Getting swept by the White Sox wasn't too much fun, no. Witnessing the inglorious end of the Red Sox season up close and personal at a rapidly quieting Fenway Park on Friday was a mite depressing, yes. But no one can say we didn't deserve to lose. If you can't score with the bases loaded and no outs, it just feels like it's time to hang up the gear and head for winter vacation. Which is exactly what the Red Sox did. And I'm okay with it (considering). I really am.
I will return to the metaphor I made before the season even started. You remember--the Sox were the scrappy, maybe even freckly guy who had made it all the way with the hottest girl in camp the previous summer and thought, "you know what, I might be able to do that again." Well, he didn't. He crashed and burned before he could get close to sealing the deal. What's worse: the biggest asshole in camp is still in the chase. But (after a weekend of reflection and vodka tonics) it's okay--his first time is behind him, it was fabulous, and there will be other summers, other girls. He's okay. We're okay.