Holy Flurking Schnit!

I was a dead man. Now I'm back.
-- Fox Mulder, "The X-Files," 1995.

Eighteen hours until Game 7. Sometime in the interim, Terry Francona and Joe Torre will decide upon nominal starting pitchers, Keith Foulke's right arm may get up and sneak out of his hotel room in the middle of the night, and Bronson Arroyo should demand a gentleman's satisfaction from Alex Rodriguez. Radar guns at dawn, Alex, you bush league pantywaist phony. Woe be unto he who would stand between the Red Sox and another deciding game. Woe be unto cheaters! Woe be unto purple-lipsticked nancy boys!

For the second straight night, the Sox will set sail for uncharted postseason waters. The leg of this voyage completed tonight, though thrilling and memorable, will acquire the full lustrous residue of history only if they can finish the job tomorrow. In isolation, Game 6 was an undeniably brilliant spectacle. In context, it will be remembered either as another sensational win for a team on a miraculous rebound run or as one of the greatest teases in the history of the sport. The tipping point approaches.

Uno mas!