We're in

For a minute there, it felt preordained.

Sure, the early going was pretty horrorshow.

But we powered our way back with five funs in the eighth and by the bottom of the ninth it was playing out just like old times.

Ellsbury the speedster gets on with a single, itchy legs at the ready to steal his 67th base and then motor home to tie the game.

But, hey, maybe that wouldn’t be necessary! Pedroia launches one to deep right! Yowsa!

But it turned into a dying quail just before the bullpen.

That’s alright. Still time. Ellsbury does his job, swipes that second sack. All we need now is a blast from Martinez. How perfect would that be? The guy who arrived mid-season, helped solidify the lineup, and gave the adrenaline shot we needed, sending us to the playoffs with a booming walk-off. Hell, the guy’s name is Victor.

But he walked.

OK. As Tim McCarver instructed us, a walk is as good as a home run. So now we’ve got Youkilis, one of the best pair of eyes in the game, at the plate with two outs. The right guy at the right moment, right? Clock one over the Monster, toss the helmet at the plate, and jump up and down in a big ol’ scrum of happiness. Just like it’s been scripted for the past five years.

But he struck out. And that was that. Five Ls in a row.

On the other side of country, however, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim California were putting a drubbing on the Texas Rangers of Arlington Texas.

The Rangers lost, and we punched our ticket. For the sixth time in seven years.

Not exactly the way I would’ve liked to do it, but getting there is all that matters.

I can understand why they wanted to keep the party low-key and private.

Even if it pissed off Amy K. Nelson:

“So the red sox are celebrating while over 30 media members wait outside for pr ppl to bring select players outside for bland quotes.”

“Pr staff said players don't want to come out so we wait. At 1am.”

“PR failure tonight by the Red Sox. So you will not see any images of players celebrating, and you'll only hear from a few.”

Really? C’mon. It’s the Wild Card. It’s not exactly like, several hours after the fact, several hours after losing, the guys were gonna be in the mood to hoot and holler and spout champagne all over each other like the Jonas Brothers dowsing the front row.

(Well, it seems like they did just that behind closed doors.)

But act like you’ve been there before, right? And we have been. Yeah, I'm a little concerned. But all we gotta do now is do exactly what we did when were there.

PS: Who the hell buys that Wild Card shwag?