For most of it, the Red Sox lead the Yankees. Never quite as smoothly or prettily as it should be. But they lead. Then, late, they implode and blow it. In other words, a game much like most seasons, but in miniature.
Picture A Train Heading South
You’re furious. I never taught you to sing. You carry rocks in your head and pitch them. Without warning. Happy drunk. You’re furious. I beg you for sin. I beg your skin. You buy a whore. Don’t give her water. You’re furious.
For most of it, the Red Sox lead the Yankees. Never quite as smoothly or prettily as it should be. But they lead. Then, late, they implode and blow it. In other words, a game much like most seasons, but in miniature.
