Notes from a fervid Red Sox fan

NOTE TO ALL: If you're at a Yankee/Red Sox game, and if something tragic happens to the Red Sox, there is no longer a need to call me from Yankee Stadium, unless your name is Nancy. This rule applies especially if I'm in the stadium and slumped over a railing in utter despair. Thank you, Nance, for the "We will rock you" chant. I consider myself officially rocked.

NOTE TO ALL: After any and all tragic Yankee/Red Sox series, there is no longer a need to call me about any games thus following said Yankee/Red Sox series when and if the Red Sox choke in extra innings. (Re: Friday night)

NOTE TO ALL: If you don't know who people like Chris Chambliss and Mickey Rivers are, and if you’re over the age of 30, you are not a Yankee fan. A google search at this point is futile. Your conscious has already convicted you.

NOTE TO ALL: I am addicted to the smack of a line drive into leather. I am captivated by the whip of the pitch, the whack if the bat, the adrenalin-fueled preamble of shuffling spikes, the spinning white streak of baseball and the inevitable confluence of human body and speeding projectile. I surrender to the vast green grass expanse. I surrender to the dirt-orange accents that stain my knees for days and to the tracks trodden by men in motion. I crave the silence between the crack of the bat and the consequent fixation of landing spinning sphere into pocket. I am enslaved to this specific one second process of violence. I live for the hard palm sting and the rotator cuff bull’s eye fire to first base.

 

 

Inside the third baseman’s mind at every pitch: (3rd Baseman’s Prayer)

 

Beat the hitter at his game.

Pitch him inside and low.

He’ll bite and uppercut.

I will hoover that line shot.

I will sacrifice my body to stop the bullet.

I will guide my glove to the spinning laser white line and beam the ball to whomever is playing first base.

Thank God I’m wearing a cup.