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Tenth Man

As the Mets have already broken my heart this season, I will be very grateful if the Red Sox could refrain from stomping on the pieces. 

I'm tagging along at a conference with J, so at this very moment we're actually in the town with the most bereft baseball fans per capita (sorry, Chicagoans.  Your city is lovely, btw.)

Here's how the Nation's ninth went down in our hotel room:

JD Drew strikes out. 

I'm still rattled from last night's epic battle, which I watched in its entirety (okay, until the Angels scored in whatever-the-hell inning it was...we were up at 4:30 to make our flight) and I suddenly realize my astonishing lack of foresight in packing.

(moaning) I  don't even have a hat!

(Since my hair is in kind of an awkward growing-out stage, I'm not wearing baseball caps out of the house.)

J whips out the paper sailor hats we got along with our (fabulous) butterscotch malts at Ed Debevic's and puts one on me, upside down. 

Bay takes second on the ground-rule double-which-coulda-been-a-run if it had stayed in play.

J puts her hat on, too.  Look, a jaunty angle.

I look.  But yours is right side up.

A jaunty angle isn't enough?

Kotsay lines out on a great catch by Angel's first baseman.


(dutiful sigh, followed by hat repositioning.)

Lowrie punches Bay home and the Sox into the ALCS.

I go wild.  J says Terry Francona owes her a check.