inspiration strikes - a break from the monotony

Friday, October 17, 2003

POST-MORTEM

After corraling a decade's worth of thrilling comebacks into a single season, the cowboy sons of Grady Little couldn't lasso one more miraculous victory.

The game, billed as the ultimate matchup of two hall of famers, was an imperfect contest from the start. The Yankees' Roger Clemens was knocked out early and Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez lacked his signature stuff. Still, Pedro battled and the olde towne team managed to bolster him with an early lead. Through the middle innings things were going well. The Red Sox appeared to be headed to their first World Series in 17 years. Save for two solo home runs by Jason Giambi, Martinez was in control.

The game trucked along, and the clock approached midnight. Pedro was tiring. Red Sox manager Grady Little left his ace in one batter too many and the Red Sox wagon, brimming with passengers, veered sharply. Burdened by fate, or perhaps running out of gas, the wheels fell off. With a nauseating string of hits, the ever-lurking Yankees clawed their way back into the game, which headed to extra innings.

The last inning was pitched by Tim Wakefield, a knuckleballer. The knuckleball is a pitch that dances to the plate, flitting through the air as if buffeted by the winds of fate. An effective knuckleball baffles the batter by fluttering more than flying from the pitcher hand. It is an approach that seems to rely on chance as much as skill. On the last offering of the night, the ball had no flutter, and no chance. Perhaps guided by destiny, the ball flew straight and true. Aaron Boone -- a new generation's Bucky Dent -- sent the little leather orb hurtling into the left field stands. Yankees 6, Red Sox 5. Game over, season over.

***

THE ENDLESS CLIMB, THE ENDLESS AGONY

We the people of Red Sox nation, live an epic, yet tortured life. Each passing season, each heartbreaking defeat continues to define our existence as the stuff of classical tragedy.

We were bequeathed with a Promethean gift, a fire and passion for the game. Each spring, we believe with rabid conviction that this will be our year. Yet, unceasingly, unfailingly, fate's heavy hand intervenes. The Sisyphean rock rolls to the bottom of the mountain and the immortal hope dwelling within our hearts is rent apart, only to grow and be devoured anew each season.

"The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor."

- Albert Camus

On days like today, it's a bleak life. Still, there's always next year.
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mattchun 10/17/2003 10:56:00 AM [+] ::
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