Electric Josh

This space's old friend, who works fifty yards away from where I work yet whom I never see for some reason, asked me the other day if I'd like to go to Game 3 between the Red Sox and White Sox. Well, yeah. So I spent a whole day at work cancelling afternoon meetings and gearing up to head over to Thursday's game. That the game was in fact scheduled to take place Friday was lost on me until well after I had rearranged my afternoon and convinced several colleagues along the way that they were going to miss the game because of extracurricular work activities they were planning for Thursday. My confusion was resolved before I hiked all the way over to Fenway, thankfully. Ribbing (not the literal variety) was endured.

The game itself, though, second one this year and my first ever playoff game, was ridiculous. Promising start, fell behind, never caught up. Swept. "Welcome back to being a Red Sox fan," said Jake. "This is what it's usually like." The four of us stood around in the bleachers for twenty or thirty minutes trying to figure out what to do next. The season ticket holders all greeted each other with, "Have a good winter," and shuffled out, or lingered in the stands and soaked in the field for one last time this year, and the lights stayed on long enough for everyone to head out. Got Mexican food and went home. Probably won't bother watching any more night games this year, so we'll get some sleep in October for the first time since 2002. Goodnight.
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