Lord, is there anything better than beating the White Sox?
I mean, anything?
Single malt scotch? A bloody red T-bone? Splitting four eights and having the dealer bust? The killing of Fanucci sequence in The Godfather, Part II?
Somehow, even beating the Red Sox doesn't even match the thrill of the last two days, in that a victory over the Red Sox is always met with the realization that there remains six or ten or fifteen Red Sox games to go, some with Manny up in the seventh or eighth with a one-run lead to protect. The Red Sox you respect as a worthy adversary. The White Sox . . .
Well, doesn't it all come down to the White Sox announcers, to Whoever and the Hawk, to Whitey's's Pick to Click, to "Put it on the boooooard . . . Yeeees!" Compared to the White Sox announcers, Brent Musburger calling LSU-Florida is a model of restraint.
As to the game. How good to see Moose get a win. I'll lay in front of the doors if I must, but if Moose gets to 280 wins it'll mean the Hall Of Fame.
And Rivera. It is time, soon, that Mo will need appreciation not just as the greatest closer of all time, not even as the greatest pitcher of all time, but as pretty damn near the greatest baseball player of all time. Take away two pitches--Sandy Alomar's homer, and the bunt he threw in the direction of the Superstition Mountains--and the conversation would be over.
But really: How great is it to beat the White Sox?