I’m going to sleep now, and when I wake up, I will realize that this was all a dream, and that the Red Sox and the Yankees have not yet played.

Because there’s just no way the best two relievers on the Red Sox could have given up six runs in one inning. Right?

Yet there is this incontrovertible text evidence in my cell phone:

Sarah to Coley, Sept 14, 11:15pm: Hold me.

Coley to Sarah, Sept 14, 11:17pm: I have Papel-blue balls.

Sarah to Coley, Sept. 14, 11:18pm: He is suddenly their Papelbitch.

And then there was the following evidence, in my g-chat archive:

Me: oh honey. this is terrible.

Boyfriend: i’m too depressed to talk about it. i baked a red sox cake.

Me: was it really good for the first half

Boyfriend: yes.

Me: and then totally awful for the second half? did jonathan papelbon leap through your kitchen window and throw the cake in the trash and then swear into his glove?

Boyfriend: Sadly no.

Me: did it leave like 18 million pieces of frosting on base?

Boyfriend: yes.

Me: goddammit.

Boyfriend: but the cake has two layers, one red and one blue

Me: is it frosted with the broken dreams of an entire Nation?

Boyfriend: i don’t want to talk about the game anymore

Desperately in search of some bit of hard evidence that my beloved Red Sox had not, in fact, pissed away a game that they had clearly dominated through the first six innings (I could watch a lowlight reel of Giambi’s errors all day), I checked the box score, the play-by-play, even the photos. And that’s when I realized that this game couldn’t possibly have happened. No. In fact, there’s only conceivable explanation—I’ve gone back in time!

Now at least I can get some sleep. After all, I already know how this ends!

So, yeah. I filed this column with the Boston Metro last week. If I can just take a page from an old college professor for a moment and quote myself (sorry):

I don’t know what the opposite of pennant fever is, but I’ve got it. Playing-out-the-schedule Syndrome? Seasonal Ineffective Disorder? Offseasonitis?

[...]

We’ll no doubt be returning to the Red Sox like moths to the flame by Opening Day — well, to be honest, by the time that pitchers and catchers report — but right now, we’re feeling burned.

I would just like to say that with the return of the Red Sox lineup to the Red Sox lineup (Varitek, Ortiz, Nixon, and Manny have all come back in the past couple of days), I too have returned—mothlike to the flame. About five months early. I still feel burned, but I’ve slathered some aloe on that biznitch and I’m ready to rock n roll (just like Timlin–see above).

Yes, Red Sox, you treat me like crap! You forget my birthday! You never, ever call when you say you will! But I love you! Don’t leave me! Take me back!

Dan Shaughnessy and Eric Wilbur and many another sourpuss can keep their “Slow down, be realistic, shyah right and monkeys might fly out of my butt” attiudes. There will be plenty of long, cold, dark winter months with no baseball to turn to—why shouldn’t I squeeze every last drop of elation/despair out of summer’s remaining weeks? After all, you can’t be afraid to love. If I may quote Natasha Bedingfield, “Live your life with arms wide open!” And if you get hurt, so be it. After all, if I may quote the Eagles, “We may lose and we may win, but we will never be here again.” I just can’t say it any better than that, sports fans. Tis better to have foolishly believed your team could still make the playoffs and lost than to never have foolishly believed your team could still make the playoffs at all. That’s my motto. And I’m not alone.

And in the likely event that the Sox don’t make the playoffs…well, it’s always better to win than to lose. And at this point, we’ll take whatever pickins we can get—no matter how slim they are.