Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!


Monday, October 18, 2004

ALCS, 3-1, Y*nkees

But what a sweet one win that is.

I spent the last four innings of the game last night (this morning) staring at the TV, hooting and hollering and pumping my fist the way I'd imagined only NASCAR fans to do but apparently segues perfectly into Red Sox lovers. My boyfriend was laughing at me, my puppy bouncing excitedly around me, but I was not here... I was at Fenway. My heart was filled with love and hope and fear, excitement and tension and faith.

Ninth inning. JD's running to first and Lando's about to come up. I'm cringing inside, but outside I'm cheering him on as though he's the best offensive bat in the history of baseball, an amazing clutch hitter. I grab my pink Red Sox cap and turn it inside out. I ask my boyfriend (who has come to sit beside me) where his baseball cap is, and he glances behind me and says, "I don't know." I reach behind me. It's right there, on top of the couch. Not looking away from the television and Lando's warming up, I turn the hat inside out and hold it towards him. He refuses, telling me it looks goofy. This warrants him a ferocious glare, but I put his hat on top of mine. Two rally caps. Good mojo, right?

Um, no. Apparently, it's bad mojo. Lando strikes out in record time and I throw my boyfriend's hat across the room in utter disgust, just as I realize who's coming up. My breath catches in my throat and I manage to choke out, "Manny. Honey. It's Manny."

Manny Ramirez, "Just Manny being Manny", Manny-fest Destiny, the only man with that kind of face that I have ever been sexually aroused by, the only one I would let fuck me, and hard at that. "Manny."

My toes are wiggling, the fingers of one hand drumming on my fleece pants, the others digging into my boyfriend's leg. God bless him, he puts up with it.

Manny gets on base. I am screaming, "BIG PAPI! BIIIIIIIIG PAPI!" I wonder if my neighbors think I'm having sex. So few people watch baseball in Canada that I bet ours is the only apartment in the building that is, but I've got enough passion in me to put all of these Maple Leafs lovers to shame. "We haven't won a Stanley Cup since" *sniffle, sob* "1967! For shame!" For shame is right.

"C'mon, Ortizzle." I can't believe I called him that. He looks like a behemoth at the plate, his eyes displaying a ferocity and intensity that makes me firmly believe he is going to blow this game open... or more accurately, shut it down. I pick up my chihuahua and rechristen him "Mannybear Ortizzle the 45th" by smearing some Kool-Aid on his forehead... he just tries to lick it off.

They battle. I wish I could remember exactly how it went, but I know that at some point when there's two strikes, my boyfriend says, "His ball!"

What?! I think. Then I remember. Ortiz's ball. He gave me one, at the "Roy Halladay bobblehead doll" game we went to at the Skydome; I was standing behind the Sox dugout during warmups and he was stretching. He came over and tossed a ball along the top of the dugout towards me; the guy next to me snatched it up and I almost killed him (behind me, I heard my boyfriend say, "That's it, buddy..."). Ortiz glanced at the guy, picked up another ball, pointed at me (I can't even imagine what a despondent look must have been on my face until that moment, where it changed into the world's giddiest grin) and gently rolled it over the top of the dugout.

"Last time I held that ball and prayed for him to do well he didn't do anything!" I protest. And stand up, sprinting over to my computer desk to grab it. I caress it. I whisper to the ball that while it was destined for me, the one coming towards Ortiz is destined for greatness.

Ortiz strikes out.

Extra innings.

I could go on and on about what happened during those innings, but the 9th was the most intense for me. Papi making the hit that won the game made me smile: that was the hit he'd wanted in the 9th.

I hope he slept well and dreamt sweetly. I hope they all did. We've got some baseball to play.

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