Los Carmelos para Todos!
Damn these West Coast games (like damning the torpedos? I'm sure it's not the same sense, or it is, but it's less likely to end in someone being blown up)... like some disturbing new world in which you wake up and find yourself, well, hours after you've woken up, hopefully, and it's nearly eleven o'clock at night, and there they are, your regular cast of Don and Jerry and Tina and those Red Sox with the Boston on the front of their road grays... only... something is off. Something's just not right. It could be the cast to the sky wherever they are, a bit too light, the lights not glaring out into the darkness like halogen paring knives. And the graphics; what do you mean it's only the third inning? My eyelids are sagging, my butt sagging deeper and deeper into the recesses of the couch, sluicing coins and receipts and buttons and gently out of the way, like a Russian ice breaker on its way to the North Pole. I fear I'll be lost to the couch, too, only to be found when someone comes downstairs in the morning to re-runs of NESN Extra Innings, or Sportsdesk, or something.
It feels... not quite disrespectful... more... disloyal, not to see the game into at least the seventh, where a larger lead might give one the hope (possibly false, but still with wings), that the game is in the bag, one way or another. But you just can't. The increasing unease with the couch, the crickets outside, the awkward sound of the damped down television in the night, when, by all rights, it should be playing dead air or at the very least the national anthem.
But there they all are, standing around, chatting on TV, playing the game at this ungodly hour. And I just keep watching... not even at the halfway point yet... how very inconsiderate, a whole load of people insisting games get played out over there at this time of night.
disclaimer:
Still working on that thing from last week Further Fenway Fiction. So don't go freaking out on us just yet. And by working we mean: we're not actively working on it, but it's something we think about and contemplate doing something about every week we sit down to edit the week's Sane issue, thinking, "We need to sort out an easy, fool-proof, elegant way to let people order those free bookplates for imagining they've gotten their copy signed by the authors of the book."
This, by the way, for those of you counting along at home, and I'm not one of them, is the first time, probably, we have ever led off an issue with a mild profanity. Possibly. I would have to check to be sure.
Which, again, is probably something I'll bring up next week, when these sorts of thoughts spring up like they do.
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