Sunday, January 25, 2009

Number of Days Until Spring Training: Aaron Boone (#19)

Uh, remember this?


Remember when the Yankees were invincible and the Red Sox were just a bunch of gagging choke artists trying to suck three dicks at once?



/regains composure

The night Aaron Boone singlehandedly caused a record 326 heart attacks and 114 suicides the the greater Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I was attending Bentley College, in Waltham. My college tenure (2002-2006) coincided with some of the fiercest skirmishes in the history of the Yankees vs. Red Sox version of the Hundred Years War.

We were sophomores and happened to be living in a dorm populated by almost all seniors because my freshman year roommate won the 2nd pick in the housing lottery. My roommate Kevin and I got together with a few other Yankees fans (Kristen, Katie, Allissa, you out there?) and watched it in our room.

When the Red Sox were winning 4-1 in the top of the seventh, a few Boston loving, lobstah cracking, Storrow Drive driving, Kelly's Roast Beef loving (btw there is no fucking way you "created the orignial roast beef sandwich"), Jim Koch blowing, Boston Stranglin', Reveeah Beach walking (America's first public beach, huh? THEY WERE ALL PUBLIC WHEN THE FUCKING NATIVE AMERICANS LIVED HERE YOU RACIST OPRESSORS), yellow rain slicker wearing, NESN watching, chowdah gulping, Bernie and Phyl's shopping, Tia's on the Waterfront sweating, Tequila Rain dancing, Who's On First patrons who also happened to be motherfucking giant shiteating, fuckfaced fish mongers from fackin' Sawgus, Walpole, Reading, Taunton or some other godforsaken shithole, thought it would be a good idea to bang on everyone's doors and scream unintelligible shit.

Sorry, I lost it again for a second there.

It was before the ubiquity of the DVR and pretty much everyone on campus was watching the game at the exact same time. If you weren't tuned in, you probably still had a pretty good idea of what was going on, just by the collective audible reactions echoing throughout the dorms. It was fucking electric, and I can't imagine a baseball game ever getting to that place again.

The Red Sox have obviously since smartened up and became the Yankees pimp in recent years, so I guess there could technically be an epic playoff rematch, but I highly doubt it's going to come down to an 11th inning, Game 7, walk-off home run by a guy who never slugged .500 over a full season.

When it happened, everyone in the room went from deadly stoic to deliriously ecstatic in one swing of the bat. Being that most of the student body is from New England, we were one of the few rooms going absolutely insane, literally jumping around like a bunch of four year olds on a trampoline for the first time.

Because of that Perfect Storm, the aforementioned Matt Damon idolizing, NKOTB fawning, dock workers ended up eating a giant bag of shit for their premature celebration while the other Wellesley living, Nantucket vacationing, Tea Party having, Charles River trail running, Jordan's Furniture investing, Volvo driving, Phillips Exeter grads cried into the J. Crew sweaters draped over their shoulders and about 200,000 pink Sox hats got put back in the closet until the next October.

Whatever Sox fans, you won in 2004, con-fucking-gradulations, but Johnny Damon's 2nd inning grand slam could never hold a candle to Aaron-Fackin-Boone. Admit it. You were still worried until that last out was recorded. You will always be our collective bitches. Why don't you have a couple of glasses of Jameson and go for a drive?

For fuck's sake, can the season start already? Shovel off the Zeusdamn fields. I'll play!

Did I mention I hate Boston?

[Ed. Note: I could never have come up with all these Boston stereotypes by myself, and thus enlisted pretty much everyone I know that spend some time out there, including my sister, Joe, Kevin, Will and Cliff]

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