The Sox just housed the Cards, 4-1 [corrected because I'm stupid --wgh]. Pedro pitched a fantastic game after some early trouble; right now LaRussa is on, trying to field questions from the press corps without the benefit of either energy or swagger (or, it seems, hope). Suppan didn't pitch badly, but his baserunning mishap (he got shot down by Ortiz in a rundown off third, having evidently misheard 'go' as 'no' from the third base coach) cost the Cards both a run and their confidence. And Pedro wasn't exactly making charitable donations to the Cards Offense Fund like he has done, let it be remembered, for the (ahem) Yanks.
Excerpt from our viewing:
Laurie: Is anyone else [inaudible, possibly 'freaked out'] that the Red Sox are up 3-0 in the World Series?
JCB: Nah, after the Yanks Series I figured it was Manifest Destiny.
Now please bear in mind that 'Manifest Destiny' is, if memory serves, the abiding faith that drove early American settlers west in search of freedom self-determination gold Indians blah blah blah. So I'm not sure what in Jesus Scatological Christ's name this could possibly mean. But it moved me. And now D-Lowe is pitching to win the World Series after he nailed the Yankees' coffin shut in Game 7. Which also moves me.
And where does it move me? Where? I ask. WHERE?!
IT MOVES ME WESTWARD. WESTWARD HO. WESTWARD HO!!
Now you understand, I hope, and now I go home to sleep off tonight's White Russians.