From the Archive: October 17, 2003:
[After Game 7 ALCS v. Yankees; Sox lose series 4-3, after blowing a 5-2 lead in the 8th inning, and eventually losing in the 11th on an Aaron Boone home run.]
Well, things don't always go as planned. Or in some cases, things are planned to go the way you don't want.
But you know, I'm lucky. Because for 7 1/3 innings, I owned that fucking place. Yankee stadium. Or at least the vicinity around the top tier, section B, row N, seat number 9. For 7 1/3, I got to see the look on those stupid fucking Yankees' fans faces. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I abused them. And they couldn't do anything.
Sure, I was hit in the head and drenched with a few beers. Yes, I was pegged with a bunch of peanuts. But none of those assholes could even own up. After Pedro breezed through another inning, and having grown tired of the mocking "we want Pedro" chant, I switched it up to "throw more beer!, throw more beer!". Did anyone do so? No. Of course not. Because the Yankee fans are cowards. I don't know who threw those beers. But they knew who I was. I was the guy who for 7 1/3 innings owned that fucking place. I was the one with the balls to put myself on the line, because I've suffered, and I was earning that victory.
Every time Soriano waved at another pitch, I hollered "overrated" over and over again. Jeter whiffs "hey, nice cut, Mr. November." Giambi pops out; "you need the deodorant ads, because you stink!" After starting another "lets go red sox" chant, an infuriated Sopranos looking Yankee fan offered for me to come down and fight him. I've never so casually nodded no and given the finger at the same time. His buddy did a nice job of restraining him. I don't know what stopped the other bunch of guys who offered to fight me. Probably being pussies, I guess.
My throat is sore, and my head hurts, and there is beer in my hair and clothes. But for 7 1/3, it was euphoric. There was nothing better. I was in their house pissing on their rug and they just had to shut the fuck up.
And yes, I did notice that we lost. But if we had won, it wouldn't have lasted forever. Maybe the Yankees would have won next year. This way it didn't last a year, but for those 7 1/3 innings, I was the winner. They were the losers. I stood up at Yankee stadium and yelled at the top of my lungs for 2 hours. I told Roger to get his fat ass in a rocking chair, and for Bernie to join him. I told Bernie that it was odd that he could be both washed up, and stink (although few got that one.) I got to call the Yankee fans sore losers, and the fucking pussies wouldn't even admit who threw beer and peanuts. (I guess when you drop out of school in 9th grade you miss out on the spitball phase.)
The damn Yankees fans don't suffer. They don't earn what they get, and they don't deserve it. So I made goddam fucking sure that they suffered as much as possible. In the end, we didn't win, but I'm used to that. We never win. But I knew that for those 7 1/3 innings, all those suckers who paid all that money to be at the game, well, I was making their lives a living fucking hell. I made damn sure that every Yankee fan within earshot, and boy do I have a loud voice, was regretting that they got off their fat asses in the first place to come to that game.
I'm sure by now they've forgotten all about me. But I won't forget the look on their faces. The anger. The rage, all directed at me, the guy who was getting what he earned, but what those assholes thought was theirs for no fucking reason at all. So fuck them. I know that I ruined their fucking night, at least for a couple of hours. And sure, I can get a kick out of responding to "Pedro sucks" chants with "he makes 17 million dollars. So what does that make you?", but it doesn't normally affect anyone. But tonight, for those 7 1/3, those fucking Yankee fans, well, they truly sucked.
So for those of you who weren't there, I'm sorry that you couldn't experience at least the fleeting sensation of triumph in the midst of all those stupid fuckers. But frankly, I don't want to tell you about what it was like leaving the stadium, or pushing through a crowd to find the subway, and all that. This I could have done without.
But that's all a bad dream. The reality, well, were those 7 1/3 innings, when the Red Sox were champions, and I was there.
Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.