D-Lowe or Broke

Can you believe it has come to this? Here I am, a language and many hours away from all that has transpired in Boston and New York the past week, and I can hardly do anything but think about tonight's game. Boil water to drink? Nah. Get something to eat for breakfast? Nope. Hell, the longest e-mail I sent today (titled "oh ... my ... god") said nothing more than: is this really happening? all i can think about is tonight. i have no idea what i'll do to occupy my time. oh my god.

Yep. It's definitely an illness.

Tonight will be a big test for Ian's Foreign Fan Theory, alluded to by Gary in his last post. Essentially, the IFFT states that when I leave the country, my team wins rivalry games. For example, during my four years at Carolina, UNC beat Duke twice -- once while I was studying abroad in Sevilla, the other time while I was on a J-School trip to Havana. Who knows if being in a Spanish-speaking country has anything to do with it. And I have no idea how to explain the first three losses. No clue.

I do know this, though: There would be nothing sweeter than beating the Yanks and Kevin Brown and his broken hand or Javier Vázquez and his weak heart or Orlando Hernández and his dead arm at the Stadium tonight. Well, yes there would be. Seeing Steinbrenner after the game would be one. Walking into The Mag's office tomorrow after the win would be another. Hovey, Horne, Philbrick and I would own the place, if only until we were reminded that the World Series still needs to be played, and The Rocket is waiting to pitch again at Fenway.

I can't take any more of this. Really.

So if you're a Sox fan, think of me tonight. Drink a beer, hug a loved one, and just watch. If we lose, just remember that we could've been swept. No matter what you think afterward, that would've been worse. Imagine following last year by a sweep, or a whimpering loss in five. Not a fun offseason, particularly if you live in within 100 miles of New York.

If you're a Yanks fan, well, good luck. Because if the Yanks lose tonight, you're never, ever going to hear the end of this choke job. Ever. You'll see Papi in your dreams. Keith Foulke will pitch to you in your Wiffle ball games. And we'll laugh all the way to the Series.