It began with Teixiera's grand slam. I was listening to John, He was bummed. "Well, we’re sure not the Evil Empire tonight," he said, adding, "Of course, that’ll all change tomorrow."
Yes, John had identified the horror, Mr. Kurtz, the horror...
It would all change tomorrow.
You knew it. I knew it. Everybody did. We'd beat Tampa, Boston would win, the Redsocks would ignite, beat Texas, sweep us, and take Phily, and for the rest of our fukking insignificant lives - throughout which we'd beg for the asteroid - we would face smirking, pimply Boston fratboys and their pill-popping, sweaty cow-ladys asking how Teixiera is doing?
Girardi was drunk. He took out Betances before he could implode. He brought in Brackman, and I leaped for joy. HOPE! Brackman could launch a rally — for him, five straight walks is a wipe of the butt. He walked one, and out came Joe. God, he must have been dropping acid.
When Ayala came in, it was over. The Rays were dead. Alphonso was sending text messages full of reverse REVERSE Rizzutonian juju – so many reversals I didn't understand him; he was lapping me — whining that Posada wasn’t in, that AJ wasn't in - but he was! - and calling for Golson.
We had no hope to lose that game, and then Corey Wade came through.
Two outs. Two strikes. To throw a perfect gopher ball takes incredible command. Corey Wade did it.
Make no mistake of this: Corey Wade is a hero.
He saved the world from Boston getting a second chance, rising to run the table and humiliating us for the worst 20 years of our lives. One pitch, and we were screwed. Hell. It was that close. None of us would get any work done - forever.
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