Amazing. As Wally and I come around the corner at the C&F on to Landsdowne St there's a girl with a bullhorn announcing that there are still tickets available.

We continue down Landsdowne and as we pass the ticket window I notice two people in line. This is the Playoffs and many have given up.

We hit the big facility for burgers and beers. I like to close out every season with Wally, so I remind him of the dates of Games 6 & 7 of the World Series. He just smiles. We both know that tonight is all about just getting one win, to try to get to be only 3-1 behind the Yankees. Tonight is mostly about saving face.

Before we head into the Park we ditch to burn a couple. We roll through the turnstiles and I immediately head to the downstairs bar. There's an eerie aura surrounding the place. Is this it? Are we doomed once more? We're on the brink of another depressing off season/winter, I'm not ready to pack it in. We suck down a couple then head to our usual seats.

There's a fat chick two rows behind us, she's wearing a Varitek jersey of course. 'Wally, see that fat chick over there. That fat chick is not singing tonight. No way.'

The place looks packed, the crowd is definetly into it. When Rodriguez lines one out for three in the fifth, and uneasiness quickly spreads through Fenway. We come back but NY covers in the next inning. After the seventh we head over to Section 25 the place where comebacks happen. I purposely don't say good bye to the regulars that I've been sitting with all season. I plan on coming back.

The bottom of the ninth. Riveira's pitching and I keep chanting 'GFI, GFI". Nobody gets it, but then something happens. Millar walks, Dave Roberts comes in to steal. Here it is, season on the line we need to get the runner into scoring position, he's going to steal. Baseball as it should be played. Roberts swipes second and the place goes nuts. Bill Mueller steps in and there isn't a person in the place who isn't thinking about the game winning homer at the end of July that he hit off Riveira. I have a scar on my leg that I got right after that hit when in complete Sox escaty I walked into the corner of an end table. I start to rub the spot on my leg.

Mueller slaps it right through Riveira, Roberts scores, the place explodes.

This season's not over till I say it's over!

We know this game is ours, but we wait. I pace back and forth, Wally grabs a spot on the rail. I need a drink but no way I leave for the bar. Night ends and morning comes, every muscle in my body is tense. The 12th inning arrives, and when the ball leaves Ortiz' bat there's no question.

He touches the plate, I grab Wally by the shoulder: 'WE LIVE! WE LIVE!'

We immediately head down the ramp and head out. College kids flood the streets heading to the party. Wally wonders what they'd normally be doing. (He's such a pig) We jump into the German Sedan, crack 'em, light 'em, and lay on the horn.

Wow. This thing's not over yet.

What do I know?