Red Sox-Yankees, post-apocalypse year 1

They say you are hurt most by those you truly love. In which case, I see pre-nupitual agreements and wedding bells in the future for me and the cuddly, ham-handed Sox slugger David Ortiz; they way I feel his cleats spiking into my cardiac tissue, this must mean we're meant to last. I attended last night's Bronx contest with full Boston regalia and pride, a role I'm growing used to at this point. And with my team uneasily perched deep into the game on a 2-0 lead bowtied to the flutter of Timmy Knuckles' magically skittish pitches, I heartily accepted my status as a Yankee peanut target (my only response was a barbed one-timer "You're throwing better than [Yankee pitcher] Jon Lieber!" that drew some ire), even as my spider-sense alarm tingled louder and louder. And that warning turned into a 3-alarm fire in the 7th inning, when AL Player of the Week David Ortiz booted a lazy, 2-out ground ball with the bases loaded right THROUGH the webbing of his glove. He discarded the glove as "unlucky" immediately afterwards, but too late to save me from quietly taking another emotional black eye from the team that has been spousally abusing me since the tender 1986 age of 7 years old, when I first saw a Sox first baseman do a Buster Keaton coordination impression on the New York stage with a game on the line. But I'll be back. They didn't mean it, and it only happened because they love me so much...