*Picture from the Boston Globe*
I knew it couldn't last forever. Knew that eventually, after 2 fantastic months, that they would have to come back to earth. Just didn't know it would feel like Mike Timlin reared back and kicked me in the marbles when it happened.
Beckett got roughed up as bad tonight as he has all year: 2 home runs, 1 a grand slam, fastballs that didn't move, curve balls that didn't break for strikes, and just 5 innings pitched.
Dead bats for what seems like forever didn't help: 9 lobsters through the first 5 innings just isn't gonna cut it. Lugo and Drew continue to look like busts: hope I'm wrong, but it don't look good.
My father-in-law kept the boys and Ciera today: Ang said he broke the land speed record leaving once she got home. I wonder why: they are usually so well behaved. Still, the house was still standing when I got home, nobody had any broken bones, and we've somehow avoided any issues with poop today. Miracle's will never cease.
Tomorrow brings Bonds and the Giants to town, along with Dave Roberts. I'm looking forward to all the replay's of "The Steal" that will be shown all weekend, reminding everyone with a soul of the best October EVER. After he retires, the statue of him stealing second needs to be put up, post haste. And the story of Dave Roberts needs to be put in all New England textbooks from here on out.
Finally, during Beckett's post-game press conference, someone asked him about some of his pitches tonight:
His response? "They were horses**t pitches, what can I say?"
Have I mentioned my heterosexual man-love for Beckett lately? 'Cause if I haven't, I love the big lug.
The Crack Of Doom
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