Lucky Sevens
By The Yawkey Way Philosopher
I woke up this morning in a cold sweat and the dreadful feeling of déjà vu. I sat up in bed and tried to wrap my mind around what I was feeling. Then it clicked. A year ago I was tensed up like a long unmassaged muscle. I couldn't sleep or eat; it was all too much to take. Just outs away from breaking the curse and defeating the Enemy in the ALCS, the wheels fell off. We all know the story so there is no need to reiterate, but I imagine there isn't a Red Sox fan on the planet not thinking about the last game seven as we await tonight's opus. It‚s hard not to be content with being the first team to force a game seven after going down three games to none. Any other group of fans would be ecstatic —but not the members of Red Sox Nation.
We've been here before and it feels like absolute hell. We can see the promised land just beyond the open door and we can also see an ugly, hairy little gnome
dressed in pinstripes just itching to slam the doorright in our face. Last year the gnome was named Boone and this year it's yet to take a name. Three days ago
it we thought it might be named Matsui or Rivera, now it is starting to look like a Latin midget wearing a Pedro jersey smiling happily and beckoning us to run
through the door —or maybe I just REALLY need to sleep.
There really isn't much more to say. Game seven, Red Sox v. Yankees. We've come this far; we've battled back from the brink. Why not us? Is this the year? I
BELIEVE!
