That Colorado Rockies Dog.

Here is the story behind the terrier that sits behind home plate!

So good! So good! So...yeah, not so much.

Hub and I went to game 2 of the American League Championship Series last night.

That was our first mistake.

We couldn't attend game 1 due to prior plans, and I got a little nervous about asking for tickets to a game 6 or 7 that may or may not happen, so I said, okay, we will go to game 2.

Game two, lucky for everyone, started at 8:21. I'm not a fan of this late-night-east-coast starting time. Even a normal 3 hour game still gets you out of the park after 11:30. I'm old, we've already established that, and 11:30 is not that bad. Oh 11:30, how we longed for you as the game crept into the next day like a blind, drunk tortoise. Hub and I have already attended the second longest (5 hours and 49 minutes long) playoff game in the history of the world, Game 5 of the 2004 ALCS. So while that game was certainly the best and most amazing game I'll ever attend, I didn't feel like a repeat performance against the Cleveland Indians last night.

I learned a few things about myself during the game. One is that I've become a complete and total snob about my seats and my seatmates. I'm not looking to make friends at a game. I'm not a chatter and chances are I don't even want to make eye contact with you. I'm pretty much a misanthrope, as we've determined many times here on this blog. But I also have zero interest in sitting next to the only 4 Cleveland Indians fans in the entire stadium. I'd rather sit next to 4 guys from the Bronx, because at least you understand why they cheer for the Yankees. But Cleveland fans? Really? They exist? And are obnoxious? Over what? They were so annoying that I had to seriously refrain from punching one of the girls in the box when she didn't understand what the count lights were on the Green Monster.

(You should have to pass an exam to be able to go to a postseason game in Boston. I'm sorry. I'm a snob. Please know who your team is fielding, what an umpire's job is, and not be a 18 year old drunk slut. There were so many of those at the game! How did they even get tickets? Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that question.)

I've had the extreme good fortune to have spent my last 6 or 7 games sitting in pretty awesome seats. So it kind of sucked to be jammed in with Cleveland fans who expected me to read their minds every time they wanted to get up and get a beverage (it's called saying, "Excuse me, I'd like to get by now," and even if you are a douche from Cleveland, chances are you've seen Wayne's World and can credit Garth for teaching you some manners). Thankfully they didn't spill their beer on my new coat. And that I had fried dough, which made everything all better (except for the appearance of Eric Gagne, which I will get to).

The two most obnoxious things this one red-headed ring-leader-bastard-of-a-Cleveland-fan did were:

-- Get visibly and then out-loud annoyed when the crowd (of Red Sox fans) didn't pronounce Fausto correctly in their jeering chant: "Fauuuusstoooooo....Faaaauuuussstoooooo." Apparently this dipstick didn't get the memo: we don't give a shiiiiiittt how he pronounces his name. We aren't at "The Jake." Also you have someone named Asdrubal (is that Astro Ball? Or Ass Dribble? Or Az Droobal?) on your team, whose name was pronounced 11 different ways by the members of your party alone. So, please.

-- Make fun of Red Sox fans. Our seats were behind home plate, under the net, but every once in a while balls would get in and fall in our vicinity (Lord knows there were enough foul balls last night), and people would oohh and ahhh and clap when someone would catch a ball. It's kind of ridiculous, yes, but you are at a baseball game and this shit happens at a baseball game. He made derisive comments every time, like, "Oh that was a HARD one to catch. It just fell from the net." And did the slow clap. The slow clap. I guess at "The Jake" the fans don't blink an eye when a fan catches a foul ball. They must be too classy for that. Because obviously people from Cleveland are known for reeking of class right? It is class they reek of, yes?

Oh, and a note to my fellow Red Sox fans, you pansy-asses. When Trot Nixon comes up in the bottom of the 10th for his first at-bat of the game, with men on base and the game pretty much on the line, don't cheer for him as though he still plays for us. Good gracious, this isn't Ray Borque hoisting his Stanley Cup trophy at Government Center. This is a player on the other team with a very good shot of hitting a single straight up the middle, scoring a run or two. Hey! And then he does just that! And then you all boo him when he goes back to the dugout! Way to go! Get over this sentimental bullshit! I like Trot just as much as the next Red Sox fan, but I really would have loved to have seen him whiff last night, not crank one up the middle.

And now, speaking of whiffing, let's speak of Eric Gagne now and then never speak of him again. When Jonathan Papelbon comes into the game to the tune of "Wild Thing," Fenway part pretty much nearly catches on fire. The guy is electric, clutch, and borderline crazy (edit: As my friend Tyler pointed out, "He's not borderline crazy. He IS crazy."). When Eric Gagne comes in, as I witnessed last night, it's like someone just did a big, loud fart, and everyone gets silent and kind of disgusted. I don't remember if he comes out of the bullpen to a song, but probably not, because to the best of my knowledge no one has recorded a song called, "I Suck Real Hard (And Waste Both the Team's Money and a Spot on the Roster"). I realize completely that Lopez and Lester had a hand in this, but Gagne was responsible for the momentum shift, and that was palpable in the ballpark.

This post makes it seem like I didn't have a good time last night, but I totally did because 1) we saw some great home runs (Yay for MVP Mike Lowell and Manny), 2) there was an excellent 12 year old boy in front of us who was so into the game, he never even got up to go to the bathroom or get a Coke or anything in all 5+ hours, and he started a few claps and chants himself, and 3) I had fried dough. Also, someone heckled the Cleveland fans by yelling, "Sit down, Drew Carey, before I dump my beer on you." Best.

Yes, we stayed until way after 1 a.m. and got home after 2 a.m. and they lost, but oh well. It's only a game!

I will leave you with this joke I got from one of my illustrators. He lives in Cincinnati and I emailed him asking if Ohio, in general, will root for the Indians. He replied, and I quote:

"There is an old joke here in Cincy....Why doesn't Cincinnati fall into the Ohio River? Because Cleveland sucks! We really don't like anything Cleveland here.... so go right ahead and beat 'em!"

On to "The Jake," boys!

(And Go Pats!)