Stuff to See!

I'm Not Superstitious, Right?

A quote from a previous rant:

The Yankees looked poised to win in convincing fashion, leading the ALCS three games to none over the Red Sox. The Yanks will win in four.

It worked.
The reverse jinx worked.
All week, aside from the unequivocal statement above, undercut severely by what I wrote immediately after, I said absolutely nothing about my thoughts on the outcome of the ALCS.
I'd tell people that the chances for Boston winning Game 4 were about 1 in 5.
After Game 4, I would tell people that only one team, down 3-0, forced a Game 6.
After Game 5, I held my tongue, sensing a truly remarkable outing from Curt Schilling in the wings.
How's Glenn Davis doing, I wonder?
Game 6 was a transcendent experience. Should I need to convince some poor benighted soul that baseball is a truly excellent game, I could do far worse than make him watch that game.
After Game 6, I kept telling people that history favored the Yankees.
At no time, aside from what I wrote above, did I say the Yankees would win. Or Boston, for that matter.
Then there was Game 7.
For two straight years I've been spoiled, been honored, to see the very best that baseball has to offer. The ALCS and NLCS from 2003 were equally remarkable, full of pathos and excitement enough to tide me over through the short winter months to follow. Sosa and Beckett in Game 5 last year...Pedro losing his immortality in Game 7...Boone, Bartman, the Cubs' lovable exterior shredded, leaving exposed the petulant selfish egos beneath. The remarkable and hateful comeback of the Yankees, and their glorious fall in the World Series.
And then there's 2004. The Red Sox accomplish the heretofore impossible.
My friend Jakki called me early on in the game, when it was still a game. We watched each inning after the first unfold in telephonic unison, sharing this one rare religious moment in my life, and for her a return, if only temporary, to the world of baseball.
Welcome back.
For three hours we watched the game. For three hours I kept saying it's not over. It's not over. Counting down the outs, holding my secret and uncharacteristic superstitious belief that to give life to my thoughts of a Red Sox victory in words would undo the reality unfolding before my eyes, I kept saying it's not over.
It's not over.
Until shortly after midnight.
Then it was over.
In a curious way, that was probably the most intimate three hours I've ever spent with another person. Then again, I'm still awash in the afterglow of watching the eternal 150 million dollar underdogs party hearty in the bastion of their greatest enemies. I can still hear the cheers of 'Let's Go Red Sox' in Yankee Stadium itself.
Time will tell.
But it's not over.
Roger Clemens goes tonight in Game 7 of the NLCS for the Astros against the St Louis Cardinals. I have tremendous respect for the 42 year old fireballer from Texas. We'll see how, or if, he rises to the occasion.
I suspect he'll be just fine.
Again, time will tell.