DOCTOR, DOCTOR! . . .

My agita, heart palpitations and shortness of breath have reached new heights. On the one hand, I LOVE that I can hear "Who's your daddy!" even over the voices of the stupid Fox announcers. On the other hand ... is a seven run lead by the wretched Boston Red Sox really necessary? Even more, can it be possible?

I suppose anything is possible, and I am a great believer in things that are outside the realm of possibility ... but this, I cannot abide. Thankfully for my blood pressure, my boys are still in the game. The comeback kings, they who have come back from behind in more games than any baseball team in history ... they're still here, they're still playing, they're still on the board. (Incidentally, "Who's your daddy" is getting louder, and I think -- I swear -- I hear C's voice screaming the loudest, just because he thinks it's hilarious.)

I don't care that Johnny Damon looks like Jesus but I hate him anyway. Lord knows, Jesus didn't have some stupid Neanderthal look about him; nor did He have weirdly groomed womanly hair. Ick. I shudder to even conjure up Damon's image in my mind. I don't care that David Ortiz is a boil on the butt of Yankee fans everywhere. I don't care that we have five more runs to tie it up, and if we do, this game could go on forever. I just don't care.

My boys are still on, they're still fighting. No, they haven't been the best team all season, and no, they haven't been as stellar as they've been in the past. No, they haven't always warmed the cockles of my heart, and no, I don't think Steinbrenner always uses his money wisely. But here they are and they're still fighting. They're looking nappy, slimy Pedro in the face and spitting in it. I LOVE THIS GAME.