4:02 pm. So here we are. Angels and Red Sox. It’s been a while since I’ve blogged live, but I figured it was an opportune time, being potentially the end of the season. It might be entertaining to read as I fall apart at the seams. Besides, I’ve been in attendance the last three years at the finish, so it’s weird having to watch this from afar. Maybe this will be therapeutic. First pitch is at 4:27 pm.
4:16 pm. The Rays and the White Sox are running long, so it seems that TNT will interrupt Titanic for the start of the game. At this very moment, the captain is going down with the ship. Good omen. Then again, did I think the Angels were going to be the sixth team to come back from a 2-0 deficit in a division series? …This is what I wrote after Friday.
I suppose the thought had been bouncing around my head. I considered it in the aftermath of Game 1, certainly. But it wasn’t until after Bay hit that three run shot off Santana in the first that it truly hit home. At that moment, though, I just sat there. I knew that my mouth was open, but I couldn’t close it. It wasn’t really shock or anger or anything like that, but this feeling of… I don’t know. There was some resignation, but mostly, it was emptiness. Some woman walked by, completely stunned, pissed, and pointedly said, “What the fuck.” I responded with the same obscenity, quieter. Almost four hours later, I was sitting there again. That same feeling. The same thought. It’s never going to happen. I’m going to die without seeing the Angels beat the Red Sox.
I went to the market earlier today for alcohol. I’ve come to grips.
4:27 pm. And we’re underway. Figgins with a double on the first pitch! Unbelievable. Where was this on Friday? Game 1? Last year? 2005? 2004? You get the point – I’m bitter.
4:35 pm. Buck Martinez says that the bottom of the Angels lineup “hasn’t done much.” He’s being kind. Hitters #6-9 are a combined 2 for 31. Those are post-juice Scott Spiezio-like numbers. Howie Kendrick has come up empty so many times I’m referring to him as “L.O.B.”
4:54 pm. Taking the mound with a 1-0 lead, Saunders nails Pedroia with a pitch down near his ankle. I chuckle. Small victories.
5:23 pm. Juan Rivera just refused to hand over a foul ball souvenir. I like this. Fuck these guys. Let’s be petty.
5:26 pm. Saunders runs into trouble here in the 2nd inning. Kerwin Danley’s strike zone has been pretty tight for both sides. I flip over to TNT, and they’re showing Poseidon. Another sunken ship. Where’s Angels in the Outfield when you need it?
5:32 pm. Pop-up drops between Kendrick and Hunter. Three runs score. I’m going to throw up now.
5:47 pm. Nap goes deep! Way over the Monster. Fuck yeah, Nap! I scream for joy. 3-3. (Meanwhile, Kendrick strikes out again. Frankly, he doesn’t belong on the field, in the lineup, or anywhere near Boston)
6:11 pm. The score remains tied, but it’s looking like a replay of the first two games. The Angels are just leaving a ton of runners on base. They’ve had Beckett on the ropes all game long, but haven’t finished the job. Meanwhile, the Red Sox have three runs… on two hits. This is pure torture. I’m basically waiting for the guillotine to drop. Playoff fever!
6:24 pm. Napoli AGAIN! And now Kendrick gets a base hit! And I think I see Christopher Lloyd in the outfield!
7:07 pm. I have never been mistaken for an optimist, but as we get deeper into this now 4-4 game, the one thought on my mind is the following: How is it going to go wrong? That’s the epitome of the Angels and the Red Sox. I guess, in some respects, it’s becoming a microcosm of the pre-2004 relationship between the Red Sox and the Yankees. How long before that curse was broken – 86 years? Great.
7:25 pm. Two more left on base. What is there to say?
7:48 pm. I was on my knees for the Shields / Youkilis at-bat. I’ve lowered the volume to a bare minimum. I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s still 4-4 in the 8th. My heart can’t stand to be broken again.
8:15 pm. Torii Hunter tried to stretch a leadoff single into a double, and got thrown out. Angels have 12 hits to Boston’s 5. 4-4. This is starting to read like the diary of a guy on death row. That’s for good reason. We move to the bottom of the 9th.
8:21 pm. Man, fuck Stephen King.
8:33 pm. Bottom of the 10th. Pedroia, Ortiz, Youkilis. My emotional tank has been empty since Friday night.
8:36 pm. TBS puts up the graphic for K-Rod. “Has allowed game-winning home run in last two postseason appearances.” Thanks, TBS. Thanks.
8:54 pm. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Frankie went from flirting with walking in the series-clinching run to escaping to the top of 11th. I’m shaking. I’m a complete mess. And I’m 3000 miles away.
9:10 pm. Bottom of the 11th. Teixeira and Guerrero stranded again. We’ve left 13 men on base, 6 in scoring position. Jered Weaver is now on the mound, relieving for the first time in his career. Shades of Washburn in 2004. That one didn’t turn out so well.
9:25 pm. You know, I’m certainly not complaining, but I didn’t expect to be doing a five hour live blog tonight, with my heart in the pit of my stomach for most of that time. I’m heating up some food (yay, last night’s leftovers), downing some liquid courage, and hoping against all hope that we’ll live to see another day. Inning #12. Let it commence.
9:31 pm. ERICK. MOTHERFUCKING. AYBAR. YEAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!
9:48 pm. Weave comes up huge. 5-4 Angels, in 12. It’s been an absolutely crazy night. It’s hard to convey the euphoria I’m feeling right now, but one word would sum it up better than most. Hope. That’s what I have now. That’s what the team has now. One more night. One more game. One more chance. Game 4, tomorrow.