A visual representation of David Wells running the bases.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold. But if I’m Terry Francona, I’m thinking revenge is a dish best served as a side to some moldy cheesesteak by a waiter flashing a World Series ring on his middle finger while smiling maniacally. I mean, right? How great must it feel to be Terry Francona today? Following a sweep of the formerly storming Cleveland Indians in their own ballpark, you take your club to Philly, your former home where they were, shall we say, less than appreciative of you, and you kick their jammie-wearing asses into next week with your second series sweep in a row. Oh, and you return a world champion to the town that has called you everything from “soft” and “a moron” to “clueless” and things that aren’t printable. No, not even on this blog. Now that’s good revenge.
Because Tito is a classy guy, he’s not going to come right out and say that it was especially cathartic to beat the snot out of the Phillies, but I’ve noticed that ever since he got that ring, it’s like he’s be able to exhale just a little bit and there’s a bit more of a mischievous twinkle in his eye. You know what he’s thinking.
As a recap, the series went something like this:
Friday: DOUGIE! Shit, now I owe Kevin more beer. Wake is en fuego! Manuelito! Welcome back, dude. Choice baserunning by Dougie. Subtract one beer owed to Kev. PAPI! Holy shit that thing is still going. Sox cruise to an 8-0 win.
Saturday: Matty is dealing. Papi makes opposing pitchers either a) cry, b) wet themselves, c) swear, or d) all of the above. Trotter with the bat! And Tek! Raising the average and bringing me that much closer to my promised case of beer. Also, RBIs. William Mueller, sir. Hot damn, Buelly! MANNY! AGAIN! Sox win 7-1.
Sunday: Okay, okay, okay. Mark…Bellhorn? Our Mark Bellhorn? Niiice. Is that the Fat Man running the bases? Dear sweet Jesus, someone hold me. Please don’t let his heart explode, please don’t let his heart explode. Manny fly out to right and—HOLY SHIT! GRAND SLAM! Manny is scary in the zone. Okay, 7 run lead, no problem, we got this one. Whoops, bit of a blip by Wells. No problem, under control. Okay, stop it, David. STOP IT! RAMON! Goddamit! Tie game? Are you freaking kidding me? Alan Embree, sit down! Do not get up. Ever. Timlin? Kindly handcuff Embree to the bench and do not let him move, under pain of being shot with your crossbow. Jesus, this freaking team- Damon, we’re bunting now? Oh, um, okay. And BELLHORN? Boy, whatchu been eatin’? CAPTAIN! Oh Jesus, Foulke. Someone hold me. 1-2-3. Heh, never a doubt. 12-8 Sox.
In short: Hooray! Yippee! D’oh, I mean, yay!
Take that, Phillies.
Tonight, the Sox return to Fenway to face off against the recently dismissed Cleveland Indians. I’ll be in attendance with the Bedford crew cheering the boys along to eight straight.
(Psst! Don’t look now, but we’re in first place by two and a half games. Shhhhhh!)