By the 5th inning, both of our boys had fallen asleep in the family room in front of the TV, snug in their sleeping bags. (The Girl put herself to bed at 9 p.m. after confiding in me that watching the game was making her nervous. Like mother, like daughter.)
By the 7th inning, I broke out the antacids, fearful that this was too good to be true.
By the 8th inning, I wanted to break the audio on the TV so I would no longer have to listen to the Fox announcers prattle on . . . and on . . . and on about A-Rod’s future given the fact that both A-Rod and the Yankees went home oh so long ago. (I would’ve tuned to a radio broadcast of the game if only I could get a clear AM signal at my house after dark instead of a wall of static.)
The Spouse and I briefly panicked after seeing Gagne warming up in the bullpen (the prospect of Gagne coming into the game nearly sent me, the exhausted shell of myself, to bed). After another Colorado homerun in the 8th, I made second trip to the antacid bottle.
In the 9th inning, The Spouse and I started taping the game to determine whether it would be worth it to rouse our snoozing trio. After we witnessed the Red Sox WIN THE WORLD SERIES, we re-wound the broadcast and tried to unsuccessfully wake The Girl, received growls of protest from the 6-year-old who didn’t want to get up and got a groggy grin from our 9-year-old son as he sat between his parents and watched Papelbon and Varitek celebrate the final out.
By this morning, with the newspapers telling tales of triumph spread out across our kitchen table, our children’s perspective that their hometown team is a winning force from whom World Series’ wins are expected, was cemented. For me, despite everything that has transpired, this remains a hard concept for me to grasp. My grandfather, who didn’t live to see the 2004 glory, would’ve been so pleased.
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