Wednesday, October 20, 2004
A. and I were in the second to last row, between first and right for Game Six, sitting in front of an enthusiastic bunch with blond teeth who'd come to New York from some outpost of Red Sox Nation. "We are," clap, clap, "Row V," they'd chant in between beers. When Dave Henderson launched his tenth inning home run into the bullpen, and our spirits were at their lowest ebb one of these guys announced, "They're going to build a monument to that guy in Copley Square!"
As we all know, it didn't quite work out that way. I wonder, though, if Curt Schilling might not be getting measured for a plinth. I hadn't realized that he is the sort of religious nut ballplayer who somehow manages to believe that the deity is a sports fan, and that counts against him, but you gotta be impressed with a guy who repairs his subluxing tendon by stapling it down. I mean, when rubbing dirt on it just isn't enough-- wow. No statue for Johnny Damon, though. He's been too hard to look at all year-- I can't see that his likeness should be inflicted upon future generations, unless it is in a natural history museum.
As we all know, it didn't quite work out that way. I wonder, though, if Curt Schilling might not be getting measured for a plinth. I hadn't realized that he is the sort of religious nut ballplayer who somehow manages to believe that the deity is a sports fan, and that counts against him, but you gotta be impressed with a guy who repairs his subluxing tendon by stapling it down. I mean, when rubbing dirt on it just isn't enough-- wow. No statue for Johnny Damon, though. He's been too hard to look at all year-- I can't see that his likeness should be inflicted upon future generations, unless it is in a natural history museum.
// posted by Bill @ 10:32 PM 
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