No clemency for Clement.

One original orange-a-peel with free immunity boost and tax at the State Street Jamba Juice: $4.06. “Four oh six!” I exclaim to the cashier. “That’s a good number for the first game of the ALDS.” He nods and smiles and I suspect he doesn’t know quite what I’m getting at.
A call to Laurie Beth informs me that the game is at 3 pm, not 7 as I assumed, so I walk home quickly, trying to figure out how to reschedule my evening (the plan had included a trip to the East Side Farmers’ Market and the grocery store, plus some reading for class) with this newfound knowledge. I tune in as soon as I get home; when the White Sox score five runs in the bottom of the first, I log onto IM. “Lincoln’s been shot,” Keith informs me. I send a text message to Abby, who’s attending some lecture on campus. “Holy shit” is her response.
After a couple more innings and a Konerko solo shot, I decide that it’s time to don my Sox cap and venture out into the world, in hopes that my boys will improve without my supervision. I hit up the liquor store on my way back, and when I see Sam Oktoberfest in the fridge I immediately decide to purchase same. It seems like a good omen; I walk home in better spirits.
Of course, the score is now 8-2 ChiSox; Jeremi Gonzalez (say it with me now, heremigonthaleth) is replacing Bradford; things have not improved. I throw together a chickpea salad and receive a belated text message from LB. “Get me to Ford’s Theater with a pistol,” it reads. “I’m about to assassinate Abe.” When the Sox trail by ten runs, CJ sends a text. “This is embarrassing.”
So here I am, drinking an O-fest and munching on cheese curds, waiting for this one to be over. Even Joe & Jerry are saying that, unless Boston can muster “the mother of all rallies,” this one is over. The moral of the story: good omens mean nothing when you’re playing the team with the best record in baseball.
Jose Contreras is John Wilkes Booth.

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