Twenty-four hours ago I asked my wife Ellen to lock up all the sharp knives and put a barrier across the stairs to the third floor.
It was clear to me that the Sox were about to explode, that GM Ben Cherington was about to cast off, minimally, our two top pitchers and one of our top relievers.
For what? A bunch of prospects?
My well being was threatened, and I needed protection from acting impulsively.
This morning I told Ellen she could unlock the knives and take down the barrier to the third floor.
For the moment at least, things didn’t seem so dire.