On Friday, I came home from work to find a DHL package slip on my door. I thought, Let's see, would a 1985 Rich Gedman All-Star Game program insert baseball card require an exotic delivery sevice like DHL? No. It was a mystery. I typed in the tracking number at the DHL website, to discover which warehouse my package went through in Ohio, and which dock it landed at in Mew York. That didn't help me. This has happened to me before. What's the point of "tracking" a package if you don't know what it is? I'd rather them tell me what it is I'm getting. Once I know that, I don't need to know what state it's currently travelling through. I'm fine with a promise that it will get to me.

At some point over the weekend, I was talking about Red Sox games, and it hit me. My 10-Game Plan tickets! Of course. It's not that I forgot about them. I can assure you, I did notice that mid-Smarch was upon us, and they hadn't arrived. I was worrying that there was a mix-up with my payment or something. (Even though they always arrive in March.) But, for whatever reason, I didn't make the connection when I saw the DHL thing.

So I planned on getting up early today, calling DHL, and trying to find out where I can go to get what I now know to be a very important package. But, I slept through my alarm, and didn't have time to do much of anything before running out the door. But before I did that, I noticed a DHL truck right outside my window. There was no driver around. I waited a minute or so, and then just figured I'd missed my chance and headed to work.

As I walked toward 1st Avenue, I saw a dude moving toward the parked truck. No yellow uniform, but there was a patch on his chest. I looked closely: "DHL."

I followed him to the truck, and pulled out my notice, telling him he might just have a package for me. He opened the back of the truck, and started looking through some packages. Then he spoke.

"Expecting something from the Red Sox?"

"Yeah," I said, complete with how-the-hell-did-you-know chuckle.

Now as some of you know, I pretty much wear a Red Sox hat at all times. However, I was going to work. I had a black jacket on. No Red Sox gear visible. Is it possible that this dude is going around my neighborhood like some kind of Baseball Santa, delivering Red Sox tickets to the good little girls and boys of Manhattan?

I like to think so, actually. Maybe, besides all the Sox fans here, there are now yankee fans who have secretly decided to root for the Sox when no one's looking. Maybe that guy with the Jeter shirt and Sox cap I saw the other day was in the process of easing himself out of the closet.

Anyway, despite having a backpack on, I carried those golden tickets in my hand all the way to work like Charlie Fuckin' Bucket, planning on how I'd retain them should I get mugged or need two hands to save a falling baby*.

(The mugger would've gotten Jules Winfield's "you ain't gettin' this case, Ringo" speech from the final scene in Pulp Fiction, while the baby would've been screwed.)