Samurais Awake Ireland's Pagan Giants - Or How a Would Be Bootlegger, Crazy Step Dancer and I Brought the World Series Back to Boston
It's unclear when the caffeine buzz will wear off, especially after this morning's quadruple Americano to get the day started. Day. Night. It's all a blur to me in October. If there was any doubt among my regular blog readers where I was until the wee hours....
It all started with the Dropkick Murphys and some adorable little girls step dancing to the entrancing beat of an Irish drum. Clearly the Red Sox were invoking the pagan gods of the Emerald Isle to ward off any possible curses lingering from 1918 (when the Irish probably couldn't buy a ticket to the game or had to sit in the bleachers where their skin blistered). Well, it worked.
Daisuke was on his game, retiring batters 1-2-3 for the first few innings. He pitched with a sobriety of purpose, like he knew every one of Boston's sons and daughters understood the Samurai code that would have required him to take some extreme measures against himself if his pitching wasn't worth $500,000 a pitch. Once he cruised through a few innings, the Samurai could come off the ledge, he was one of the 'ole gang from Killarney. Okajima held his own until Lugo nearly single handedly ended the Red Sox season through hubris in playing short stop and left field. Then the party started.
Jonathan Papelbon is my kind of guy. He would make a great trial lawyer- expert, professional and slightly crazy. The craziness of Jonathan Papelbon of course is nothing but an act. This boy comes to play with fire. Throwing fastball strike after fastball strike, Papelbon is a pleasure to watch, the theatrics of his killer stare and Irish step dancing just make the show complete. Ortiz and Ramirez were bit players in the cast last night. And the night before. I'm looking forward to the law of averages to kick in soon.
My great-grandfather owned a bar in Codman Square BEFORE prohibition. His competitor was the Kennedy family (yes, THAT Kennedy family), when prohibition came my great-grandfather called last call, the Kennedys (well, I digress). He was a die hard Red Sox fan, especially in his older days when radio games became available. He died in 1936, but I think the Red Sox gene has skipped down a couple generations, I can feel it in my 9th generation Boston blood. Don't let my French name fool you, my family tree is planted in Irish peat.
Somehow it's all connected. We are all connected. It's called the Chaos Theory. Essentially the Chaos Theory is when even the most insignificant variations, over time, can create monumental change. Irish drums, Samurai ethos, contrived lunacy, vicarious cheers from old grand dad. It's all connected. It's not the Red Sox players and their heroic feats at Fenway Park alone, these men have the strongest karmic forces in the universe wearing B's and singing Sweet Caroline. The World Series in Boston.
I like saying World Series in Boston. World Series in Boston. World Series in Boston. I can't stop. One more time, World Series in Boston. :)
