The Yankees-Red Sox playoff game mercifully came to an end after 4 hours or so. The Yankees won the slugfest 19-8. That was one of the least playoff-like playoff games I've ever seen. Sheesh. What a mess. I was rooting for the Sox. As a Mets fan, I wouldn't mind seeing the Yankees taken down a few pegs, but unless the Red Sox are going to turn into a super team overnight, they're done, stick a fork in 'em. No team in baseball has ever come back and won a 7-game series after being down 3 games to 0. None. It's probably one of the hardest things to do in pro sports, nearly impossible. Which is why it's so odd and amazing that the NY Islanders did it (one of two hockey teams to manage this feat) early in their existence, back when they shocked everyone by even making the playoffs--in 1975, as I recall. The next series, they also went down 3 game to 0, there were jokes that they had the opposition where they wanted them, proceeded to win the next 3 games to tie the series, only to lose game 7. So I have to say, the Red Sox don't have better than a snowball's chance in hell right now.
Saturday, 10/16, was also the 25th anniversary of the Mets' first World Series win, a glorious day in 1969 when NY sports teams ruled (The Jets and Knicks won their championships then, too.) and the Mets proved that underdogs really could be victorious.
It was also the day my mother was born. She would have been 75 yesterday. I always liked the thought that her birthday is forever tied with the Mets win. She was born a week and a half before the stock market crashed, though it was declining for about a year. She sometimes joked that her birth was the last straw that caused the crash. That was the kind of sense of humor my mother had, self-deprecating with some bite. And my father is a tease and has a healthy streak of sarcasm in him. Which explains me, pretty much.
My mother died when she was 53 after battling cancer for 18 months. I'm 51 and sometimes, I really hear that clock ticking in the back of my brain. The main difference between us, aside from the fact that she had children and I don't, is that she smoked from age 16 to 46 and though she died of a brain tumor that kept coming back, the ultimate cause was lung cancer as determined by the autopsy. Despite having gotten into better physical shape than my sister and I were at that time, she was still done in by those disgusting cancer sticks. My father who smoked on and off, never smoked again after she got sick. I really hate the damn things.
And to put a lighter spin on this entry, here's another quiz, found on Anonymous Rowhouse. I almost hate to admit it, but it really suits me.
I am a plain white tank top. Reliable.
Dependable. Kinda boring. Kinda sexy.
Which article of women's lingerie am I?
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