HONKING

Just came back from an Irish pub in Teele Square, where I watched the last several innings of the 7th game of the ALCS, as the Red Sox crushed the Yankees like a junebug beneath a stiletto heel on a flamenco dancer’s taut, poised foot. No castanets in reality, but you could hear them if you imagined hard enough.

I watched an inning or two back here at Glen’s house, by myself, but I wanted to be out and in it as they won or lost – Brian encouraged me, and I drove down the 10 blocks to the nearest pub I knew of.

The giant projection screen had the game on, as did the 4 regular TVs scattered around the bar. So many people were in the bar that I had to shout “MAGNERS! DRAFT!” over someone’s head, but there was so much spontaneous high-fiving and hugging that the whole thing felt very communal. Sometimes out at bars it’s possible to feel weirdly alone in the midst of a crowd you know none of – tonight was the opposite. Everyone shouted, everyone flipped the bird to the Yankee’s general manager, everyone held their breath as the Yankees leaked out the few base hits in the last 3 innings.

And then the Red Sox switched Embree in for Timlin, and then Embree pitched just a handful of pitches before the Yankee at the plate (all the pinstripes look alike to me) blooped the ball to the second baseman for the last out of the 9th inning, and suddenly the bar shook and thundered to flying, light-caught arcs of beer and cider, and everyone was family, everyone was yelling.

I drove home honking.