Boston 2, Houston 1
W: J. Beckett (7-3)
L: M. Melancon (5-2)
“Hi. You’re not from around here.”
“Nawh. I’m from up Nawth.”
She smoothed her too-tight skirt while pushing her hair back, her chipped polish catching the light. “Boston?”
“Yeh, Bahsten. Evah been deah?”
“Um, yeah. It’s been a while though.”
He positioned himself so that she’d notice his arms. He was proud of his arms. He knew that girls liked looking at them so he took extra time at the gym to make sure they were big. Nobody cares about legs, it’s all about the muscles you can see, that’s what counts with the chicks.
“Nice arms.”
“Yeh. I work owt. Gettin’ wicked lahge,” he crowed, flexing a bicep. She wasn’t too bad to look at, certainly better than those North Shore pigs with tits. Looked like she might have been pretty a few back but was on the down side of it now. Any port in a storm, any date if it’s late, right? And it was getting a little late on this swing, he’d be back home soon enough to Maira if she wasn’t stuck on that fuckin’ Guido from New York. Every time he came around, loud, money, always making noise and bringing her stuff, it just made his blood boil. Noo Yawk this, Noo Yawk that.
Fuck that. He was gonna hit this. Hit it hard, hit it often and she’d be begging for more when he was through and on his way back home. Fuckin’ cowgirls, they don’t know shit.
“You wan’ anothah beeah?” he asked, motioning his order to the bartender. She was already feeling his arms and this one was in the bag. Hell, if she was good maybe he’d let her cook breakfast for him in between getting his rocks off again. She’d do it. She’d be glad to do it.
Ten walks. No walks for the home team, but fourteen strikeouts. Six hits, two by the guy who scored the only run. Bases loaded situations again and again and again, until the last one finally broke through for the winning run after an intentional walk. The wonder is that that lineup didn’t gouge the staff deeper and more often. Maybe they had a few last night and figured it wouldn’t take much to complete the sweep.
1-8 homestand. One and fucking eight.
The really bad part, the part that tastes like fresh shit in your mouth, is that the Houston Astros, the team owned by a Texan, didn’t just lay down for the Red Sox but in fact spread their legs, took the loads, got up and cooked dinner and put their favorite music on the radio for them. All that was left of what once was dignity was the money left on the nightstand after they went out the door. The Astros whored their way to a payday while giving up the only thing they had left.
Lobster rolls. “Let’s go, Red Sox!” Sweet Caroline ON THE FUCKING SOUND SYSTEM.
Lay down. You fucking laid down, you cocksucker. You can’t get the hell out of town soon enough.
There is no pride. There is no dignity. There is nothing but the last few dollars to be squeezed before you hide behind your money, you sorry bastard. You have taken the faith and hope and dreams of lifelong fans and ground them into shit before our very eyes. This was a despicable, craven act and I hope there is something, some failing, some breach of something that shakes you to your very core to make you pay for this to your last breath.
Fuck you. Get the hell out of town. Now.
