perfidy

Last night was almost perfect. I met up with a couple good friends at a legendary Boston watering hole, enjoyed a couple micro-micro-brews and a bloody piece of meat, and then took in a game at the lyric little bandbox down the street. I sat in the bleachers with the Fenway Faithful, ate a Fenway Frank and drank a macro-brew from a plastic cup, and watched Manny Ramirez be Manny, playing around in the outfield and smacking huge doubles. I watched beefy Kevin Youkilis prove why he's worthy of the majors. I watched Matt Clement pitch a not-bad game into the sixth. I waited in vain for the big foam finger guy to come around so I could buy myself a big foam finger. In short, I relaxed and had an all-around ball.

When I left at the seventh inning stretch to catch the train home (I live far enough away that to stay the whole game would've meant getting home at midnight, and my old ass just can't cut that), the score was 1-1. Half an hour later, the score was 7-4 Red Sox.

I shoulda stayed the whole game.