Upon hearing that Theo Epstein had officially resigned from the Boston Red Sox, local homemaker Deborah Perry announced that she had officially “resigned from living.”
“I can’t take it,” Mrs. Perry cried. “I didn’t watch Sox games to watch baseball, I watched them for Theo, for that one shot of him in the owner’s box, strong, assured, beautiful… Let’s just say I take lots of long baths after Red Sox games to keep myself sane. But what am I gonna do now?”
As her husband smashed a beer bottle in the driveway to the resounding cheers of her five children, Deborah stared wanly at a photo of Epstein in the Boston Globe.
“Ever since Theo joined the Red Sox,” Mrs. Perry said, “I’ve had this dream. It’s late at night, my family’s asleep, and Theo knocks on the door. ‘Come with me,’ he says. ‘Follow the light.’ And then we’re flying across New England, down into Yankees stadium, and the Sox are winning. Not just winning, they’re destroying the Yankees. And there I am, in the box, with Theo, and he smiles at me, and the fan-cam catches us, and we kiss, and the people cheer, and then… Theo lowers the shades…”
“Deborah!” Mr. Perry yelled, interrupting Mrs. Perry’s revery. “What the hell are you doing in there? Where’s my beer? Aw, Christ, Johnny cut his lip. Bring a bandaid too. Stupid kid.”
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Mrs. Perry sobbed. “Theo was all I had. Boston’s most eligible bachelor is gone, and my dreams are gone with him!”