Zzzzzzzzzz … zzzzz …. [cough] … [snort] … huh, wha?
My apologies, loyal base-ball rooters! It seems I must have drifted off to the land of nod toward the tail end of that long-interrupted and interminably rain-soaked contest in the muddy Fens.
(Whoever could imagine that such ample and flowing whiskers could sprout forth in a mere eight hours?)
But, oh, I was having the most wondrous and frightening dream!
In my slumber, my head was swimming with strange and perplexing imagery.
I dreamt that the Bostons' trio of pennybags owners were mingling with the common man, working the counter at of the Fenway park dough-nut shoppe and dispensing cups of the blackest joe and piping hot cocoa to shivering and saturated crowds!
I dreamt that Fenway's creaky seats echoed gloomily with just a scattered smattering of cheers – mere hundreds of fans, rather than the 37,037 with whom I'd entered the park at 7:05 p.m. that very evening!
And I dreamt I saw Mr. Matsuzaka-san pitching in relief! Preposterous and unprecedented!
What's more, I dreamt that, sleep-deprived and bleary-eyed, he loaded the bases and lost the game for the Bostons at the ungodly hour of three quarters past two o'clock in the morning!
What a despicable night-mare!
Seldom have I been so happy to be awake!
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