Curt Schilling, You're My Hero

I am a wreck.

I am a walking corpse.

My blood pressure is up.

I am drinking like a sailor in Tiajuana.

I woke up at 5 am this morning crying.

I am a shell of a man.

God, I love October.

I woke up this moring to find an e-mail from my liver:

To : alxfritz@budweiser.com
From : your liver
Re: OW!
Alex, I realize that it is the playoffs, but could you
cut down on the drinking a little bit. I'm putting in overtime
but I get paid a set salary. I gotta get home and see the wife
(by the way, kidney is doing great). I just hope that there's
an off day sometime soon.
P.S. Your heart is about to explode.
Last night, Curt Schilling took me to a level that I have not been at since Brett Farve turned on the goosebump machine last December on Monday Night Football. From the bottom of the first inning, when Curt came to the mound with (and I can not emphasize this enough) blood soaking through his right sock from his dislocated tendon you had to know that this was going to be big.

Jordan big.

Clemens big.

Start a new chapter in a history book big.

99 pitches. On a severed tendon.

If you don't think that is clutch, go outside, stab your self in the ankle with a flathead screwdriver and try to throw a baseball. Now do that 99 times. Against the mother fucking New York Yankees.

Last night was unreal. I'm not sure why I am even trying to describe it.

Maybe it is because I have lost the majority of my communication skills. I now have to rely on typing.


I have been shaking for three days now, and it all leads up to today.

Game six of the NLCS. Game seven of the ALCS.

My two teams. Two elimination games. This is drama.

The Cardinals have their asses up against a brick wall of momentum named the Houston Astros.

The Red Sox pitching staff has run so thin that Theo Epstein called me on my celly to see if I was available to come out of the bullpen tonight (I had to turn him down -- college eligibility issues).

We'll see how it goes.

Here's to your health.

You Can't Script October.

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