Game Four

Just a week and a half ago, you'd be hard-pressed to convince me I'd be sitting at my cousins' place in Southie on that crisp October 27th night waiting for the Red Sox to wrap up a sweep of the St. Louis Cardinals to win their first World Series Championship in 86 years. It's still hard to believe that we were three outs away from elimination from the playoffs -- three outs from pack your bags, go home, see you next year -- and then for the next week and a half we couldn't lose, even when it seemed like we were trying (i.e. four errors in Game 1 and another four in Game 2). I went from feeling like there was virtually no hope for tomorrow to feeling like there was no way we weren't going to win the whole damn thing.

So I knew from before we even sat down to watch Game 4 that it was going to happen. I just felt it in my bones. Chad seemed to take my role as the nervous doubter, but I was calm and collected to the point where there was far more discussion among the group about things like Mark Bellhorn's attractiveness (according to my cousins Adrienne and Kerry) or lack thereof (according to me) and David Ortiz's wife (Adrienne: "She looks like you or me -- totally average suburban girl") than about the game itself.

But we didn't need to talk about the game. It took care of itself. Johnny Damon started it off with a home run. I mean, come on! First at bat and we're already up by a run. Could it get any easier? Trot added another two in the third. D-Lowe continued his Dr. Jekyl/Mr. Hyde routine, this time showing up as the unflappable clutch player, allowing only three hits and no runs in six innings. Ridiculous!

Somewhere around the sixth inning, my brother Tommy had to leave to pick up his wife at work and bring her home. He made it from Southie to the Aquarium to Quincy and back in absolute record time, probably helped by the fact that no one else in all of New England is not in front of their TV.

The Cards continued their streak of crappy God Bless America singers with a painful rendition by Scott Stapp of Creed, who was probably pretty pissed that Johnny Damon one-upped him with a better Jesus look. At least making fun of him helped us pass the time. Then we moved on to making fun of Tim McCarver. (Seriously. How is this man still employed? Seriously!)

Somewhere around the seventh inning my friend Liam, who took the Fung Wa from NYC to be in Boston for this moment, headed home a few blocks to watch the end with his father. We all understood.

And before I knew it, there we were in the bottom of the ninth inning. There was Keith Foulke -- as he had to be -- closing it out for us. Even though I knew we had it in the bag, and never felt the familiar rush of nausea waiting for it all to fall apart, still that last out felt like it
was in slow motion.

And then the rest of the night felt like it was in super high-speed fast forward -- my brother, sister, husband and cousins, all screaming and jumping up and down and hugging and screaming some more; the phones ringing so we could re-live the moment with our other siblings, our dads, our friends; the champagne pouring so we could toast to our grandfather who didn't get to see it; the cars honking and people screaming throughout the streets of Southie; the high-fives with total strangers.

Turns out the Sox winning the World Series was not a sign of the apocalypse, but even if it had been, it wouldn't have put a damper on the spirit of Red Sox Nation that night!