I bailed on the game at about 3 hours, when Ortiz limped to first and was somehow safe. Boston took the lead at 6-5. I checked back after midnight, and it was 6-6 in the 10th. My heart can't take such stress. I only learned this morning that the Indians put 7 on the board in the 11th inning.
You can't say Boston's just a slug machine when they have Josh Beckett pitching. But what about Curt Schilling, who no longer throws true fastballs, but is considered a "finesse" pitcher?
Is that what they'll say about writers when we're older and have more control of our sentences? Can you imagine saying that about artists? "He's a finesse painter," or "She's a finesse writer now that she's of a 'certain age.'" Maybe.
I guess we were writing raw, explosive poems when we were younger, the way Fausto Carmona ends each pitch almost drilling into the dirt with surprise on his face.
Cleveland might be in the world series on the day I reach "a certain age." What a lovely gift! I'll get Sizemore on the phone and order up a grand slam.