Boston, you’re my home.

Tonight, Fox did it again: they showed footage of Timlin trimming his fingernails in the dugout. I think they also got a shot of one of the pitchers picking his nose. What, pray tell, is the sudden obsession with showing this sort of thing, and why don’t they ever show the Yankees doing personal hygiene? Oh, right, I forgot: because they’re a bunch of lowdown dirty bastards.
Tonight we had a bunch of people over for the crucial game three [Erratum: Apparently I can’t coun’t. Four. Game four] of the ALCS. In the hopes of turning the tide in the Sox’s favor, we made a conscious effort to resurrect the system we had in place last year, which included Erin, Josh, Jeff and me being present, Erin sitting in the easy chair with the ottoman, and the blasting of Dirty Water after the Red Sox victory. Of course, in games this long, the portion of our system which mandated an eighth inning trip by Josh and Jeff to the liquor store to purchase a six pack of Sam Oktoberfest and a bottle of AndrĂ© in anticipation of a victory is impossible to execute, due to the fact that the stores close at 11. So instead we seized upon another superstitious trick which has apparently worked for the Putz folks in the past: doing the Charleston. (For a while, we thought that Wally’s absence from the room was helping out, but his rendition of the Charleston seemed to counteract any negative effects his presence was having. Maybe the bourbon helped, too.)
The entire city of Boston is sure to be wholly unproductive tomorrow, as everyone will be rolling into work late (with throats sore from shouting) and leaving early for the 5 pm game. But this is the way it should be, my friends. Solidarity.
So do what I did tonight: trim your fingernails, stand up when Timlin waves his arms around, do the goddamned Charleston, and root for the home team. It’s game five tomorrow [See: I really did know it was game four], and we are ready to play ball.

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4 thoughts on “Boston, you’re my home.

  1. While I support all of the superstitions (and lest us not forget me offering to name my many unborn sons after various triumphant players), it should be noted that this was the crucial game four, not three.
    Game three was a disaster — we were not on the ball at all. I didn’t even sit in the armchair.
    And yes, I came into work late, as predicted.

  2. Yeah. I’m like incapable of counting after 1 a.m. Apparently.
    You know, ’cause secretly I was trying to convince myself we have a bit more leeway here. When in fact we have precisely none.
    But: When I got my breakfast at Fresco’s this morning, the fellow said to one of the other customers what we all believe to be true: That this is how it begins, our winning the rest of the series, no question about it.
    So: Go Sox!

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