Eerily Confident

Coming into Saturday night’s game, I had zero confidence in Curt Schilling’s ability to tame the Tribe’s offense. I wouldn’t have bet a counterfeit penny on Big Schill. That’s how sure I was that Game 6 would spell demise for the Sox.
I haven’t been this happy to be wrong in a long, long time.
When J.D. Drew stepped up to the plate after Manny and Mikey had failed to drive-in even a single run with the bases loaded and less than two outs, I told my college counselor — a Boston native who is one of the most optimistic Sox fans I’ve ever met (yes, I was watching this game at school) — that if he didn’t draw a walk, we wouldn’t score. He said, “J.D. is going to hit a Grand Slam here”. Now that’s optimism!
Then it happened. And oddly, he was every bit as shocked as I was.
When the Indians put two men on to start the third inning, I said to my math teacher, “this game is about to be tied”. A Reds fan who became a RSN member during his college days at Harvard, he replied, “There’s no way Schilling implodes here. This game is ours”.
Schilling went on to retire the next three hitters in order, and I was again left feeling like an idiot. And oddly, he was every bit as shocked as I was.
Even when the lead was 10-1 in the later innings, I was far from confident. Heck, I almost hurled a full cup of Pepsi across the room when Ryan Garko led off the seventh inning with a triple. My college counselor told me he was scratching every remaining Boston school on my list if I released it, thereby stopping my attempted Hail Curt.
And yet, on top of the utter lack of trust I had in the Red Sox even when the game was easily in hand, I feel eerily confident about winning this series now that we’ve forced a seventh game.
Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know. I have no reason. And it scares me.
I’m confident that Dice-K will give us his all tomorrow, and gut-out a solid outing.
I’m confident that Jake Westbrook will not be the dominant, grounder-inducing force that he was in Game 3.
I’m confident that our 6-through-9 hitters will carry over the success they enjoyed on Saturday night into Sunday’s game.
I’m confident that the symbolic lyrics of The Standells’ “Love that Dirty Water” will blast through the Fenway Park speakers at the conclusion of Game 7.
Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask me how.
I don’t know. I have no reason.
And it scares me.
Two words: JUST WIN.

–Daniel Rathman