All the world is in celebration today.
I can't remember if it happened last night or early this morning, but it happened.
I had people in the stands at Camden yards feeding me play by play information.
No one one base. Two outs. Bottom of the ninth.
Boston leads 3-2, with Jonathon Popelbomb on the mound.
The off-season planning and spending, at a cost-level equivalent to our two wars in the middle east, was finally bearing fruit.
The best team in baseball would soon earn its deserved spot in the playoffs and, from there, a quick leap to the world series.
Money and arrogance were merging to give the Red Sox the spot they deserve in history.
The fans in the Boston bars were ecstatic. You couldn't hear yourself think. All the pain was slipping away into pure joy. The distasteful anguish of the "late season collapse" was fading from memory.
"Finally, the fresh start we need, the fresh start we deserve, they howled." Lots of high fives and hand pumping everywhere in the bar. Bodies leaping and bumping , just like the players do when they sprint from the field after a huge win.
But a miracle awaited in the Maryland.
A double and a double. Game tied. Jonathon gulps. A soft liner to a drawn in outfield lands at sluggish Carl Crawford's feet. He stumbles trying to catch it and can't right himself to nail what would otherwise be a routine throw to the plate. The runner beats the ball and Baltimore wins.
Not Boston.
Boston, the greatest team ever assembled, goes home. They peed themselves.
And all the world is in celebration today.
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