The look of sudden shock and pain on Garry’s face was alarming.
“What’s wrong?” I cried. He was obviously hurting.
“I just saw the score,” he said sadly. Which is when I realized he had turned on the Red Sox game. They were playing the Angels, the first game of a double-header on the left coast. “It’s eleven-to-one,” he explained.
“Ouch,” I said. “I don’t suppose they’re going to stage a come from behind victory.”
“Actually,” he replied, “I was wondering exactly how bad they’re going to be in the second half of the season.”
There seems to be no bottom for this year’s Sox. No pitching, no bottom. No hope. (Houston put the seal on the deal. If you don’t know what I mean, maybe it’s best you don’t find out.)
Indeed, I had seen correctly. It was pain. Mental, not physical, but the look of agony on his face will stay with me a long time.
There’s no medication that can take away the pain of your team in the dumpster. This will be a season of pain in New England. It’s not our year.
If you follow baseball and especially, the Red Sox and Fenway Park, check out Fenway Park 100.