Come on skinny love just last the year
Pour a little salt we were never here
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer
I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Right in the moment this order's tall
-"Skinny Love", Bon Iver
She'd been making passive aggressive comments for a while, but you ignored them and plowed ahead, sure of the foundational history of the relationship. Lately, however, the comments started to become aggressive-aggressive, and she was staying out with friends more often. Even as you poured every resource and support mechanism into the relationship, it got worse, and she drifted further away from you. Sure, little victories would pop up: a smile here, a girlish giggle there, but the moments were fleeting, and the fights became increasingly vicious. The stress began to show externally and old reliable tricks to cheer her up and strengthen the emotional and physical bond failed. Flashy expenditure was useless and only revealed the relationship's deeper flaws. At the end, you'd been reduced to wearing tokens of your love in public out of a hope that it would act as a talisman for future success.
She put the sword to you last night, via voicemail: She'd met somebody else. He was better looking, younger, more successful, bigger, and waaaaaay better in the sack. She was leaving you. You could toss her stuff, she couldn't even be bothered to stop by and pick it up. When you tried to call her back, she'd already blocked your number. Her and 1/3rd of your Facebook friends were gone.
Your friends are telling you it will get better. Time heals all wounds, this too shall pass.
But not today.
Today is for wallowing in despair, dreaming of what SHOULD have been, what went wrong. For listening to sad emo hipster tunes. Luckily, you got a buddy down south who is going through something similar, so there's that.
The Red Sox collapse, well chronicled in the media, is now complete and absolute. Up by 9.0 games on September 2, the Boston Red Sox disintegrated in a fashion which would make the French Army blush. 7-20 over the month of September.
Last night's game had everything you could want: multiple base running gaffes, lackadaisical out field play, unclutchy hitting, hanging splitters. Just a perfect storm of suck. All aided and abetted by a Yankee team intent on resting starters (which they should be doing) and a very good Tampa Bay team deserving every ounce of praise for fantastic September play.
The Red Sox have nobody to blame but themselves, and did not deserve to make the playoffs, even before losing to the FREAKING ORIOLES. Yet, as a fan, that didn't prevent me from wearing my Sox cap on the Metro yesterday and watching baseball nightly for the last week. Now I'm sleep deprived and bitchy like a teen forced to turn off the x-box and read Grapes of Wrath.
The Red Sox, of course, enjoy a long, glorious history of breaking hearts. But the heartbreak was always at the end of a playoff series. The Sox could get there, they just couldn't close it out. Johnny Pesky's double clutch in 46. Losing the World Series to the Reds after Fisk's Shot. Bucky Dent. Buckner. Clemen's meltdown in Oakland. Grady Little's brain freeze. Indeed, the Sox are often on the other side of this equation: A feverish late season push in 1968's "Impossible Dream," and storming back from a 3-1 deficit against the Angel's in 1986. 2004 ALCS.
No, season ending collapses are not Boston's forte. That special hell is usually reserved for Philadelphia, New York Mets, and especially the Chicago Cubs. Sure, plenty teams have blown 5-7 game leads over two months, but it requires a real dash of crapsauce to blow a 9 game lead in one month.
I came to the Red Sox on my own. There are no misty stories of going to Grandpa's grave in Dorwichchester to bury a 2004 ticket stub. When I was a kid, I loved Nolan Ryan's Astros like everyone else in Texas (I barely knew the Rangers existed till I was in 7th grade). As a twist of fate I was on the Red Sox in little league for three consecutive year's. With money tight, my league cap made me stick out of the crowd in Austin, and I eventually followed the team out of self defense. Then came Clemens, and Calvin Schiraldi (Westlake Chaparrals, HOLLA), and 1986 and my fate was sealed for life. A mid nineties stint in Maine, along with a New Englander (ex)wife ensured I would never return.
My passion for the Sox is self earned, and thus burns hot and painful. It wasn't handed down to me or learned at my father's knee, but self built through Statesman box scores, This Week in Baseball, and Baseball America. I didn't attend my first game in Fenway until 1998, yet I finally arrived home. Last night's loss is all the more painful, like watching a house you built with your own hands burn to the ground. Sure, insurance will pick up the cost, but it's your shit, your sweat, your team that collapsed, and it hurts. A feeling many on this site know well.
I think the Drive By Truckers summarize it well.