Boston Red Sox 7, New York Yankees 3
“Rage—sing, goddess, the rage of David, the son of Ortiz,The destructive rage that brought countless griefs upon the Yankees...”
Oh, what a night for baseball at Fenway; a night where catcher prodigal returned like glad tidings from a distant shore, bringing hope to a Nation. A night where blew the wind mighty and strong, dropping balls like flies from the air to the ground and to the waiting glove.
There did throw upon his paces Wakefield, the knuckleball dancing
Fluttering
Befuddling hitters
Who were held to but little offense: a cluster of three runs in the fourth.
Still not granted the palm of glorious victory Wakefield carefully spins his gems, waiting for the awakening of Red Sox bats. Like a groundswell of the tide they will come, like the tide that rises all boats they will come and Wake will have win number two.
Though the Red Sox could but muster the tying runs under Wakefield’s watch, still they toiled on as Wakefield gave way to Timlin
And Wang gave way to Small
And thoughts of extra innings taunted us: who would break the deadlock? Where would the mighty blow be struck?
Still blew the mighty wind like a wild thing, a demon, playing with the skyward balls like a cat toying with a mouse. For each side she plied her favors – for each, the temptation of homers
Dingers
Jacks
Snatching away the power of flight before the fateful moment. Six or seven balls were thus fairly struck but lit not beyond the outfield wall. And let us forget not the defensive gems, the line drives that could turn the game for either side, snatched from flight by quick footed and quicker minded infielders: a web gem game in the making.
‘Til at last
At last
Mistakes began: Cora walks, Youkilis, hit by painful pitch on frosty night and Torre begins to strategize. He calls upon the Pride of Worcester to deliver
to end the threat of first and second by merely facing Loretta.
This Sturtze cannot do; his futile flailings end when Mark sends a ball up the middle taking the lead. Forget not Loretta in the clutch his days of timely hitting end not here, I think.
Now from the bullpen comes the man with the Name of a Killer, brought to New York to confound and remove the threat of the Ortizzle: the Yankee Killer who bestrides the plate like Achilles and Myers is his Hector.
Three balls, a strike, a foul ball: the count is full now upon Ortiz and this is his shining hour. A ground ball will end the threat; but comes now the pitch and with a mighty blow is struck the ball by David like a Goliath.
And lo, like the heroes of old, even the wind bows before Big Papi: submitting herself meekly like a lamb, her teeth hidden and her paws cast away as the ball flies into the night, into the bullpen, into the waiting glove of the Papal One. Thus wins again Ortiz, who broke his foe like Achilles of ancient time, completing p0wnag3 in the wine-dark night.
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