Sox Diary (In Which Derek Keeps the Faith)
The reality is that we face a 2-0 deficit in this series that we all so anticipated. Our ace starter who was supposed to be the biggest difference maker is suffering through a worse injury than we expected, a tear of the sheath that covers the tendons on his right ankle, the leg from which he pushes off to give him drive on his pitches. He may well be done. He certainly will not be at full strength. Our hitters are not getting the job done, too often swinging at the first pitch and popping up harmlessly to shallow right field. Both games saw us mount a comeback, but in each case we fell short in the ninth inning, with Rivera slamming the door. This is not the team that pounded the Angels, even if Pedro did come out and, despite a couple of rough innings, do enough so that he should have garnered the win (though that home run ball he served up to Olerud was really deflating on a night when we made Lieber look like Bob Gibson).
But I do not despair. Oh, I fume, rage, scream, and throw bottles like a madman. But I do not despair. I have not given up hope. My utter certainty may be on the ropes, but I think we can win this series by getting the job done in Fenway. The key is to get out to a good start, to get some runs on the scoreboard, and to take pressure off of our pitchers. We need to win tomorrow, then let the weekend take care of itself (though it looks like the weather in Boston might be so bad that they do not get the game in, which would cause me no end of anxiety, but might be for the best for us). I see Schilling coming through with a Willis Reed (or perhaps Pedro against the Indians in game Five of the Division series in 1999) moment in game six or game seven. I see us taking one blowout, one nail-biter, and one comeback in Fenway. I see us going back to the Toilet in the Bronx with a chance. Right now, that’s all we want – a chance. I still believe.