The Futility Infielder

If your pop-psychology take on why I've spent my time since Saturday mostly writing about the demise of the 2004 Dodgers instead of the impending Yankees-Red Sox heavyweight bout is because I'm afraid of what the outcome might be, I won't argue with you. Two weeks of double duty, absorbed in rooting for teams on opposite coasts, has left me without the energy to do so. More than anything, I simply wanted to avoid tapping into the negative vibe that this rivalry inevitably summons before I absolutely had to.

I loathe the Red Sox with a passion and for deep-seated reasons that go back to my time living in New England and commuting to Boston. Blue laws, a twice-stolen car, and a subway system that shuts down before 1 AM are just the tip of the iceberg. This explains perfectly why I suffer from Tourette's Syndrome when talking about the Sox, why I want to see Manny Ramirez' head on a spit, Pedro Martinez passed around like the Sweetheart of Cellblock C, and Curt Schilling ritually disemboweled while his family looks on in horror. If you're a Sox fan, doubtless you feel the same way about Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, and Jorge Posada, and that is your prerogative. If there's one thing the two fan bases should agree upon it is this: hunting Enrique Wilson for sport would make for a far more amusing seventh-inning stretch in the Bronx than the current medley of "God Bless America," "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and "Cotton-Eyed Joe."

Anybody who tells you they know what will happen in this series is lying. In the 45 contests between the two teams over the past two years, we've seen Pedro Martinez thrashed, Curt Schilling bawling like a baby, Aaron Boone elevated to hero status, Mariano Rivera coughing up multiple leads, A-Rod sucker-punched in the mouth by Jason Varitek and John Flaherty getting his first game-winning hit since tee-ball. A prediction that the balance of the series will be tilted when one team's middle infielder gets mauled by a tiger and the other squad's top setup man runs off to join a zombie-like cult is as likely to be right as anything you'll hear from the experts or the drunk on the next barstool. Nobody knows anything, so just sit back and enjoy the games. Failing that, try to avoid having a nervous breakdown or throwing your TV set out the window in frustration or triumph. You might need that sucker on Election Day.

Two cents' worth of analysis: these two teams are very evenly matched, especially on offense. Both have question marks in the middle of their bullpens. The Sox advantage with the rotation, even if Schilling is less than 100 percent and Pedro is the hittable 2004 model, is still likely to be decisive, especially because the Yankees have not yet solved Bronson Arroyo. In a seven-game series, the Yankees can afford no worse than a 2-2 record in the games Curtis and Petey start. Mike Mussina and Kevin Brown will have to pitch up to their reputations as wily 200-game winners rather than as fragile, intermittently effective geezers to avoid exposing the team's shaky middlemen too often. Javier Vazquez and Jon Lieber will have to be at the tippy-tops of their games as well. Don't bet on it.

One of these years, the Groundhog Day spell which dooms the Red Sox to find new ways to implode will be lifted (here's a hint: it will involve a manager with the horse sense to back six innings of Pedro with three of Keith Foulke). Sox fans will wake up to find that contrary to what they expected to happen once they defeated the Yankees, things won't really have changed all that much; pennies will not fall from heaven, cats will spurn mating with dogs, Rhode Island won't float off into the Atlantic Ocean because the entire state of Massachusetts will still suck (just kidding on that last count, folks -- old college joke), and using the word "wicked" to describe anything other than a knee-high 98 MPH fastball on the black will sound silly.

So in the spirit of all of the above, I'll hazard a guess -- Red Sox in six -- and look forward to the Yankees offering me and the rest of their fans a pleasant surprise and another chance to drink the yummy tears of Boston's unfathomable sadness.