Games 93 & 94 - Red Sox
Red Sox 6, Twins 5
Red Sox 18, Twins 5
As careful readers of this space know, I'm an irrational believer in the power of karma and superstition, but even my credulity was tested during the final 2 games of the Sox' sweep of the heretofore red-hot Twins.
I spent the last 2 days on Cape Cod as we said our final farewells to my grandfather. Tuesday's come-from-behind win was gravy compared to the fact that I got to watch it in the company of an extended family that hadn't been in the same room together in 15 some-odd years.
Yesterday, though, is when things started getting weird. First, my father read John Masefield's poem, Sea Fever (below) at the memorial service in honor of my grandfather's love of the ocean and sailing. Midway through the poem, a brisk wind perked up, a breeze about which sailors write longing odes. It was enough to make the hair on a non-believer's arms stand up and take notice.
One of my most vivid Sox-related memories regarding my grandparents came back during my early youth, on an evening when my parents were struggling to get me to go to bed. In the process, they made a bargain: I'd go to bed as soon as the Sox were done taking their turn to bat. 7 runs and 45 minutes later, I gladly scampered off to sleep as the winner of that particular deal.
Back to yesterday, then, as the Sox managed to plate exactly 7 runs (for the first time this season) in the 7th inning to turn a close battle into a much-needed laugher. I see what you're up to Grandpa, and I like it. Now, if we could talk about that Powerball number.
Sea Fever, by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.