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Thursday, October 21, 2004

Astros: Our Time to Shine 

Here we go.

Game Motherfucking Seven.

I've waited 27 years for this night. The night that erases forever the haunting memories of Kevin Bass' shot that fell just short; of Jim Leyritz's blasts that did not; of Walt Weiss' greatest moment and Nolan Ryan's darkest one; of every other painful memory that I -- and every other loyal Astros fan -- have endured in a lifetime of following this team.

Tonight it all ends, because tonight we punch that ticket. The World Series is in our grasp, and no one -- not Keith Hernandez or gary Carter or Kevin Brown or Greg Maddux or that piss-ant Chipper Jones -- is going to stop us.

They have Pujols? We have Beltran. They have Murderer's Row? We have the Killer B's. They have LaGenius? We have Scrap Iron. They have the best fans in baseball? We have the biggest nuts in baseball. And oh yeah, bitches, we have The Rocket, ready to blow fastballs past your vaunted lumberjacks. Then we have The Wizard of Os ready to come on in relief. And if you still won't go gently into that good night, Light's Out will shut you down like he's done four times already.

They say not in their house? I say that tonight Busch IS our house. They say they're the best team in baseball? I say that they can claim whatever phantom title they want, just like in 2001, while we head to Boston.

This is our year, our time. Tonight Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio seal their bids for Cooperstown. Tonight Lance Berkman takes his place among the game's elite. Tonight a bunch of scrappy fighters finish the job they set out to do in August, when no one would give their odds a second look. Tonight we celebrate what's never happened before.

I believe.

Go Astros.


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