NP Red Sox Win

[Tim Strzechowski]

O Terrance, you do make speeches.

It was bad blood rearing its ugly head once more.  It was a reminder to the
World  just why the Yankees have no business in the 2003 World Series.  It
was further proof that this year belongs to the Cursed Ones, the Great
American Underdogs, the longtime Schlemeils of the Diamond -- Red Sox and
Cubbies.


And it was pure absurdity when septegenarian Zim swiped at a strapping buck
named Martinez.  He's old and wise; he should know better.





Quoth Terrance, in sable garb and with a skull in hand:

>
> It was Sublime. A delicate twist of still bottled beer caps piercing the
> American Pastime between the thighs, the October tourists re-discovering
> her, finding her once more excitingly  desirable and more obscene than
> two fistfuls of World Series Rings and a bloody knife in a big fan's
> school locker. And what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that
> You were there. You were there when the Tube was a ripe mystery bursting
> into mayhem, a hint of tangled legs in the bedroom down the hall or
> up-stairs where gay and radiant activities are taking place through
> railroaded corridors, and romances under the Tube light are polished
> and  breathing and redolent of Hummers rolling down 4th street
> positively perfect and on up and over snow peaked mountains of beer
> commercials. We felt it. The  presence all about the house, pervading
> the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant and violent
> emotions. And it was sublime.
>