Drawn Up And Drawn Out

Perhaps you called it. Perhaps it occured to you that baseball is sometimes magical and when there occurs the opportunity for a magical moment, the baseball gods deliver with more "cadabra" than a Harry Potter novel. I'm not even so sure Aslan had anything on J.D. Drew's homerun last night. I've maligned the guy only because he struggled, not because I thought he wasn't good. But even I was left dumbfounded, speechless and deafened by my own internal screaming after the first inning Grand Slam. Sure there was a long way to go in the game. A very long way. But just because the Prestige occurs in the first inning doesn't mean the remaining act will be left wanting. Last night's win was magical. October baseball magical.

Now the series climaxes. Reaches the penultimate moment October baseball was created for. In my lifetime there have been only 4 Game Seven's for the Red Sox. They're 2-2. But it's the one stat you don't ever keep. Because stats don't matter in a Game 7. Pitchers on x days rest pitching don't matter. Consecutive hit streaks are rendered useless. And hitting a Grand Slam the previous night means nothing. It's all about what you can do tonight.

I've maintained all along (since the Sox had been down 3-1) that a Game 7 is a crapshoot. Hardest to predict. Teams will throw everything out there. Both teams with their backs against a proverbial wall. Both teams cornered. Both teams with the same goal, the same objective, and nine innings to decide who's more determined. Game 7's are the hardest to predict because they are played harder and more passionately than any other game. Because this is the game that means everything. The game that stretches back into the green fields of childhood homes minutes before going inside for dinner. "Two outs, bases loaded, 3-2 count, Game Seven." Even then it was the last thing you uttered as you prepared, in your mind, to win the game, make the catch, throw the pitch. "Game Seven..." Even now I feel a hush coming over me as I think about it.

The Red Sox need to continue to be patient at the plate. They don't need to score early in this one, they need to threaten early. Lead-off hitters need to get on. Maybe a stolen base early. A walk with two outs. They need to do the little things that grind on a pitcher like Westbrook. Frustrate him, not overwhelm him. Of course it would be great if they did that, but all they need to do is make sure Westbrook can't get into a rhytym. Make sure it's not easy for him. And when they have a chance to score, score. If they play smart and patient, they'll win. And they're winning anything close. That Fenway crowd is overwhelming. Everyone one in the stands has, also, dreamed of that Game Seven. And Red Sox fans don't let dreams go. Ever.

I'm not blogging this game either. Between my own memories of playing "Game Seven's" in the yard as a kid, and watching this Game Seven, there's not going to be anytime to expound any more thoughts. And because each pitch, in my mind, will be treated with the same anxiety I tried to bestow upon the childhood me, minutes before dinnertime, there's not a salient thought I can even offer.

Game Seven. Tonight. Fenway Park. Winner wins the Pennant. Goes to the Series. And there'll be plenty of time before dinner for the other.

This is the Prestige.