Just one day after the Sox were no-hit into the 7th against Chicago, and then brought a 2-1 lead into the 9th, the Sox and Rangers combined for 36 runs, tying an A.L. record, and 47 hits. The Sox blew leads of 10-0 (after 1) and 12-2, but came back from a 16-14 deficit in the 8th to win 19-17.
The universe is just crazy sometimes, I guess. Narratives imply authors, but the authors intent, which might help to make sense of things, is notoriously inscrutable.
I should have believed myself that it'd be one of those Hamlet typing monkey nights. My girlfriend Rebecca, empath that she is, wished that baseball had a mercy rule upon the Sox taking a 10-0 lead. I warned her that Texas has a strong offense, and it's early, plus they deserve to get their asses kicked if they do. Get them kicked, that is. But no, instead I figured it was in the bag, and I went to the local park to see Bob Dylan in concert. Well, we didn't have tickets, so we played frisbee in the dark with a Dylan soundtrack.
But then it turned out the game was all crazy, teaching me another lesson about unpredictability and chaos, a lesson I continue not to learn, relying, as I do, on coherent narrative structures. The temptingly familiar emotional categories of the game- humiliation at losing the lead, determination and refusal to quit, obscure the sheer oddity and randomness of the events; determination involves control, randomness is at the behest of the cosmos. In a pitcher's duel, every pitch has meaning, each sequence hand-crafted and unique, implying intent and design. In the slugfest, hits are mass-produced, aggregate copies, and individual events become mere statistics, without obvious meaning. Baseball becomes pinball, a violent, jarring series of projectiles.
Or maybe I just identify with pitchers, and cringe when they can't get anybody out.
Also, Youkilis is a badass.