The Ultimate Latin Lover

I am a star. I'm a star, I'm a star, I'm a star. I am a big, bright, shining star.
-- Dirk Diggler, "Boogie Nights," 1997.

The human brain is an amazing organ. In the time it takes a baseball to travel the 360 or so feet from home plate to the visitors' bullpen at Fenway Park, one's mind can leap from nervous exhaustion all the way across the spectrum to ecstatic exhaustion. The mulling over of potential free agent replacements for Pedro Martinez transforms into pensive anticipation of another start for the greatest pitcher of his generation, as was (ahem) hoped for in this space not long ago. If the mind is impressionable enough, it might even be able to briefly repress the memory of Orlando Cabrera's times at bat. Honestly, at least Pokey will take a pitch on occasion.

These are dangerous times now. Hope has returned, practically beating down the door after spending a weekend sleeping in the gutter. Hope wants back in to this party, and someone is going to crack and sneak it in through the garage. The only excuse for such naivete', really, is that circumstances could scarcely have seemed more hopeless. If the mood of Red Sox fandom is a continuum, perhaps abject despair is not so far from exhilaration. Perhaps the challenge is merely to stay on the loop until the track comes around again. Back there, the Sox were down 3-0 and had just received the thrashing of a lifetime. At the next stop on the line, David Ortiz has again touched off bedlam in Boston with a meteor into the bullpen.

A few moments ago certain fan's optimistic girlfriend started a candle burning on the mantle next to a snapshot of Pedro having a catch on the rightfield lawn at Fenway in the long afternoon light of September. It would seem a shame to blow it out over a concern so trivial as the house burning down while she sleeps.

Uno mas!