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So here we go. God, I loathe Boston. Like, I really, really, really hate them. They are beyond pathetic. I can't wait til ARod comes up and I have to listen to A-Roid, as Sux fans demonstrate their commitment to brutally lacklaster "wit" and perennially superior level of stupidity. 100 f-ing years and all they came up with was Yankees Suck. Brilliant, guys. Really. What else you got. Nothing? Check.

At office right now, and livid about it. All I want to do is be in my apartment with a beer and a cheesesteak and the game on, and not miss an inning. And put on my lucky necklace, which is sitting pretty on my bookshelf. AND my lucky hat! Idiot. I should never assume I'm going to actually get out of work before the stroke of midnight. I'm already preemptively angry at everyone I'm going to see on the subway, because they'll be taking up space and existing within arm's length, while I'm frustrated I'm commuting underground in no-reception land, for a half hour.

What, I'm not irritable and insane right now.

And here comes A-Rod.

Isn't "A-Roid" kind of a lame nickname since he's belting em all over the place without the benefit of roids? I love thinking about how pissed Boston is about the fact A-Rod's going to town on the league, shooting that whole "he's only good because he cheated" argument straight to Hell.

Bottom of 1st. Sterling tells us AJ and Beckett have identical pitching stats. Really? This does nothing for me, since Beckett has either had no-hit bids or batting practice. One thing that I will say about the benefit of Burnett is that he's the only one on our staff who can ape the aggressive unpredictability of Scott Proctor after Torre treated him like Gumbi in basic training.

End of 1st. No runs, no hits, no score. And I'm leaving work. As always, I'm dreading the subway ride home, which consistently fortifies my hatred of humanity by way of people who listen to their headphones too loud, take up 89 seats, experiment with each and every one of their ringtones, sing to themselves, board the train before letting people off the train, and worst of all, lean up against of the coveted poles, effectively preventing anyone else from being able to grip it for balance.

But I'm dreading getting OFF the train just as much, because I'm always anxious that during the half hour underground, that something will happen that I'll know nothing about. In other words, when I get off that train, and scramble to check my phone for the score, I'm scared that I'll see it's already 19-2 or something.

11:17am The Next Day

Well, upon rereading the last few paragraphs I wrote yesterday, when there was still hope abounding--albeit cranky, irritable hope--I'm thinking that my exaggerated 19-2 fear would have been preferrable to the actual outcome of the game. Because that would have meant we scored a run. Or gotten more than 2 hits.

How did this happen? I can't be sure. Due largely to the fact I saw about 14 minutes of the game. I checked the score when I got off train, 2-0 (Ortiz HR. Wow. I actually shuddered.) Then returned home, cleaned apartment to calm down, and by the time I sat down in front of TV, it was 5-0 and the human defeat cigar was on the mound.*

So I kicked the TV stand. Not with my good leg. And then bruskly shut it off.

If I was smart, I would have used the non-braced extremity so I could at least pace in peace. Angrily storming around apartment loses a little something when it's angrily limping.

I couldn't bear to watch SportsCenter roll out the Ortiz parade, and that's maybe one of the most aggravating fallouts from a bad loss. Not only does your team break your heart, but it also impacts your night well after the game's end, when you're too scared to visit the internet or put on the tv.

I didn't even want to put my phone on, because when I'm that irrational and volatile, any text will set me off. And I'm not just limiting this to an antagonisitic message from a hater. But even innocuous commiserating texts. My friends who are as certifiable as me know better, and have little to no heart left after a game to bother with a post-mortem. But occasionally I'll get the 'Man how much did that suck!' line and I get set off into an apoplectic rage. I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT I KNOW HOW MUCH THAT SUCKED GO AWAY AND LET ME MARINATE IN MY IRE ALONE.

If a girlfriend said to her boyfriend, "what's wrong?" and he said, "I don't want to talk about it," and she persisted, she'd get earmarked for early admission to waivers. I have copious amounts of gratitude for anyone who drops it after I say, "I don't want to talk about it." I really should have copious amounts of gratitude for the fact anyone wants to associate with me despite my clear rejection of normal social mores.

So there's that. No game recap. I'm too scared to look at what happened. I'm just gonna offer it up to God, sweep it under the rug, and think about tonight's game. I know Cone reiterated on air Monday many times that he supports Hughes in da pen and Wang in the rotation, so I'm hoping he's right. He may [read: does] know a little bit more about this kind of thing than, say, a crazy Yankee chick.

And today, I indeed brought my lucky hat and lucky necklace to work.

*The opposite of Auerbach's victory cigar. So the human white flag maybe? Which would be any painfully mediocre reliever who's called in absurdly early--seeing Tomko/Coke/Robertson/anyone who isn't Aceves or Hughes, come in to relieve one of our best starters in THE 4TH INNING is sadder than waiting all week for your favorite tv show only to discover it's a Highlights/Clips Episode.


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