#Fuck it we ball. New series with 0 pressure for me lol

[kelpiemomma]

It was a knock at the door that pulled Ingo out of a deep slumber.

It was not frantic, not a sound that had him leaping out of his bed in a panic, but it was firm. Insistent. It compelled him to emerge from the warm comfort of his blankets, piled and wrapped atop of a straw bed to block the chill of the night, and to the thin wooden door blocking the chill and snow. He stumbled in the dark, tripping over smoothed wood and catching himself on the wall of the hut. His hand grasped the coat he’d hung up before crawling into bed and he pulled it down, wrapping it around himself like a protective cloak. Still with no light, and no real thought process beyond answer the door, Ingo pulled it open.

“How may I-” he began the sentence through a yawn, cut off midway by the sight before him.

The ground was lit by the moon in the sky, bright enough that Ingo could clearly see the person who had woken him up. It was impossible to determine an immediate gender so Ingo didn’t even bother to try. Whoever they were had long hair, a light gold that nearly appeared white in the moonlight. They had a long, stern nose with a flat bridge. Their gaze was flat and serious, lips thin as they stared down - very, very far down - at Ingo. At full height Ingo was a few inches taller than those around him within the village, but this person made him feel like a child. If his head came up to their chest he would be surprised. They were dressed in what appeared to be an old-fashioned white robe, the wind carrying across the valley lifting it gently before placing it back down as though it was the most delicate fabric. Intricate golden details laced the trim. Perhaps it was the sleep but it seemed to Ingo’s mind that the trim was… moving. One moment he thought there was a sun rising over a valley, and in the next it seemed to be some sort of battle between two pokemon. Hands appeared and disappeared, a wave of appraisal and worship before sinking down into a wave.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the odd sight - and upon second glance, the delicate lace no longer slipped through design - Ingo took a second look. Their height had not decreased at all but he was able to notice something new. Something that, somehow, he had missed in his awed staring. The person’s arms were wrapped around their chest in a cradling position. A blanket, the color of which he’d never seen before, was swaddled tightly. Though the hold was confident there was also a looseness to it that sent alarm bells ringing through Ingo’s mind, waking him up further. As he opened his mouth to speak the bundle moved, a tiny fist raising itself from the blanket and pounding on the person’s chest. Barely a moment later, a piercing cry erupted from the blanket as well. The stranger did not blink. They barely seemed to notice the noise at all. Their hooded green gaze had not left Ingo’s face.

“Is that- are you carrying a child? Are you hurt? Are they hurt? Here, please- come inside, I’ll get a fire started! It’s awfully cold tonight; a baby shouldn’t be out in this weather.” Ingo reached out impulsively, grasping for a sleeve and ending up with an arm ful of wailing baby. He pulled the child close to his chest in surprise, looking down into light eyes full of tears. The infant hiccuped through their tears, arm waving furiously. He grasped the limb gently to protect his own face only for his hand to be pulled down towards the babe’s face. They immediately began gnawing on his fingers, the wail dying gradually as they found something to occupy themself. The cold was forgotten.

Something clicked into place.

“Warden Ingo,” the person before him finally spoke, pulling Ingo’s gaze reluctantly away from the baby, “I leave her to you.”

“I’m sorry? I’m- I’m not a Warden? I'm just- a guest. Why are you- are you leaving? Are you leaving your child behind?” Anger rose in his chest. Was this infant being abandoned? Directly into his arms?!

“She was never meant to join this world. She was not part of my plan. I heard the world cry and there she was.”

“Do you need help? If you can’t raise her on your own you may join the village, I’m sure. They would be willing to take in a parent in need!”

“I am not her parent. I brought her into existence but she is not mine. She never has been and never will be.” There was a darkness in the person’s eyes, a bitter sort of anger laying under those words. They were sharp, pointed enough that the baby wiggled in Ingo’s arms and let out a high-pitched whine. Immediately he rubbed their - her? - cheek, the whine slipping into a gurgle. His fingers were pulled and tugged on until the baby managed to slip a fingertip into their mouth, chewing on his limb. Ingo’s gaze never left the person’s before him, though they finally dared to look away from him. Their flat expression became something like a sneer as they looked down before it was schooled into disinterest once again.

“As you were never meant to be here either, I leave her to you. I would bid that you take care not to lose her and do not tell others where she came from.” The person slid their hands into their sleeves, the gold filigree flashing blindingly bright as the sleeves made contact. Ingo turned away to block his and the child’s eyes. “Not even I know where she may end up next time.”

When the light faded and Ingo could look again the person was gone. He took several steps forward, looking around to try and see where they had vanished to, but not even the snow gave a hint at what direction the person had gone in. Only the moon looked down at Ingo, the light solemn and soft. He turned his gaze to the infant in his arms; cheeks were being carelessly bitten by the wind and turning red, eyes wrinkled up in discomfort and watery, but his finger remained chewed on. Despite the infant’s abandonment, they didn’t appear disturbed. In fact they appeared… content. As the chill nipped insistently at Ingo’s bare feet, driving him back into his hut to pull the door shut, so did the baby’s eyes. They let out a gurgling noise, grip tightening on Ingo’s fingers, and then they began to snore.

Ingo rubbed his face, trudging back towards his bed. There were things he needed to do and yet- something pushed him towards the blankets. He pushed them to the side, keeping the infant in one hand while removing his long coat. Using it and a blanket he created a nest to cradle the little one in. As he set the child inside, covering them with one of his sleeves, they sighed in what he could have mistaken for content. One chubby fist grabbed the wristband of his coat while the other migrated to the infant’s mouth, thumb settling into place as though it belonged there. Half awake and half aware, Ingo prepared his own blankets upon his straw bed. He put the infant between himself and the wall, and then hesitated before moving them between himself and the opening of the room. Then he hesitated again- the wall would be colder, but perhaps safer, right? If the baby was facing the room it might roll out of the blankets and fall off the bed. It wasn’t a long drop by any means, but still! He swapped the child to the other side once again, wrapping another blanket around and over the nest, and then laid there.

What had just happened? Where had the baby’s parent gone? They had said they weren’t, but where else could it have come from? Had it been stolen?

Despite his concern that these thoughts would keep him awake, another force pulled Ingo’s eyelids down and he drifted off to sleep.

It was a knock at the door that pulled Ingo out of slumber.

The sound was quick and heavy, quickly joined by a voice.

“Mr Ingo! Are you awake?”

It was not so much a genuine question as much as it was a wakeup call. One that he was used to at this point. Several months among the Pearl Clan had helped him come to understand not only their language but their habits- he was needed, and so they were waking him.

Sunlight warmed the wooden floor as Ingo slipped out from under his blankets and padded across the floor. His head felt fuzzy and he felt a little confused; his jacket was not hanging up where he had put it the night before and there was a small snowdrift on one side of the door. He looked at it curiously, trying to figure out where it had come from, as he opened the door.

Irida stood before him, her gaze slightly narrowed and her brows drawn tight. Rather than angry he could see the stress in her expression, the way she held herself. He wondered what had happened.

“Good morning, Miss Irida.” ingo said. “How may I be of help?”

“Mr Ingo, it’s almost afternoon. We had a large amount of snowfall last night and need your help. Since you’re an early riser we thought you had already gone out- are you ill to have slept so long?” She asked. “We can’t have anyone else getting sick not so soon after the last wave!”

Ingo blinked, shaking his head and raising a hand. He had arrived, lost and freezing, to the Pearl Clan at the tail end of a lingering sickness. Though he had been cold he had also been healthy and immediately stepped in to help the recovering clan; distrustful members had warily guided the confused man around the territory to gather berries and check game. They doubted his memory loss but couldn’t afford to deny his aid. To many he had been a necessary evil. To some, he still was. To Irida, who was still young but in the running to lead the clan, he was a goal.

“I apologize, Miss Irida. I woke up last night after having a very strange dream. It must have taken me a while to fall asleep, if I indeed slept until noon. I will get ready to help.”

He went to close the door so he could dress, sighing out, “the moon was so bright it seemed to be daylight.”

Irida shot him a look.

“Mr Ingo, there was no moon at all last night.” She stated. “It’s why we didn’t see the amount of snow until this morning, despite the watch.”

Ingo froze.

“No,” he said slowly, “no, there very much was a moon. In fact, there was a person as well. They-”

From his bed came a piercing wail. Ingo froze and Irida jumped.

“Mr Ingo,” she said after a moment of listening to the crying child, “is that a baby?”

Pulled out of his panic by her words Ingo rushed to pick the child up. A terrible smell greeted his nose as he removed the baby from the nest of blankets and coat.

“There was a moon,” he said as he stared at the crying child, “it was full and bright, and-”

“Moon later, baby now.” Irida said, taking the infant from his hands. She paused, and then glared at him. “Baby explanation later, baby cleanup now. Where do you keep your changing supplies?”

“She was a… a gift,” Ingo replied dumbly; somehow it felt like the right description, “I have nothing.”

Irida stared at him in complete confusion and irritation before she sighed.

“Baby explanation later, finding the baby new nappies and…. ergh, new clothes now.” She exited his hut with the wailing child. As if pulled by a string Ingo followed, barely slipping his shoes on before stumbling into the soft snow that had yet to be cleared from in front of his home. He ignored the stares as Irida marched - baby held in front of her like a shield - to the home of Calaba. The old Warden was opening the door before they were within ten feet of the house, watching them approach with barely concealed displeasure. She allowed them in with pursed lips and the shake of her head.

Ingo dreaded to know what she was thinking.

As he watched Irida strip the infant to clean her, all the while narrating what she was doing as if Ingo was paying that much attention, one set of words caught his ear.

“I’m sorry, Miss Irida, I am- I am a little… a little off course. Could you please repeat yourself?”

She shot him an irritated glare over her shoulder. This one was truly angry with him; he would be sure to get an earful later. Though she was mostly fair she was also a hot-headed young woman determined to become the next lead of the clan. It was possible this had just hurt her chances.

“I said, Mr Ingo, what’s her name?”

“Her name?” He repeated, “I- I don’t know. They… she didn’t come with a name.”

“They normally don’t,” Calaba snapped from behind him, “which is why their parents give them one. She may be a little young for a name yet- she doesn’t look that old. You moved awfully quick Mr Ingo.” Her tone left no room for doubt- she believed that he had impregnated someone and left them, only for them to return the favor and deposit the baby on his doorstep.

“Warden Calaba, she’s not mine. Someone- someone stopped by last night, in the full moon, and gave her to me. Surely one of the watch noticed them!” He turned to her in an attempt to defend himself. Calaba snorted and crossed her arms.

“It was a new moon, Mr Ingo. There was no light at all. Perhaps you made your own light- did you track someone down and take their child?”

“I would never! That is- that is a horrible thing to insinuate, Warden Calaba, regardless of your affection or lack thereof for me! There were no footprints outside my door, were there? I couldn’t have gone anywhere!” He spun to face Irida. She was tying a new diaper onto the baby, ignoring the wails in her ears.

“With the amount of snowfall last night, footsteps would’ve disappeared quickly Mr Ingo.” She answered sorrowfully. She was loathe to agree with Warden Calaba and her harsh tongue.

“Do you believe I stole this child?” Ingo demanded of her.

Irida finished wrapping the infant, handing her back to Ingo. Only once she was in his arms, face buried in his chest as she gripped his tunic tightly with chubby fists, did she quiet. WIth her wails ceased the silence prevailed in the room as Ingo stared at Irida, who looked between himself and Calaba. If the warden didn’t like her, her chances of achieving leadership would drop even further.

“No,” Irida finally said, “in all the time you’ve been here, you haven’t come off as that sort of person, regardless of how others have seen you. But the baby-”

“I don’t know where she came from. I awoke to a knock at my door last night and someone gave her to me. They did not introduce themselves, only told me not to lose her, and then they left. I thought it was a dream until she began to cry after soiling herself.” Ingo said firmly. He turned to look at Calaba as he spoke, meeting her impassive gaze firmly. There was a tense moment until she grunted and looked away.

“So a mystery person dropped a baby onto a stranger’s lap.” She muttered.

“I’ll organize a search party,” Irida said, “a couple. If they were around last night then they must be nearby- the snow was falling much too heavy and quickly for them to have gotten far.”

Ingo understood the insinuation- they were, most likely, looking for a corpse.

“Until then… we should find her a home with a wetnurse, and-” Irida went to take the child from Ingo despite having just deposited her back into his arms. He tightened his grip just as Irida’s hands clasped onto her sides. Feeling the other touch the baby began to scream. Irida immediately stepped back, covering her ears, while Ingo turned away and rocked from side to side. She quieted after a few moments, gurgling quietly against his chest once more. Ingo and Irida looked at each other. She reached out to take the baby again. Ingo didn’t tighten his grasp this time, slightly holding her away from him, but as soon as Irida touched her she opened her mouth to scream once more.

Irida stepped back, expression turning to confusion. “She won’t let me take her.” She said.

Calaba scoffed.

“She’s an infant. Give her here, she’ll quiet down if you just hold her a moment.” She demanded.

Ingo reluctantly handed the baby over. Just like with Irida, as soon as Calaba had a hold of her she began to shriek her displeasure. Calaba pulled her close and began to rock her as Ingo had, but as the minutes passed on the shrieking turned to sobs. Like the night before the baby raised her fists, pounding on Calaba’s chest to express her displeasure. One of them must have nailed the older woman well because she let out a surprised breath, her arms’ hold weakening momentarily. Ingo was there in a heartbeat, reaching out to take hold of the girl.

Once she was back in his arms she began to grow quiet, wrapping a hand in his tunic as her sobs turned to crying, turning to whines that quieted into hiccuping breaths as he rocked her. Her teary eyes met his gaze with an unexpected intensity. She held onto his tunic in a way that, were she an adult, Ingo would believe to be some desperation. Don’t let me go, she seemed to be begging, don’t let them take me away!

I won’t, Ingo thought back, I won’t let them take you. I promise.

“Well,” Irida said after a moment, “I believe that she wishes to stay with Ingo.”

“Hmph. She’ll still need a wetnurse unless he’s hiding milk behind that tunic.” Calaba said the words dismissively. “He’ll also need to learn how to change her, and get her clothes, and-”

“Akari.” Ingo said, breaking the sentence.

“Who? We don’t have an Akari in the village. Is that her mother?” Irida asked, approaching. She kept a distance from the baby, preparing to step back in case the screaming started once more. Wrapped in Ingo’s arms the baby met her gaze placidly.

“No. It’s… her. Her name.” Ingo trailed a finger from the girl’s forehead, where small wisps of dark hair were already threatening to fall in her face, down over her nose. She smiled and giggled, wrapping a hand around Ingo’s finger and shaking it. Ingo couldn’t help but think she must feel excited.

“Her name is Akari.”

[junker-town]

I rewatched Game 5 of the 2004 ALCS and it was magical

It took nearly six hours and 14 innings, but the Red Sox made it happen. 

My heart sank when my baseball-loving kid asked when we were going to watch a game again. Then I remembered after the Red Sox won the 2004 World Series I bought the full set of games on DVD, including the entire American League Championship Series. Having never actually watched any of the discs, I vaguely remembered stashing them in a box that had somehow made its way from Philly to Boston by way of several Cambridge apartments.

Eureka! I still had them.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

We started with Game 4 of the ALCS against the Yankees because even in a quarantine I wouldn’t bother with the first three games. My kid soon became familiar with Papi, Manny, and the whole gang of Idiots. He promptly proved his Masshole bonafides, yelling, “Come on Millah!” when Kevin Millar came up to bat in the ninth against Mariano Rivera. For the record, neither my wife nor I have a Boston accent and he doesn’t either. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a proud moment.

My wife, incidentally, couldn’t care less about baseball, but she has fond memories of staying up late with her friends, living and dying with every pitch. When Dave Roberts stole second, she screamed like it was happening in real time.

Game 4 was iconic, of course. The whole sequence belongs in a time capsule. Starting with Millar’s walk to Dave Roberts’ steal through Bill Mueller knocking the great Mariano Rivera off the mound with the game-tying single like he was Charlie Brown in a Peanuts strip. And then, much, much later, Big Papi’s home run. Game 6 was even more famous with the whole bloody sock thing, while Game 7 was just pure cathartic release.

But Game 5 — holy shit, Game 5. I had forgotten how magically insane it was. Over 14 innings and almost six hours, it was like watching a slow-motion nightmare unfold only to emerge in a blissy dream state where unicorns are real and it ain’t over ‘til Big Papi takes a swing.

To set the scene, Game 4 ended after midnight, meaning Game 5 took place literally the same day. Your starters were Mike Mussina and Pedro Martinez, making perhaps his last start in a Boston uniform.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

The Sox took an early 2-0 lead but couldn’t bust out a big inning against Mussina, who settled down and pitched a gem. Martinez was also dealing, but that pitch count was rising higher as we got to the sixth with the Sox leading, 2-1, which is when I started taking notes.

Martinez is getting up near 100 pitches. I forgot that after 100 pitches he turned into Ramiro Mendoza. Thankfully, Joe Buck is here to remind us. Tim McCarver thinks pitch counts are overrated and now I’m yelling at McCarver to shut the fuck up. (For future reference, STFUTM will serve as shorthand.)

Earlier, he told an incredibly random story about Trinidad Hubbard that made absolutely no sense. Hard to believe, but there really was a point when McCarver was an insightful announcer. Happens to all of them, eventually.

Martinez gets Bernie Williams to pop up, but Jorge Posada reaches on a quirky infield single and Ruben Sierra follows with another hit. I’ve seen this movie before. It ends badly. Tony Clark strikes out and now it’s up to Miguel Cairo. Martinez just hit Cairo to load the bases. 2004 me is yelling at Terry “Tito” Francona: “GET HIM OUTTA THERE, FRANCONA.”

Photo by Linda Cataffo/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

Tito leaves Martinez in to pitch to Jeter and Buck notes that Jeter hasn’t put his stamp on this series yet. Oh God. The inside-out swing. The slicing line drive landing in right. Three runs are going to score. I’ll go to my grave saying Prime Nomar was better, but it would really help if Captain Intangibles stopped doing stuff like this.

Looked like Cairo may have been out at the plate, but it’s real close. You know what this game doesn’t have? Replay review. There were at least eight plays by my count that would have been subject to replay review and this game would still be playing if that was the case. We got along fine without reviewing every close play and I would like to return to that nebulous state of affairs when the world stops burning.

You know what else this game doesn’t have? Fans on cell phones. Everyone is hanging on every pitch and it’s beautiful. I know this because the broadcast keeps cutting away to the stands and I’ve seen the same woman clasping her hands in prayer between pitches a dozen times. Pretty sure I’ve seen her at the Fresh Pond Trader Joes.

LOL, Martinez plunked Alex Rodriguez just because he could. McCarver doesn’t like it. STFUTM. Now Gary Sheffield walks to load the bases. Um, Tito? I think you can go get him now. Francona leaves Martinez in and he gets Hideki Matsui to fly out. Good job, Tito.

The Yankees had a chance to break it open in the eighth, but Mike Timlin gets A-Rod to pop up with a runner on third and one out. This was A-Rod’s chance to be a True Yankee and he blew it. Shame, really.

On we go to the bottom of the eighth and it’s time for the WebMD update. Today’s injury is a broken heart. Thanks, guys. Really appreciate it.

Photo by Keith Torrie/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

Here comes Papi and he takes Tom Gordon over the Monster and off the Volvo sign. I miss the Volvo sign. Now Millar, who draws another walk. Dude could take a walk like nobody else. Roberts comes in to pinch run and Gordon throws over a half dozen times. He’s clearly rattled. It’s happening again.

We’ve officially reached the moment where Francona becomes a super genius. Everyone keeps expecting Roberts to steal second, but Tito calls for the hit-and-run and Trot Nixon executes it perfectly sending a line drive single to right center. God bless that dirtbag right fielder.

First and third, nobody out and Joe Torre calls on Rivera. Officially this will go down as a blown save when Jason Varitek lofts a sacrifice fly to center to tie the game, 4-4, but this is on Gordon. No Yankee ever scared me more than Mariano. Salute to him.

When McCarver gets what he considers a profound thought in his head, he slows his cadence for dramatic effect. Then he repeats himself like he’s delivering a dugout sermon from Whitey Herzog.

“After 169 games and eight innings, the Red Sox season comes down to one inning,” McCarver tells us before the ninth. “One inning.” Oh Tim, we’re just getting started.

Photo by Barry Chin/The Boston Globe via Getty Images

Keith Foulke is on to pitch the ninth. He worked 2 ⅔ the night before and will pitch tonight and then again in Game 6. Foulke threw 14 shutout innings during the postseason and was never the same. He gave up his career for this postseason run and was never properly appreciated because he made some crack about fans the following season that caused everyone to turn on him. Here’s to you, Keith Foulke. I have no idea how you ever got anyone out, but you were nails.

In the ninth, Tony Clark hit a ball to right that somehow crawled up the short fence and landed in the stands. Had it stayed in play, Ruben Sierra would have scored and the game would have been over. Sixteen years later, the universe hates Boston and its run of championships, but in 2004, this was all strange and new. Kind of miss those days.

Bronson Arroyo, fresh off getting hammered in Game 3, strikes out A-Rod and Sheffield en route to a clean 10th inning. The strike zone, by the way, has been a tad inconsistent. It’s hard to tell because there’s no K-Zone or pitch tracking and again, that’s totally fine! Maybe we were better off not knowing everything all the time.

Even though I know how this is going to turn out, I keep expecting Papi to hit a home run every time he comes up to hit. Instead, he strikes out.

On we go to the 12th and it’s Tim Wakefield time. The knuckleballer’s normal catcher/binky is Doug Mirabelli, but Tito rides with Varitek, who has absolutely no idea how to catch a knuckleball. Super genius.

Cairo singles to left and Manny kicks it like only Manny can, allowing Cairo to get to second. My kid smacks his forehead and says, “Oh, Manny.” He doesn’t even know the half of it. Fortunately, Jeter flies out and so does A-Rod. Crisis averted.

The Sox have stopped hitting. This seems bad.

Photo by Rick Friedman/Corbis via Getty Images

Ah, the 13th. Nothing bad can happen here. Sheffield is swinging for the Mass Pike. He’s legitimately terrifying. Somehow, Wakefield strikes out Sheffield with a nasty knuckler that Varitek misplays into a passed ball. I remember thinking at the time, “This is how it’s going to happen. This is how they’re going to kill us.”

Two outs now and Matsui’s at first. Whoops, another passed ball. Now he’s at second. Intentional walk to Posada. Everyone at Fenway is nervous as hell. My wife comes into the room and starts watching. Now she’s nervous.

ANOTHER passed ball puts runners on second and third. Missed opportunity by McCarver to say something profoundly stupid like, “Johnny Pesky held the ball. Varitek can’t catch the ball.” Actually, that would have been pretty good.

Seriously though, one more miscue from Varitek and he’s Mike Torrez combined with Bill Buckner. Somehow, somehow, Wakefield strikes out Sierra and Varitek miraculously holds on. Fenway erupts. My wife cheers. “Mom, you know what’s going to happen,” my kid says but none of us care. This was the greatest game I ever saw and even now it doesn’t seem real.

Photo by Corey Sipkin/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images

OK, now the 14th. Esteban Loiaza is on to pitch for the Yankees and he’s somehow become Whitey Ford. His cutter is filthy. Johnny Damon, who has done absolutely nothing this series, draws a walk.

Two outs and here’s Manny. I always loved Manny in these spots because a) he’s a great hitter and b) he’s completely impervious to pressure. God, this is a great at-bat. He’s fouling off quality pitches and laying off sliders just outside the zone. Manny gets his walk and trots to first like it’s a game in June against the Orioles. Here comes Papi.

It took 10 pitches for Ortiz to end Game 5 with a bloop single to center off the handle of the bat. He fought off nasty cutters and sent one about 420 feet screaming into right that went foul. My wife is tense. My kid is yelling, “Come on, Papi!” Finally, the big man does his thing and Johnny Damon comes home from second with the winning run.

Buck had a great call. “Damon can keep right on running to New York.” McCarver immediately blows it by saying, “He didn’t do it again, did he?” Dramatic pause. “He did.” Thanks, Tim. Oh, and STFU.

Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

By the way, there’s no off day because there was a rainout prior to Game 4. I have no idea how either one of these teams turned around and played again the next night, but I’d give anything for another marathon Red Sox-Yankee game right about now. Thank Papi, I still have the DVDs.