pinch me

A few weeks ago, LBC and I attended the last Sox-Yankees game of the regular season at Fenway. The game was some kind of ridiculous; a Schilling gem, a Sox win by 7 runs, but very long, and we didn’t get home until late. The next day, LBC left a post-it on my monitor: “Are you tired? Go Sox.” I’ve kept it there ever since.

This week did not come as a surprise, since we had all gone through the same routine last year of working all day, staying up into the wee hours, and waking up the next morning to do it all over again. Maybe it was all of the extra innings, the stomach acid, or the inclination to second-guess every Terry Francona decision, but there was a new level of delirium this time around. Last night as I staggered around my apartment, cleaning up the scattered beer bottles and candy wrappers, a very excited Pink called to say she was buying a plane ticket to Boston this morning. “Um, OK,” I said. It hadn’t yet hit me: World Series.

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