[jg2977]

COLIN COWHERD:
Alright, let’s just say it plainly—Boston is 5–0 this postseason, and at this point they’re not playing baseball so much as setting fires and walking away calmly. This game? Nineteen to fourteen. That’s not a score, that’s a bar fight with innings.
J. PETERMAN:
Ah yes, Colin… Fenway Park on a brisk October afternoon. The air thick with destiny, roasted peanuts, and the faint scent of panic from Anaheim pitchers who knew—they knew—they were already lost. I once experienced something similar in the Balkans. Different uniforms. Same inevitability.
COWHERD:
This was chaos, and Boston loves chaos. You score fourteen runs? Great! Here’s nineteen right back. Anaheim’s offense was impressive—eighteen hits, doubles everywhere—but Boston said, “That’s adorable. Now watch this.”
PETERMAN:
And then emerged John Jordan—a man possessed. Four for four. A homer. A double. Singles like handwritten postcards from the front lines. He reached base five times, Colin. Five. Like the five stages of grief Anaheim went through by the sixth inning.
COWHERD:
Exactly. This Red Sox lineup doesn’t blink. Everybody contributes. Croke. Williams. Madigan. Lopez. It’s like one of those fancy restaurants where everything on the menu works—and the Angels ordered the entire thing.
PETERMAN:
I was particularly moved by the fourth inning. Madigan’s three-run homer—ah!—a swing so decisive it reminded me of the time I bought a hat in Lisbon without trying it on. Bold. Dangerous. Correct.
COWHERD:
That homer flipped the game, but here’s the thing—it never ended. Anaheim kept punching. Boston kept countering. It was offense stacked on offense, pitching held together with twine and optimism.
PETERMAN:
Pitching, yes… more of a suggestion, really. Arms rose, arms fell, ERAs were sacrificed to the baseball gods. Yet Boston endured. They always do. Fenway demands resilience—or it eats you alive.
COWHERD:
And that’s why Boston’s scary. They don’t need a clean game. They don’t need dominance. They just need time. Give them nine innings—or eleven—and they’ll find your weakness.
PETERMAN:
Anaheim now travels west, carrying heavy bats and heavier hearts. They have talent, yes—but Boston has momentum, that most dangerous of traveling companions.
COWHERD:
Five wins. Zero losses. Two games up. The Red Sox aren’t just winning—they’re telling the Angels, “You can score as much as you want. We’ll still be standing.”
PETERMAN:
Like explorers returning from uncharted lands, victorious and unbothered. And somewhere in Boston tonight, a man raises a glass and whispers, “Why not us?”