Tonight, someone will become a NY-Boston pariah, and it will haunt and sustain them the rest of their life

If you follow this blog, this lone beacon of truth, you know the one thing we absolutely do not tolerate - ever, ever, ever! - is hyperbole. 

Nothing fries my brussels more than scanning some ludicrous fan's ejaculation of malarkey, claiming that if the Yankees lose tonight, the world will end, the planet will explode, or they won't get their swimsuit edition in the mail - (still waiting, btw.) 

We cannot go through life Chicken Little-ing or Geraldo-ing every diddly-shit crisis, especially when it's something as miniscule as a baseball contest. Get a life. As Sergeant Joe Friday would say, gimme the fax, ma'am, just the fax.

Well, here's a fucking fax, straight from 2004: If we lose tonight, don't bother to leave the house tomorrow. There will be no government, no civil order, no future, and no past. Wildfires will rage, the orcas will attack - (have you seen the videos? they're strategizing!) - and those murder hornets in the Northwest - (remember them?) - will swoop across the nation like one of those suburban Tucson haboobs, not to mention that the toilets won't flush, and the TV won't work, aside from maybe the Doomsday Prophesy Channel, which is run by aliens. If we lose tonight, it's simple: Life as we know it - as it involves the Yankees - won't be worth a hiccupped fart. 

Some will accuse me of fearmongering. Those people are fools. It's taken America 249 years, but we have finally achieved the ultimate confrontation between crapola and pooparama. Not saying we know the difference, but tonight - with both teams sending out untesticled rookies - let's face it: We're heading into the chaos, into the darkness, into somebody's destiny. 

And here's the cosmic punch line: Whoever wins, it probably won't matter. Neither looks like a Team Of Destiny. The first two games were decided by clunky fundamentals. The Yankees let a single become a double. The Redsocks botched a catchable fly ball. It's always something stupid. It won't show up in the box score, but if we lose, it will dog us the rest of our lives. 

Of course, the Steinbrenners will do just fine. Whatever happens, they always win. Ink is ink. Ether is ether. And the carnival barkers will thrive. Jack Curry will be able to afford hair gel. But tonight, some fringe player will inscribe his name permanently into the NY-Boston shit list. He will flub his way onto it. The gaffe will haunt him and his family for years, decades. Then, around 2040, it will become a profitable commodity, monetized in airport hotel card shows across the nation. Anthony Fuckin' Volpe? Catsup Cam Schlittler? Who knows? 

A prophet once said, "You can't predict baseball, Suzyn." 

Well, here's a prediction. Prove me wrong... 

If the Yankees lose, some rancid decision by Aaron Boone will add his name to a legacy of failure that few NY sports figures - Scott Norwood, Bill Buckner, Javier Vazquez - have ever attained. People will write books about Boone - (Hoss! you're up!) - as the rare human to experience the rivalry as both hero and pariah. It's been 22 years since Boone's HR beat Boston. The guy who threw the pitch, Tim Wakefield, is dead. (R.I.P., sir.) Recently, Mariano Rivera couldn't play one easy inning without tearing his Achilles. Coney, Paulie, they're fixtures in the booth, pals with ol' big head, Michael Kay. 

I have this feeling - can't shake it - that tonight, we will witness the end of Boone's lifetime arc. Love him or hate him, he's been part of Yankee lore for a generation. Tonight, his Yankee career either moves to the next level: Could he finally reach that world championship that has heretofore eluded him? Or will it end amid boos and empty seats, with nothing - nothing - to show? 

Tonight, something's gotta give. And that ain't no hyperbole.