be proud of.

Sometimes, throughout the course of our lives, we do things and, though we enjoy them, we swear that we will never do them again. That time you tried the dog biscuit when you were four years-old. The threesome in college. Bungie Jumping after a few too many beers during Senior Week.

After this past weekend, Austin City Limits festival, and really - all outdoor music festivals, can be added to my list.

Chris and I headed down to Austin on Friday morning for three days of music, sun, beer, lots of incredible mexican food, stilfling Texas heat, and quality time with long distance friends. For three days, Zilker Park in Austin was taken over by indie rock kids and hippies who fought lines, crowds, and heat exhaustion all in the name of music. Here is an extremely exciting recap in list form:

I saw:
-the killers
-modest mouse (x2)
-I love you but I've chosen darkness
-explosions in the sky
-the pixies (!!)
-the roots
-elvis costello
-centro-matic
-spoon

I learned:
-modest mouse fans are the most atrocious people I've ever come into contact with.
-"I just got my face rocked off" is not appropriate to say in public, under any circumstance.
-the Texas sun does not fuck around. That shit is hot.
-lifting people up and guessing their weight is a surprisingly entertaining party trick.
-if you are the one doing the lifting, you should probably go ahead and stop drinking.
-lesbians love modest mouse. lesbians also enjoy dirty dancing to modest mouse while invading my personal space.
-Red Sox Nation is everywhere. I saw more Sox hats this weekend than I've ever seen before.
-there is not a soul on the roads in Austin at 5am on a Saturday.
-vegetarian chorizo is a-ma-zing.
-when the sox lose two of three to the MFY, it's a good idea to be in the middle of a field with no TV in sight.
-heavy metal pizza? a genius entrepreneurial idea.

And finally, when cramming 75,000 people into one place at one time, it's probably a good idea to open up a second exit. You know, unless you have fond memories of Altamont.


And lastly, an open letter to the drunk girls standing behind me at the modest mouse show at Stubbs:

Hey, ladies. Yes, you. I can understand singing the words along with Isaac during the show. Really, I can. But can you please make sure that next time you actually know the words you are singing? It's quite distracting to have a completely different concert going on over my right shoulder. While we're at it, "singing" is actually different from "shrieking." Look into that. And also, in the future, it will be sufficient to just sing the words and let the guitars and drums speak for themselves. I can hear them fine, thanks, and you shouldn't feel that you have to dum-dum-dum along with them.

Thanks, and I look forward to never running into you again.
meredith

Sometimes you don't realize how much you've missed something until you get it back. Last night was my first opportunity to watch the Eagles since last year's disappointing NFC Championship game loss to Carolina, and at some point in the middle of the 1st quarter, I realized how much I had missed football.

Most considered it a forgone conclusion that last night's MNF matchup would be an all hands on deck shoot-out. In my football pool, when asked to predict a point total for the game, I chose 65. Sure, their defense had stopped the Giants a week earlier, but c'mon...it was the Giants. No one was comfortable using that first game as a gauge of this team's talents. But that was before Monday Night Football. Eagles vs Vikings. McNabb vs Culpepper. Owens vs Moss. The Linc parking lots were packed with green-faced lunatics, coolers, and grills by 8am, and at one point yesterday afternoon, I swore I could almost smell the cheesesteaks and Yuengling from Texas. Almost.

27-16 isn't exactly a blowout, but the game never felt close. The Eagles looked as good as they looked during their win streak of last season, if not better. Donovan McNabb is one of those players that, every Sunday, you look skyward at least twice and thank god you are lucky enough to watch him play each and every week. He runs, he deeks, he escapes defenders when it seems he has no way out, and he has got a wicked arm. Oh, and he has an absolute blast on the field; there's nowhere he'd rather be. What more can you ask for?

Come to think of it, there was one thing. Last season Eagles fans asked management for a decent receiver. What good is a stellar QB if he has no one to throw to? Pinkston and Thrash weren't cutting it, and McNabb was visibly frustrated by the end of the Birds' playoff run. So management went out and stole Terrell Owens away from the Baltimore Ravens. Fans were excited, if not secretly a bit nervous. No more excuses. Everyone knew that if the arrival of a superstar receiver didn't bring success to Philadelphia, nothing would. It's safe to say that those worries are now history, but it takes more than a stat sheet to see why.

T.O. brings so much more to the table than touchdowns, over-the-top celebrations, and a gold plated mouthguard. McNabb looked more relaxed in the pocket last night than ever before. Sure, he's got a Pro Bowl-caliber receiver, but he's also got 7 or 8 other guys who, all of a sudden, have tons of open field to work with. LJ Smith, Brian Westbrook, Chad Lewis...these guys were making plays they had no chance of making last season. After 3 consecutive NFC title game losses, football insiders had begun to question the worth of McNabb, wondering if he'd ever be able to bring a Super Bowl victory to Broad Street. Watching him own the field last night, finally proving to the nation what Eagles fans have known all along, was thrilling. It may have been the best part of last night's game, if not for one little thing.

Red. Zone. Defense. We knew the Eagles improved their overall defense this offseason with the addition of defensive end Jevon Kearse, but it could still use some tweaking. The Vikes did, after all, pass for 332 yards and run for 78. But the Eagles got the stops when they needed them - at the goal line. The Vikings got into the red zone 5 times and only once capitalized with a touchdown. Once! The Vikings even made it to the Eagles 1 yard line TWO TIMES, and only had 3 points to show for it. And then, there's the fumble. The fumble. The Vikings had the ball on the Eagles 2 yard line at the end of the 1st half when Nate Wayne forced a Culpepper fumble just centimeters from the end zone. Clutch.

And so, the Eagles won the game to start the season 2-0. Yes, it's early in the season. Yes, things change, players get hurt, and so on. But the Eagles looked last night like a team that was on a mission. And when it was over, the Eagles had beaten a pretty good football team.

There are no asterisks on last night's W. This team is for real.

Growing up in Philly, there are certain things that are ingrained into your psyche at an early age. Cheesesteaks are always made with Cheez Whiz, it's perfectly normal to buy soft pretzels from homeless men on the side of the road, weekends are spent at "the shore," and the Dallas Cowboys are public enemy #1.

I can remember being on the school bus in 8th grade the Monday after an Eagles/Cowboys game. Whether you were a football fan or not, you knew what had happened the day before. The Eagles didn't fare as well against the Cowboys under Rich Kotite as they had against Buddy Ryan, and in 1993, during what would end up being a dismal 8-8 season, they lost both games against their archrival. Kids would shuffle onto the bus, still half asleep, and dissect Sunday's game and lament how, once again, the Cowboys came out on top.

Sitting dejectedly on that school bus on all those early mornings, writing "go eagles" on the foggy windows with my glove covered hand, I never imagined that one day I'd have a job that required me to spend a Saturday with 8 retired Dallas Cowboys and 10,000 Cowboy fans.

This past Saturday our radio station put on an event centered around the state of Texas' overzealous passion for football. There were former Cowboys signing autographs, Cowboys cheerleaders caked in makeup, Lombardi trophies on display, Super Bowl rings on site to gawk at, and a multitude of other football related activities. I was tearing tickets at the Charles Haley autograph line when a man complimented me on my tattoo. "Is that drawn on or is that a tattoo? That's really cool!"

I thanked him, and that's when I realized what was happening. The simple star tattoo on my wrist had been mistaken for a Cowboys tattoo. Oh, the humiliation. "It's a tattoo," I told him, "but it's not Cowboys related. I'm an Eagles fan." I smiled, knowing what was coming next. I always got a kick out of telling people I was from Philly. But this time I was surprised.

His face contorted in a way that human faces, with the exception of that of Derek Lowe, should not be able to. "Not Cowboys related?! But it's a Cowboys star!"

Now I was confused. Panic hit me. Could the tattoo artist in Rhode Island have been playing a cruel joke? Was he secretly a Cowboys fan out to ruin the lives of innocent and long-suffering Eagles fans? I regained my common sense, and reminded the man that stars are actually just shapes, a shape that the Cowboys adopted as their logo. "Naw, that's a Cowboys star! I can't believe a girl from Philly has a Cowboys star!" He was laughing, as were all of his blue-and-silver covered cronies.

There was nothing I could say. I let out a sigh and continued tearing tickets. Slightly varying versions of this happened twenty more times throughout the day. By the end of the event, I was completely defeated. This is Texas. It's the Cowboys' world. And I'm just living in it. And apparently, I've got the tattoo to prove it.
_________________________

Football season is now officially underway, and the Eagles got off to a good start, disposing of the Giants 31-17. McNabb completed 26 of 36 for 313 yards, and connected with T.O. for 3 touchdowns. Next up: Monday night vs Minnesota.

The strangest thing about living in Texas is that football is played in 90 degree weather. The start of football season has always meant long sleeves, comfort foods, and hot chocolate. Today I sat in the blistering Texas sun with a new book, and 20 pages in, had to come inside for a fear of melting away. Twenty minutes later, the Eagles game was underway. Autumn in Texas is wonderful, but it is still months away. It's been three years and I still can't comprehend it.

Next week I will turn the air conditioner on full blast, close the shades, and break out the pumpkin pie in a poor attempt to trick myself into believing the leaves are changing colors outside my front door.

Autumn has already begun on the east coast. The leaves are changing colors, sweaters are being dug out of closets, fireplaces are being lit, and teapots are boiling.

I love this time of year, even if it is 1,500 miles away.

The Red Sox/Mariners game starts in one hour. They have gone 8-1 on what was going to be the "difficult" part of their west coast road trip. Pokey, Youkilis, and Trot all made appearances in last night's game after looooong absences. Mientkiewicz found his bat last night, Billy Mueller is in a defensive zone right now, and the starting pitching has been stellar. And one more thing. Before today's MFY doubleheader, they were 2 games behind the Yankees.

Morrissey tickets are in the mail, Austin City Limits is next weekend, there's a box of TastyKakes with my name on them somewhere between Philly and Dallas, it's fall in Texas, the weather is perfect, and I'll be in Baltimore with Claudia, Matt and Maureen in 3 weeks.

Oh, and football season starts tonight.

Life is good.

Morrissey has finally announced plans to tour the US, and on October 29th, when thousands of starry-eyed kids fill the Will Rogers Colisseum in Ft Worth, Chris and I will be 10th row center.

Last time I saw Morrissey was a few years ago in Boston. After each of his wardrobe changes (6 total, by the way) he would throw a sweaty towel or t-shirt into the crowd, and 20-30 screaming fans would bite, tear, scratch, and claw their way to it. Every shirt and towel ended up in 200 tiny pieces, each of which would go home with an overjoyed fan. Back then, I watched from the side of the stage and laughed at the poor fans who were trampled for a piece of cloth soaked with the sweat of an aged drama queen. This time, I will be right in the thick of it.

And you can bet I'll have my claws ready.

________________________

Red Sox West Coast trips are exhausting. But go to sleep when you could watch them clobber the Choakland A's three games in a row? Never.

I formally take back any and all statements I made about wanting to play the Twins in the ALDS.

Give me Oakland.

Remember that time last week when the Indians shelled the Yankees 22-0?



That was fucking awesome.

Call it a myth, call it a legend. Call it both and you probably wouldn't be too far off. The story goes that Larry Lucchino walked into the Sox clubhouse on a Saturday night late in July, just as the sun was going down, with one thing on his mind. "Thank you," he said to Jason Varitek as he shook his hand.

"For what?" the burly catcher asked.

"For waking us up," Lucchino replied.

This, of course, was the now infamous brawl game. THE game. The game in which 35,000 lucky Red Sox fans witnessed two of the greatest moments of the 2004 season: Varitek's hand in ARod's face after ARod refused to take 1st on a HBP and Billy Mueller's walk-off game winning homerun off none other than Mariano Rivera. Since that holy grail of baseball games, the Sox have gone 28-10, which is even more impressive when compared to their mediocre pre-brawl record of 52-44.

These days, it's wonderful to be a Red Sox fan. They're coming off a 3-game series against wild card contenders in which Ortiz and Damon missed time, the Sox bats suddenly went limp with RISP, and they managed only 2 hits against a AAA pitcher. Yet still, somehow, the Sox took the series 2-1 and maintained their 2.5 game deficit on the Yankees.

Meanwhile, it's been a slightly different picture in the Bronx. They've gone 23-17 since ARod's impromptu nose job, and their once secure division lead has withered away. With 6 games remaining between the two teams, the division is still completely up in the air. Road crews are working quickly to fix the George Steinbrenner-shaped hole in the dirty Bronx street just below the Yankees' offices, and Brian Cashman is packing an overnight bag in case he has to make a quick getaway in the middle of the night.

Yes, these Red Sox have been awakened. And they're fully-rested and ready to pull an all-nighter.

_________________

On Friday night I took in the Sox/Rangers game from a bar in Dallas. I had been looking forward to it all week: good beer, great pizza, a big screen, a table full of friends, and a bar full of Rangers fans. Or so I thought.

In the last couple of weeks, the Rangers fell to 6 games behind Oakland in the race for the division lead, the same division lead that they owned not so long ago. The overpowering offense that had masked the flawks in their starting pitching for three quarters of the season seemed to be coming back down to Earth. The most overacheiving team in baseball was finally running out of gas. And so, in typical Dallas fashion, the sports "fans" moved their attention to something that might be more rewarding, the next big thing: football season. Dallas is a winner's town: if you're not winning, they're not interested. And so, unfortunately, there were only a handful of Rangers fans left in the bar Friday night, and by the time the 9th inning rolled around and the Sox rolled on for another victory, that number was most likely cut in half.

I think back to the disappointing weekend in May that I spent at the Ballpark in Arlington, watching a struggling Sox team get swept by the Rangers. I think about all the Rangers fans who took such joy in taunting us, reminding us of the year 1918 and how the Sox wouldnever win a World Series. I think of the Rangers fans who brought their brooms to Sunday's game, and waved them wildly over their heads for 9 full innings.

I wonder what these once-cocky Rangers fans would say to me now, given our teams' current situations. Oh, I know...

"Go Cowboys."

_________________

Of course, there was other baseball news this weekend. HUGE baseball news if you live in a city named New York or Boston. Karma is a bitch, so while I don't want to get too excited about this, I'll just say, "He broke his hand how?? Oh, that's too bad."

In 1993, I was 14 years old. I had braces, big hair, a closet full of Aqua Net, and was knee deep in the middle of my 'awkward phase.' I was a freshman in high school and trying desperately to fit in. Socializing was much more important than studying, as school was nothing more than a search for a group to be a part of.

Enter the "Worst to First" 1993 Philadelphia Phillies, the first baseball team I ever fell in love with. The Phils had finished in dead last the season before and, to the surprise of nearly everyone, were suddenly playoff-bound. The Summer of '93 saw Philadelphia, a blue-collar football city through and through, become completely enraptured with a team of misfits that would have looked more at home on the side of the highway picking up trash than on a baseball diamond. John Kruk, Mitch Williams, Lenny Dykstra, Darren Daulton...these guys were wild. They were the townies who crashed your prom on their motorcycles and stole your date. They were the uncles we all have but never talk about, the ones who spend their days at the bowling alley while they "look for work." They left their shirts untucked, their shoelaces untied, and their hair uncombed. They belched, they spit. These guys were slobs.

They were also the very definition of a TEAM, united by their unshaven faces, offensive body odor, and a willingness to do just about anything to win baseball games. That group of guys that captured the hearts of a frustrated sports town came within 10 innings of winning a World Series, and though they were broken up the following year, they are a team that will never be forgotten in the city of Philadelphia.


Cut to 2004. It's the first week of September and, from coast to coast, a cult-like community of people is stirring. They are a passionate people, driven by their frustrations, unwilling to lose faith, united by a dedication so fierce that no heartbreak is enough to derail it. Their love for the sport and the team are unflappable, but this year, it's different. This year, there is something magical happening on the field every night, and Red Sox Nation knows it. There are group hugs after every homerun. The dugout has started to resemble a Paula Abdul music video, and there is an infectuous silliness in the clubhouse that is spreading to the fans. Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, Pedro Martinez, Kevin Millar...Theo and Co have assembled what is, quite possibly, the most loveable Boston Red Sox team in history. They are Dirt Dogs to the very core, and anyone who's watching can tell that they are having the time of their lives. They slide into second without bothering to wipe the dirt off their uniforms. They're more than happy to take a faceful of dirt diving across the first base line if it means stealing a hit and keeping their bases empty. They have beards, afros, goatees, jericurls, and bald heads, depending on which day of the week it is. They play with Fisher Price foam bats in the dugout during games, wear Elvis sunglasses and gyrate their hips a la the King, and play more practical jokes than there are letters in Mientkiewicz.

Speaking of Mientkiewicz, just one month after coming to the Sox he remarked at how much fun the club was having, before saying, "I think George Steinbrenner would have a heart attack if he had this team." It's no secret that Steinbrenner does not stand for unkept appearances or wild antics. Thus, the 2004 Boston Red Sox are the anti-Yankees. They are the shaggy beard to the Yankees' clean shave. They are the torn jeans to the Yankees' nicely-ironed sweater vest. They are the bong to the Yankees' pocket protector. They are Jeremy Piven's Droz to David Spade's Rand McPherson in PCU. They are the fun-loving Boston college kids to the Yankees' stiff Wall Streeters. The team's image has spread from the crowded Fenway clubhouse to the just-as-crowded Fenway bleachers, with fans donning long beards and DIY shirts to show their support. Red Sox Nation has begun to identify with the outkast reputation of their team, and they are having more fun than ever.

And while ESPN announcers and Yankee fans across the globe seem to think that this sort of behavior is disrespectful to the sport and not indicative of a winning attitude, the Sox have not-so-quietly put together a 9-game run and won 14 of their last 15 games, pulling them to within 3.5 games of the Yankees that once led them by a whopping 10.5.

This brings us to last Tuesday night, one that will live in infamy in Red Sox Nation. The Sox defeated the streaking Anaheim Angels while a few hours away, the Cleveland Indians answered the prayers of an entire city and slaughtered the Yankees by a score of 22-0. When asked what it was like to be on the mound in Fenway that night, to be a part of something as magical as Red Sox Nation, Curt replied, "It was enough to give me chills."

And we looked at our team of misfits, the perfectly-constructed group of hooligans that hold in their hands the fate of an entire Nation, and thought, "You're not the only one."

I came back from lunch today to find this email in my inbox from the MFY-supporting Sales Manager I wrote about a few days ago. All names have been changed and email addresses deleted to protect innocent Red Sox fans and obnoxious Yankee fans.

___________________________________________________
From: "MFY Fan"
To: "Meredith"
Date: 9/1/04 1:35PM
Subject: red sox

i'm of course going to keep cheering for the yankees, but you were right about their pitching.

when will the red sox stop winning??
___________________________________________________


Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.