THE BLEACHERITE
I thought the Cubs were bad. Here's how much worse it is for the Sox: They can't hit a guy who throws underhand. Where have you gone, Junior Griffey? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

THE CUBS HATER
I was at a dinner party at my folks' house, and kept disappearing into the TV room to check on the game. Every time, someone on the Sox was doing something that made me turn the TV off quickly. Swisher: You're officially a bust. Cabrera: a stiff. Juan Uribe, a World Series hero three years ago, has evolved into a guy who decides whether he's going to swing—and where—before the pitcher even goes into his windup. It's a hard team to root for. That's why I'm hoping the pumped-up gamers who knocked off the Twins are the ones who show up on Sunday night. Otherwise, it's going to be a long, cold winter on both sides of town.

THE DELUSIONIST
The Delusionist would have liked to follow the Sox game, but he's very busy fielding angry e-mails from his friends, who are accusing him of once again jinxing the Cubs and dashing their World Series hopes.

THE ELITIST
Stoney and Hawk blamed this one on Swisher for looking at a meatball with a 3-1 count in the eighth. But that's like singling out one sour note in a kindergarten chorus. The Sox had no fire. No guts. Ninth inning, slowly hit double-play ball, Dye running from first. He's got to hit the shortstop hard enough to leave cleat marks on his pancreas. He didn't even dent the air around second base. Cubs versus Sox? The only competition is which team looks more lifeless.

THE FATALIST
See, the thing about Ozzie teams is they don't know the fundamentals of the game. Such as: The bat needs to leave the shoulder. Take Nick Swisher in the eighth inning. Starting with a 3-0 count, three times he showed us a nifty little three-step toward first base (probably a move he learned in that swing dance class he's been taking). Twice the umpire called him back to the batter's box; the third time, the ump told him to take his seat. Talk about dance moves! How about that neat, hip-swiveling jig (a salsa step?) by Uribe, also in the eighth, trying to get away from . . . a strike. You gotta love that guy Uribe—who else would think to decorate his chin with Pierzynski's hair cuttings?

THE GIRL
Baseball, I take back what I said before. It was late, and I was upset. I still love you. And tonight was great: a game of no emotional consequence for me, some impressive speed and power from a young Tampa Bay team, and the Sox stranding a bunch and showing themselves to be just as lame as the Cubs. What can I say? Misery loves company.

THE UMP
As one Ump to another, and I say this with all respect, C.B. Buckner blows. The guy's strike zone is more erratic than Mel Gibson. It's hard to excuse Nick Swisher's take on that 3-1 pitch, which was so fat that Seattle Sutton tried to sign it up for her healthy eating. But Buckner called him out on a pitch that was three inches outside. But alas, the man who's been called The Worst Umpire in Baseball isn't what sent another Chicago playoff team to another ignominious defeat. Squandered opportunities—too many to count—doomed the Sox. It's too bad. Mark Buehrle deserved a better fate.

THE TIME TRAVELER
Following the Cubs' example, I'm spending tonight lost in the (Wisconsin) wilderness, out of range of ballgames, WiFi signals, and the Wayback Machine.