Ah, Autumn: The Smell of Sports in the Air

Monday night, the Patriots.  Come from wayyyy behind win!  Last night, the Red Sox.  Classic rally to win 4-1.  Welcome back Matsuzaka!  This is the time of year that makes me love New England living:  the trees’ leaves revert to their natural glory, and my favorite athletes show their true colors.

Soxtober

It’s Fall: the crisp air scuttles leaves along sidewalks, sparrows transport construction one twig at a time into abandoned air conditioners, and the Red Sox are up one game in the play-offs.  My eyes are slightly red-rimmed from sitting glued to the television until 1:20 am; my knees ache from two hours of yogi-style bending, and my sleep-deprived brain is is repeating simple words while grasping for sentences.  Yet I feel young and alive, mentally replaying in a fanatic manner the stretched limbs of Jon Lester, pitches rolling off extended fingers, and the side-diving catch of lightning-legged Ellsbury, black eyes riveted to the ball as if to magnetize it to his gloved hand.  Ah, October!

ADDENDUM: Aw, shucks! –Wait’ll next year…

13 to 1!!!!!

Seriously, what more is there to say?

Ted Williams’ Toe

Common sense would dictate that Ipswich Street be avoided like the Common at 3am today of all days, but I absolutely couldn’t resist seeing the pre-Series Fenway hubbub. It was noisy; it was crazy-crowded; traffic crawled along Boylston; people hurried to touch the bronzed toe of Ted Williams’ statue; grown men were strolling around in baseball caps and suits. It was everything a celebration ought to be; for, make no mistake about it, we are celebrating bringing it…our team bringing the World Series to humble little ol’ Boston once again. No matter what, the “Go Sox” lights are up on the Pru, and red and blue lights shine from the Old Hancock. They can’t take that away from us true-Red fans. Ever.

Rockies, Indeed!

This is for you Brian.  What do you mean: congratulations that my team is going to the World Series again, but you’re rooting for the other guys cuz of their “story”?  Hunh? Are you just trying to tick me off—me, the least athletic and most unsuperstitious woman on God’s green Earth who sits around evenings (missing Jeopardy, I’ll have you know) in grubby red, white, and blue Boston-themed sweats because I’ll jinx the boys of summer if I wear something pink and girly?!  The noive…the audacity…  I got Muddy River water in my Beantown-born veins, for chrissake.  Some people!  And don’t even think about commenting on Steven Tyler’s lips at the top of my blog.  Some things are just sacred.

I Dream of Lowell…with His Silver Hair

Football season has begun, and the Patriots are snuffing everyone in their path. I am in football heaven yet again. I will live there, remote and bowl of turkey chili in hand, until sometime next February. However, ever since Mike Lowell hit his jersey number’s worth of doubles last year, I’ve felt vindicated for being a little nuts about him. See, I knew he was more than just a dreamy face, tan forearms, and sunbeam-reflecting silver hair! He’s a man’s man and a woman’s man rolled into one. This woman’ll be chewing her nails until good ol’ Mike has decided where to park his cleats next season.