*Picture courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*
After spending the early morning hours of Wednesday trying to ignore what my body was telling me I went to work for a few hours, only to return home and barely make it to the bathroom before re-enacting some scene out of the Exorcist and then spent the rest of the day either laying down or playing a game of chicken with my stomach and the bathroom.
Come Wednesday night I was completely wiped out but in that sort of weird state of consciousness where I wanted to go to sleep but couldn't if I had taken a bottle of Ambien. So I piled about 3 blankets on top of me, prayed for death, and settled in to watch the Sox play the Rays.
And except for a few brief moments where my stomach sounded like Mount Etna at T minus 10 and one scary moment where I thought I'd dumped my Gatorade onto my phone I got to watch one of the most dominant Red Sox pitching performances by a guy NOT named Pedro Martinez I've seen in the last 12 years or so.
He may not make 15 wins and I may lose my bet with Jr but whether he gets there or not I know one simple thing.
The Commander is BACK.
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