And my feelings really haven't changed all that much since then. It's still a hell of a thing. Congratulations, ChiSox, and may your memories sustain you for the next 365 days.
Somewhere, Charlie Brown is smoking a cigarette, the Little Red-Haired Girl's
head nestled against his shoulder as they lay in the afterglow of beautiful
cartoon lovemaking. Lucy's sitting outside wondering how the hell he kicked
that ball so far.
All the stuff that came before - Buckner, Bucky, Boone, Enos
Slaughter, and Thurman Munson, and Ed Armbrister - all of it now has a purpose,
a cosmic fit. It all happened to make this possible, to make this win feel so
damn fulfilling. It all makes sense now.
Oh, and by the way, that King/O'Nan book blows. We did it better here. Our agent sucks.