I had no great hopes for tonight's Red Sox game. I know the Red Sox. I grew up in Boston. I used to love the Red Sox, until I decided that they were not a baseball team, but an instrument of torture in the hands of a sadistic God. My prediction for the game was essentially the same as the one I made three years ago, except for the Pedro Martinez part:
"They will be ahead 843-0 in the 9th, with two outs, when Pedro Martinez, who has pitched a no-hitter so far, walks three people in succession. He is replaced, and replaced again, but the walks keep coming, until the entire Red Sox pitching staff has done its best and our opponents, they who shall not be named, have scored 294 runs without a single hit. At this point the Red Sox stop walking people and start committing horrible errors: dropped pitches, lazy pop flies that miraculously drop through the gloves of outfielders, and so on and so forth. Still, we will think, it's 843-502; surely they won't be able to get another 341 runs before we manage one out. But they will. And then, having tied the game... I leave the rest to your imaginations."
I can't believe they won. I just can't believe it. I'm still expecting to wake up and discover that I fell asleep on the couch and missed the disastrous ninth inning in which they blew it all.
But they won.
The Red Sox actually won.