What a day...

Yankees win, Red Sox lose, and I'm giddy as a teenager who just found out the girl he has a crush on likes him back.

Hard to believe, but it's true. Since today's AL East matchups were essentially meaningless, I really only wanted three things:

1) No injuries on the Sox.
2) An easy and uneventful day for the Boston bullpen.
3) A storybook ending to the NL playoff picture.

Well, I got two of the three today. For the third, I'll have to wait until tomorrow's tiebreaker matchup between the Rockies and Padres.

Back in the day, I used to post an extensive preview analysis at SoSH for each Red Sox regular season series. I loved putting them together, but they involved a lot of research and time so they died a death of attrition.

So today, after the National League constellations aligned to provide a fireworks finale suitable for the 4th of July, I felt uplifted enough to draft an admittedly abridged preview of tomorrow's wild card matchup in Denver.

That's right, uplifted. In fact, I'm happy as a pig in shit right now. First, there was the somewhat perverse pleasure of watching the Mets complete their epic collapse before the boobirds at Shea with an 8-1 drubbing at the hands of the Marlins. Moments later, the Phillies took care of business and clinched the NL East with a 6-1 win over the Nats. Normally I find teams from Philadelphia (and their fans) worthy of scorn and ridicule, but there's something eminently likeable about this team.

That left the Padres needing a win in Milwaukee to lock up a wild card slot. With a 4-2 lead, Brett Tomko fell apart in the 5th inning as the Brewers scored 4 times. They tacked on 3 more in the 6th on their way to what must have been a satisfying 11-6 win after falling short of the Cubs in the NL Central.

With the loss, Colorado seized an opportunity to force a one-game tiebreaker playoff. Ubaldo Jimenez pitched the game of his life, holding the AL West winning D-Backs hitless and scoreless until the 6th. A run scored to tie the game 1-1, but the Rockies bullpen, led by Brian Fuentes, sealed off the leak with no further damage.

In the 8th, a Garrett Atkins RBI single and a 2-run double by Brad Hawpe gave Colorado what seemed at the time like an insurmountable cushion. After all, in 38 games since June 26, closer Manny Corpas had allowed just 4 ER (all on solo homers) in 37.2 innings.

Yet the Padres scored twice on an Augie Ojeda sac fly and a two-out Alberto Callaspo RBI single to draw within a run. With Colorado's chances for the postseason hanging in the balance, Arizona's Stephen Drew nubbed a grounder off the end of his bat down to third. Atkins played it on a tough hop and threw to first to seal the deal.

Now, instead of some wretched network sitcom or tired reality show, I'll be playing remote control ping pong between Rox-Padres and Pats-Bengals on MNF tomorrow night. Josh Fogg should deliver the first pitch at around 7:40 EDT on TBS. Kickoff in the Queen City is an hour later on ESPN.

Should be a blast.

Bang the drum slowly...

A thread started by my friend Kevin today in the members only section at Sons of Sam Horn stirred up some 6-year-old memories. Another friend, Steve, had to go to the hospital to have his hand checked out after punching a wall in frustration over last week's Red Sox loss to Toronto. This prompted a great discussion topic: What was your worst sports-induced physical outburst?

While I get animated and agitated when things don't go right, or when stupid moves or ineptness cost a game, I generally remain physically restrained. I might make some threatening gestures, pace heavily, or turn red in the face, but I usually won't get violent or cause physical destruction. I suppose that's good news, since I'm not exactly a small guy. Then again, my prime days of effectively throwing my weight around have been in the rear view mirror for well over a decade.

I'm also a pretty mellow drunk. I don't get overly emotional, or filled with urges to spill my guts about personal problems, or aggressive with others. But events would unfold on the first weekend of July 2001 that would put this established pattern to the test.

That summer was my fifth living in Atlanta, and my pal Wesley and I headed up the East coast on a ballpark tour July 3. We hit Durham NC for a Bulls game, spent a rainy 4th in DC, watched Yanks-Orioles at Camden, Yanks-Mets at the toilet, and Sox-Braves at Fenway on Saturday. After spending the night in New Hampshire and grabbing breakfast in Maine, we hit Cooperstown on Sunday, crashed in Harrisburg PA, and had a leisurely drive back south the next day along the eastern foot of the Appalachians.

For the most part, it was an enjoyable and uneventful trip. But Friday, July 6, was probably the most reactive I've ever gotten as a sports fan, and maybe even the most reactive I've been as a drunk.

We met up with my older brother and his neighbor, a Mets fan, and watched the Yankees issue an 8-3 beatdown on their rivals from Queens. To say I got royally fucked up during the game would be a gross understatement. I was as trashed as I'd been since my brother's stag party in '93. We were in the right field nosebleeds, at an elevation 50 feet above the top of the foul pole.

After the game we hit Stan's and then Billy's on River Street just outside the stadium. Both bars were jam-packed with obnoxiously loud retards in wife-beaters and pinstriped #2 jerseys, but we hung out, drank more beer, and followed the Sox-Braves game on one of the many TVs in the place.

Boston had entered the day trailing the Yankees in the AL East by just a half-game, somewhat of a miracle considering how they'd been decimated by injuries and handicapped by the managerial incompetence of Jimy Williams. Even before the season started they'd lost Nomar (wrist surgery), Valentin (knee), Florie (fractured eye socket & damaged retina), Saberhagen (shoulder surgery) and Juan Pena (elbow surgery). David Cone had missed a month and a half with a bum shoulder. Merloni, Stynes, Grebeck and Pichardo had all spent 2-week stints on the DL. And now they were also without El Guapo (hamstring), Schourek (elbow), Lt. Frank (strained lat), Pedro (shoulder inflammation) and Varitek, who'd fractured his elbow May 3 and was done for the year. That the Red Sox were even above .500 was a surprise.

On this day, things were looking up with the Sox leading Atlanta 3-2 heading to the 8th. I had just exited the men's room when a huge cheer went up, and I knew it wasn't something I'd be happy about. Sure enough, Chipper Jones had tied it with a leadoff solo shot off Shooter Beck that clinked off Pesky's Pole.

On to the 9th and with DLowe pitching, Furcal worked a leadoff walk. He then stole second, but overslid the bag and dislocated his shoulder, ending his season. Next, BJ Surhoff singled home pinch-runner Keith Lockhart to give the Braves a 4-3 lead. More obnoxious cheering. My mood: agitated yet reserved.

Continuing his yeoman's relief work, Lowe uncorked a wild pitch and then walked Andruw Jones. The catcalls from MFY fans grew louder and more persistent as desperation callup Sunny Kim relieved Lowe. In what can best be described as a horrifying Groundhog Day nightmare, Brian Jordan played the role of Mookie Wilson as he sent a dribbler down the first base line. Daubach did his best Billy Buck impression as the ball went right through the webbing of his glove, with Surhoff scoring to give Atlanta a 2-run cushion. Now the loud cheers were accompanied by derisive laughing and general taunting directed at any and all things Red Sox (none of us were wearing any Boston garb). My mood: fuming, while grinding my teeth and huffing when I exhaled.

On to the last of the 9th, and I'm drunk and pissed but still hopeful. The first communal "Boston Sucks" chants started when Steve Karsay caught Jose Awfulman looking at strike 3. They grew even louder after Hatteberg grounded out.

So when Trot launched a solo shot over the RF wall, I couldn't hold it in. I exploded, along with my brother and maybe 5 or 10 others at Billy's. As we all hooted, applauded and shouted "Yeah, baby!!" it was now clear to everyone who the Sox fans were. I'd lost my camouflage, but I was too drunk to give a shit. We became the targets of "Don't worry, they'll still blow it. They always do, so shut up" comments from every corner.

Moments later, the Sox tied it up. As soon as the ball left Manny's bat, I knew it was gone. With a Bud longneck in hand, I immediately began yelling "Tie game, baby!! Tie game!!" as I went to high-five each of the now-publicly-known Sox supporters and rally the troops. I never even saw the ball leave the park so I still don't recall if it went over the LF or CF wall. The Yankee fans were now feeling the heat, their vocal arrogance replaced by dismissive defiance. "You ain't won nothing yet, asshole. Talk to me when they win the ball game." My mood: Totally rejuvenated, and confident as fuck.

On to the 10th we went, with Kim still pitching. Now you'd think that any MLB pitcher would be able to retire the likes of Quilvio fucking Veras. To my dismay, Kim walked the little shit, who then stole 2nd on a hit-and-run whiff by Dave Martinez. That led to an IBB to Sufhoff, and the MFY fans regained their vociferous spirit. Even 4 gallons of beer couldn't dull my senses as pangs of uneasiness permeated my innards. They dissipated after Pichardo came in and K'd Andruw Jones for the second out. My mood: Tepidly nervous, but still confident.

Up steps Chipper Jones, and a shiver sets in when I realize there's no lefty in the pen. Recent call-up Bill Pulsipher had already been used (thanks, Jimy...) so now it's Hipolito or bust. Pichardo kept everything on the outside of the plate, as Chipper bode his time and worked a walk (the 6th by Sox pitchers in the last 1.2 innings) to load the bases. I felt the glares from about 200 pair of Bronx retard eyes as they jeered and pointed at me and the others. "Get ready! Here it comes! The trademark Boston collapse!!" My mood: angry again, jaw clenched, gripping my bottle nearly tight enough to shatter it, and straining to avoid eye contact.

The finishing blow was hardly a blow at all -- a weak single through the shortstop hole to shallow left field that scored Veras. Manny's throw to Hatteberg was in time to nail Surhoff at the plate, giving me reason to get pumped again. My newfound resolve, coupled with my inebriation, prompted me to engage several nearby Yankee taunters with "This is where we win it" retorts as I laughed off their chides.

Boston's hopes for a victory were crushed with all the drama of a falling guillotine blade, as Jose Cabrera retired Daubach on a meek grounder to 2nd and Stynes on a foul pop-up to 1st. Troy O'Leary capped off an 0-for-5 evening, and one of the worst Sox losses in 15 years, by flying out to right.

Amid more cheers, the "Boston Sucks!" chants began anew and crescendoed, while I did my best to ignore them and made my way to the end of the bar for another brew. I wasn't ready to leave, but there were no corners to hide in. And this is when I absolutely lost it.

Behind me approached a 40-ish, long-haired, bearded dude, about 5-foot-7 with a fisherman's cap and a Mexican blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Attached to a cord around his neck was a pair of bongo drums, which he was smacking in rhythm with the chant. He looked more like a hippie peace activist than a baseball fan, but I wasn't exactly in the mood for any sort of detente.

He looked right at me with a Bob Marley grin and repeatedly chanted "Boston Sucks!" in my face while bopping those drums. I responded with what Wesley later called a "Jack Nicholson in The Shining" face, and started hitting his drums in unison with him, using my clenched fists instead of my palms. And rather than chant along with his mantra, I shouted like a crazed lunatic, "Yes! I! Know!!!! Yes! I! Know!!!!", pounding the drums harder and harder on each beat with both fists simultaneously.

On my third or fourth repetition of the verse, I heard a loud pop. The hippie dude stopped smiling and looked down at his bongos, where my right fist had just punctured one of the drum heads. A wave of terror came over me, as I remembered exactly where I was -- in a Yankee bar, outside Yankee Stadium, in the heart of the Bronx, with a half-dozen MFY drunks my size or bigger within 5 feet of me. And they all had noses and chins that pretty much conveyed the "Yeah, I've been in a few street brawls" vibe.

Yet none of them intervened. In fact, they just gazed in wonder while casually moving away. Hippie dude looked up at me, his face wearing the fear of a bullied kid, and slowly backed away from me, his bongos rendered useless.

I don't remember much after that. I never saw the bongo hippie again, as I was whisked away by my entourage and back to the parking lot. It wasn't until the next morning at my brother's house that I found out how I escaped that bar not only with all my teeth intact, but still breathing. Wesley said the look in my eyes after I busted the bongos would have frightened Satan. "Dude, you looked like an unpredictable nutcase. Everybody was scared of you. At that moment you looked like you could've snapped the neck of anyone in there."

Moi? The gentle, mellow drunk?

Let that be a lesson: Be afraid, but never show it. And always strive to silence the marching music of thine enemies.