Haze
| Game 56: June 4, 2007 ∙ 11 innings | |||
| Red Sox | 4 | L: Kyle Snyder (1-0) | 37-19, 2 game losing streak 14-4-2 series record |
 Athletics |
5 | H: Jay Marshall (7) BS: Alan Embree (1) W: Santiago Casilla (1-0) |
29-27, 3 game winning streak 9-8-2 series record |
| Highlights: David Ortiz broke his 19-game home run drought. Wily Mo Peña launched four-baggers in the fourth and seventh. Is Alan Embree a mole? | |||
I had my usual weekly session with my therapist after work today. Settling into the beige of his office, I told him about the odd, vivid dream I had last night.
“It started off terrifically. Papi sent a ball into orbit in the first inning off of one of the league’s best young pitchers Dan Haren. Haren was in heavy eyeliner and dressed a little like Captain Jack Sparrow. He does that shimmy that Depp does and batter after batter fall under his thrall. They all swing half-heartedly then join him to go drink some rum on the mound, which suddenly sprouted palm trees.”
My therapist nodded knowingly, scribbled a few notes, a cocked a knowing glance in my direction. “Excited about the new movie, are you?”
I reddened under his inspection. “Just a little. But then things started getting disturbing. Wily Mo was starting in center instead of Coco and Tavarez was pitching. He wasn’t wearing road greys but a red and green striped sweater. And he had ridden to Oakland on the back of one of those Japanese movie monsters.”
“You mean kaiju, like Godzilla or Gamera?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses with concern.
“Exactly! Tavarez crossed the entire continent on a beast that was a cross between a lion, a cobra, and a humpback whale. Suddenly Mark Ellis of all people comes out to read at a podium. He’s reading from his upcoming novel and it’s all about glamorous youths with vacant eyes, fat wallets, and costly habits. It’s a farrago of nihilism and designer labels. But it’s compelling enough to transfix Tavarez long so that he can grab a Big Wheel and a roll of toilet paper. Ellis motored around Tavarez, wrapping him like a mummy. And the drums! Drums rumbling along the edge of my senses, driving my heart to beat faster. I woke up with a start just in time to see Wily Mo absolutely smoke a home run to center.”
The doctor shifted lower into his chair, perturbed yet distracted. “Now, that actually did happen, as I recall. Tied the game.”
“Yep, it did. So I watched the game, drifting in and out of sleep. Top of the ninth was great, the team worked together like gears of a machine to get those two runs.”
“Mmm hmm,” he nodded.
“I slipped back into sleep. I thought I saw a wizened old man knock Pedroia on his butt, all the while yelling about how damn punk kids don’t stay off his lawn and keep on trying to use his property as a shortcut. His hollering turned into more and more voices. The noise woke me up, and I realized it was cheering for Chavez’s walk-off homer.” I leaned back and awaited my psychiatrist’s decree.
I would have to wait awhile. “Doc, did you fall asleep on me?”
With a start he bolted upright. “Oh, sorry about that.”
Pulling a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and cleaning his glasses, he stammered further apologies. “These West Coast games kill me. Let’s reschedule for later this week, okay? Just see Trish on your way out.”
