Thursday, September 9, 2004: So in the most important stretch of games all season, the Sox sweep the Angels, take 2 of 3 from the Rangers, and sweep the A’s in rather humiliating fashion (8-3 last night, Pedro pitched a two hotter, they rolled in the first three innings, pretty much putting the game out of reach, even if they did yet again give up runs in the 9th that made it look closer than it was — a slightly worrisome trend). The Yanks cannot get their doubleheader in last night, so we gain a half game on them and maintain our lead in the Wild Card, a lead decreasing in significance as it widens and as we close in on the gasping Yankees.

It is becoming alarmingly clear what an obsessive I am. The first thought in my head when I awoke this morning wasn’t about my train ride to London today, or my pending conference paper, or my last morning in Cornwall. It wasn’t about the blazing need to brush my teeth or the itching desire to take a shower (or simply to scratch myself) or the pressure on my bladder. It was not about eating. It was not even about sex. No, the first thing on my mind was “How did the Sox do?” Every day this past week or so, I have been able to wake up happy. Still, for a grown man this should be an alarming fetish. Instead, it is one that I embrace.
I’ll be back in the States in four days, at which point I will be able to follow pitch by pitch, news story by news story, rumor by rumor, speculation by speculation. The gratuitous overkill will be especially fabulous after this respite. The trip has thus far been truly wonderful, but I am missing the Red Sox.

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