5 Hours, 2 Minutes

I'm 34. I have what is known in some circles as PIC, Poor Impulse Control. I stay up too late, I drink too much, I generally do lots of things that when you're in your 20's seem reasonable, when you're in your mid-thirties they're sad.

Friday and Saturday both found me going to sleep around 5 AM and waking around 10 or 11. The Wolf and I joined friends of mine for dinner last night at a not-very-good bistro in my neighborhood. I was literally doing the college lecture whiplash head nod during dinner. I got home halfway through the second inning and melted into the couch.

I lay there for the next 4 1/2 hours, chatting with Frankenpunk, smoking cigarettes and screaming at Terry Fran-coma. After Tito...

1)let Embree (L) pitch to three righties and then

2)pull him so Meyers (L) could pitch to Matsui (L) (I literally couldn't watch, I buried my head in my hands), who walked on 4 pitches, and then

3)brought in Leskanic (R) to pitch to Williams, so Bernie could stay on the left side of the plate, where his career BA is 18 points higher...

I couldn't take it anymore. I called the Assclown, begging for some sort of rationale for Terry's thought process. Matt did me the courtesy of not even pretending he could divine any semblance of logic. Instead he talked me off the ledge, began asking "Who did...," "When did..." and "Why did..." Anything that happened more than twenty minutes previous was lost to me. I was in a fugue state, looking without seeing, listening without hearing. I just felt my mood shift uneasily about my body.

After the 11th, Frankenpunk stood up and declared, "I'm going to bed." I snarled at him, "Listen, you fuck. Go ahead, go to sleep, but let me tell you something: when the Sox win this series I ain't giving you so much as a high five. And if they win the Series? You're dead to me. Go, go to bed, but remember, you made your choice."

Matt, still on the phone, chimed in, "No, just make sure he understands that if the Sox win this game, he has to stay in bed for the remainder of the series, 'cuz that's the only way they'll win." This seemed like sound council.

The next thing I know, Frankenpunk comes back from the kitchen, “Well, I’ve done it. I made a Gimlet.” He nervously sipped his drink as Matt gave me his best Akroyd-as-Jimmy Carter speech.

Suddenly it was over, another moonshot from the Cookie Monster touching down in the bullpen, 6-4 Sox. My adrenaline, coupled with a bone-crushing case of Sundaynitis had me up until 3.

At 5:10 this afternoon I will be lying down on my couch with the UrClown on the other end of the line and Frankenpunk will be drinking Gimlets. We can't lose.