[Edit from 1/20/05: I noticed that this post about Sam Horn was up here twice. I figured I'd just done it by accident. I noticed that the two posts were different, and figured the first one must have been the rough draft, and the second the final, and they both got posted by accident. But since I don't do "rough drafts," that didn't make sense. Upon closer inspection, I noticed there were misspellings (moosshot instead of moonshot) in the LATER post that weren't in the earlier post, along with other minor differences. I was really confused. Then I figured it out. Sometimes these blog things don't publish right away. And it sometimes seems like it doesn't publish at all. But it always does, it just doesn't always confirm that it does. So, back then, as a new blogger, I must have written this thing and thought I'd lost it forever when it didn't say "post published" or whatever. So I re-wrote the story, completely from scratch. It's amazing, knowing that, how close the two are. It's also interesting to see a post that I wrote not knowing that an original version of it was right there for everyone to read. So this post is the earlier, thought to be gone version. I kind of like it better. The second one sounds so phony, like I'm "pretending" to write new material that's really a half an hour old.]


When Sam Horn first broke into the bigs, everyone was pretty excited. That guy could hit the ball a mile. Unfortunately, he only hit it about two times out of every ten oppurtunities. Regardless, Pat and I were pretty psyched as kids back in the eighties when we got a chance to see Sam hit a moonshot IN PERSON.

My dad drove us up. That's actually a key point in the story. Because my dad will drive you to a baseball game, but he'll be damned if he's gonna sit in traffic afterwards!

So when the seventh or eighth inning rolled around that day, it was time to go. Reluctantly, Pat & I follwed my dad away from our seats (that would cost $70 each today) and out on to Yawkey Way.

Then we heard the sound that a crowd makes when only one thing just happened: a home run. Oh crap, what did we just miss?

Moments later, a man came out of the park, and my dad asked him, "Home run?"

"Grand Slam," said the man.

"Henderson?" my dad asked, which, as Pat & I pointed out later, was a silly question, since Hendu had been at the plate when we left, and the bases were not loaded at the time.

The man countered my dad's suggestion with one word.

"Horn!"

Damn.

Needless to say, as an adult, when I go to a ballgame, I stay until the final out.

So last night, adult Pat and adult me were at Fenway, and as we were standing on Yawkey Way, (roughly in the same spot as we were when we learned of the Sam Horn Grand Salami) waiting for the gates to open, who did we see but Sam Horn. He works for NESN, of course.

Funny how no one yelled to him. Especially with his current internet name-only fame.

The magic numbers are descending with last night's win and today's doubleheader sweep, but only one at a time as the Birds and bastards are winning along with us. Magic # to beat yanks thru 4/29: 137. Magic # to win division: 140.