FRONT PAGE

ABOUT ORNERY

WORLD WATCH

GUEST ESSAYS

FORUMS

CONTACT US

Print this page	E-mail this page

I have no idea how to describe what just happened....but I'll give it a shot

My buddy Adam literally couldn't speak - which, let me tell you, is a first. My buddy Abram said it was all a fix. My buddy Matt needed a stiff drink. I couldn't feel my face.

Somehow, over the course of four completely and increasingly debilitating nights, I went from a practical suicide watch to a state of happy delirium I can't begin to describe. If you would have told me a week and a half ago that the ALCS would feature the most improbable comeback/biggest choke job in baseball - or even sports - history, I would have believed you. Except the roles would have been reversed. The Boston Red Sox going up 3-0, only to drop four straight to the hated Yankees, wouldn't have come as much of a shock to anyone.

Instead, it was my Sox who finally vanquished the Evil Empire - and I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that, to get to their first World Series since I was four years old, the Sox did something that has never been done in baseball history. Five days ago, I was affixed in my deep and annual October depression, desperately trying to think up the most vicious and terrible things to say about the Yankees, about Mark Bellhorn, about Johnny Damon. After the game three massacre, Adam matter-of-factly said, "I'm going to go outside and kick some puppies." When game four started, he said, "Compared to the Yankees, al-Qaeda doesn't seem so bad." I began having nightmares, most of which featured Hideki Matsui. In fact, to steal a line from Fight Club, if I had a tumor, I'd name it Hideki.

Down 3-0, I already had another column half-written - a depressing and melodramatic one, in which I was planning on comparing the ALCS to an infection of the Ebola virus.

But then it was the game four death rattle, followed by the game five thriller, the game six miracle and the game seven blowout. And it only took 18 hours over the course of four days to do it.

When David Ortiz - aka God - belted the game-winning two-run homer in game four, sure, I was elated. But I came down pretty quickly. Just a win for pride, I told myself. But then in game five, we pounded Tom Gordon and Mariano Rivera again, and it was Ortiz again who knocked in the game-winner. By Tuesday morning I was already completely exhausted and I had lost most of my voice. I started to believe again, while simultaneously laughing at myself for being gullible. Then it was Curt Schilling's Roy Hobbs game, his ankle gushing blood as he shut down the Yankee bats with seven dominant innings. For nearly three hours, I kept having the recurring thought that Schilling's ankle was going to turn into Jason Kendall's shredded ankle from a few years back. I had visions of him throwing a pitch and his ankle just buckling and flopping around lifelessly as he hopped around on a nub before falling to the ground, writhing in pain. Even with Alex Rodriguez cheating to get the Yanks on the scoreboard, even with what Adam called the "seven-strike rule" for Ruben Sierra in the bottom of the ninth, even with Keith Foulke pitching for the third-straight night, somehow we pulled it out. When game seven rolled around, I had no idea how to feel. I had no idea what to do with my body - sit, stand, kneel, squat, itch, scratch, pace, pray, scream, cry, fold my arms, tap my feet, cross myself (and I'm not even Catholic), hold my breath, close my eyes, clench my fists . . .who knows.

I'd like to tell you I remember everything perfectly - every moment, every pitch, every out. But who am I kidding. Those four days were all a blur. I'll tell you what I do remember.

I remember making dozens of new friends, most of whose names I don't know, simply because of the hat I was wearing. I remember people coming up to me on the street, at stoplights, at the store, just to raise their fists in celebration and satisfaction. I remember an overwhelming feeling of dread at the sports bar every time the Yankees came up to the plate. I remember Miguel Cairo purposely getting hit by a pitch at least once a game. I remember proposing to a waitress named Amanda who just happened to be a die-hard Sox fan. I remember jumping on the floor and sliding across the ground after game five. I remember almost getting beaten up by a crazed, nine-foot-tall Yankees fan after we'd been screaming at each other for three hours during game six. (My mouth often gets me in to trouble, particularly when I use it against people who are much bigger than me. My parents warned me about this when I was younger, but since when did I ever listen?) I remember thinking that Hideki Matsui probably got his dancing lessons from Mark Madsen. I remember dry heaving whenever Mark Bellhorn came to the plate. I remember calling for Francona's head when he kept starting Bellhorn instead of Pokey Reese - and I remember feeling like an idiot when Bellhorn hit that pivotal three-run homer in game six. I remember everything moving in slow motion. I remember hugging complete strangers I'll probably never see again. I remember feeling like Frasier Crane in the last episode of Cheers, with his immortal words: "I . . .I . . .I . . .I . . ."

Was there really anything to say after game seven? Afterward, when I talked to Adam - who was in town to watch the ALCS - we had so much to say, and yet so few words with which to say it. Mostly our conversation consisted of phrases like "Oh man," "I know," "I can't believe it," "Holy crap," "I just...," "Did you...," "Amazing," "It's just..." and so forth. Speechless doesn't even say it.

But it's over now. We did it. We beat the Yankees in the most dramatic fashion in baseball history. So dramatic, so improbable, that Abram formulated a wide-ranging conspiracy theory that the whole series was fixed. This entire week, nothing else mattered but baseball. And hopefully, it will only get better.

Sure, the Cardinals have great bats. But I'm not scared. There's no way I could be scared of a team with an overachieving pitching rotation and a lousy closer. Now all we've got in our way is The Babe.

Copyright © 2004 by Chris Bellamy

Contact the Sports Writer