- Number of times I startled a random Red Sox fan by throwing up a high-five/punching them on the arm/yelling "Let's go SOX!!" as we walked past each other: 4.
- Number of times somebody startled me by flipping the script and doing the same thing to me: 2.
- Number of people who laughed at BroMo in the men's room, after he saw a guy wearing a Curt Schilling jersey and said, "Ahh, the ol' knuckleball, eh?": 5, including me, but not including the guy wearing the jersey, who didn't think it was a funny mix-up for some reason. Don't worry, BroMo, it's a common mistake. The 'Wakefield' is silent.
- Number of prayers I sent to Baby Jesus, thanking him that I wasn't in attendance for the Game 3 walk-off obstruction shenanigans: Roughly 56. Seriously, security would've had to remove me from the stadium after that one. Forcibly. Make it 57 times now.
- Number of fellow Red Sox fans I had in my section: ZERO. Nobody within 15 rows. I knew I'd be completely out-numbered; this was St. Louis, a true baseball town. This wouldn't be like going to Tampa or some shit. But still, I figured there would be a lot more Sox fans in attendance, especially in the upper deck, where a lot of us second-hand ticket purchasers were residing.
I was mistaken. I looked around in dismay as the first pitch approached; I didn't even have anybody I could air-five with. During the first inning, two Sox fans showed up, directly across the aisle from me, and I quickly established fist bumpsies and told them I was coming to them for every celebration. However, they disappeared in the second inning, never to be seen again, and so I had to celebrate Han-style (Solo) the rest the game.
- Number of Cardinals fans in our section who were pretty cool to me: All of them. We struck up a friendship right away with the people in our immediate area, and rather than an antagonistic relationship, they used me as a resource for knowledge that would help them better understand the game. They took to calling me 'Boston Guy', so throughout the game, there was a lot of "Hey Boston Guy, who is that in the on-deck circle right now? Are they pinch-hitting for Buchholz?" or "Hey Boston Guy, why is John Lackey warming up in the bullpen right now?" or even "Hey Boston Guy, is it pronounced Big Pappy or Big Poppy?"
- Number of times I felt like a dick, due to said relationship with Cardinals fans: 1; after the three-run homer by Gomes. The Cardinals pitched around Ortiz, putting men on first and second, and leading to some general grumbling among the fans. "Don't worry," I assured them, visions of another Gomes strikeout clouding my vision, "Gomes has absolutely sucked this postseason, he's hitting like .120. You made the right decision here." Then, of course, Gomes went yammies, and I felt a little sheepish, especially after I heard one of the guys behind us mutter juuuuust loud enough for me to hear, "Nice fucking call, Boston Guy."
- Number of beers I drank: A couple too many.
- Number of beers I drank at the all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink banquet afterwards: 1. Our Craigslist guy surprised us by giving us a couple of passes to this post-game social club in Busch Stadium, but by that point, I was pretty hammered, pretty drained from the intensity of the game, and I sensed that there weren't a lot of people happy to see me in that room. Maybe if it would've been pre-game, I'd be more welcome, but after their boys just got done losing to my boys....there was a lot of mean-mugging going on. Usually my policy is "If it's free, it's me, and I'll take three", but BroMo and I only had one plate of food and one beer each, and got the hell out of there. There was a pretty sweet ice sculpture though.
- Number of times I had a perfect view of a pickoff play at first base with two outs in the ninth inning, and got to yell "YUP! SMELL YA!!!!" before the umpire could even make his call: 1. Just once was all it took.
