We may only have another day to enjoy this, Sox fans, since Josh Beckett and his craptastic oblique will be taking the mound for Boston tomorrow and who knows what will happen. To get the maximum enjoyment out of this moment—and I am still doing secret little cha-cha moves up and down the corridors at work when I think no one can see me—here’s a roundup of links:
Yahoo’s Jeff Passan goes for goosebumps and raises the specter of Aaron Bleepin’ Boone.
Sox&Dawgs never gave up. No, really! (I sort of gave up, but gave up while still firmly believing that if they only put their freakin’ minds to it, they could come back. If that makes sense.)
Center Field is glad the Sox stuck it to the TBS broadcast crew, who did indeed start talking about the Rays-Phillies World Series before the game was truly ovah. (Thanks, announcerboys! A little reverse-jinx action never hurts.) And as we know, it ain’t ovah ’til the Big Papi swings.
Kevin McNamara homes in on the Crisp at-bat.
Fenway West has the wooooo-creepy numerology take.
Red Sox Monster highlights Curt Schilling’s (really awful) first pitch — the only pitch he threw from the mound in Fenway all year. Which, yes, means it cost 8 million dollars. But clearly it was worth it for a little bit o’ that bloody sock karma, right?
Joy of Sox notes that after falling behind 7-0 and intentionally walking Carlos Pena, the Red Sox only had a 0.6 chance of winning. If you turn the chart upside down, it looks sort of like the Dow.
As a bonus to her great recap, Amalie Benjamin has a video detailing the superstitious behavior of some Sox players during the final innings.
King Kaufman assails the fans who left early. Shame!
Tony Massarotti says “Wow.” And has a kind of creepy quote from Beckett: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” But before you get all Macbethian like I did, he’s just clarifying when he’ll talk to reporters.
Alex Speier reports that even with the hot, swampy breath of defeat steaming the backs of their grimy necks, the Red Sox dugout thrummed not with doubts, but with the steely resolve of a determined and indefatigable mantra: “Let’s win every pitch.”
Joe Posnanski calls it something out of a kid’s dream. Yes: yes. A wild, improbable, ridiculous dream! Why did we become prematurely middle-aged cynical farts who fret about the stock market and pop Prilosec before eating pizza? NO! Today my hair is shiny. My abs are like my college abs. I could eat a barrelful of chili-cheese fries smothered in jalepenos and buffalo sauce and wash it down with cheap tequila and not feel even the slightest singe along my esophagus. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t even need coffee! i just bounded out of bed, tingling with La Belle Victoire. (But i did have some coffee anyway, just in case.) Maybe October comebacks are what Ponce de Leon was looking for!