The Professional, The Idiot, and The Tailback

The Acts And Bravery of Lord Daisuke Matsuzaka, and his Sidekick Sir Papelbon

2007-03-15T13:58:00.000-04:00

Scene: QUINCY HOUSE, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, SHIRE OF CAMBRIDGE

There is a tree. A DAMSEL is tied to that tree. The lights come up, we see it is PRINCESS EMMA, BLOGSTRESS OF THE CRIMSON SOX.

EMMA: Oh my! Oh dear! I have been tied to this tree, the TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, deprived of my pens, bound by the EVIL THESIS MONSTER! WHO WILL HELP ME!

*EVIL THESIS MONSTER ENTERS, STAGE RIGHT*

ETM:BWAHAHAHAHAHAAH! Your case is hopeless, my dear! Not only is that really strong rope, it is enchanted rope, ensorcelled so as not to break until the proper time, and the proper man comes to save you.

EMMA: Proper man? Screw that. *starts searching with foot for sharp objects*

ETM: That will do you no good, my dear! By your explorations into these wilds of Scotland-

EMMA: This is Metro Boston, dude.

ETM: Ahem. These wilds of Scotland, you have fallen into my trap.

EMMA: Only because you looked like William Wallace. The cool one, too, not Mel Gibson,

ETM: Oh will you just shush please. But, even if you manage to free yourself, you will be like Cassandra of old, plagued with all manner of thoughts about baseball, but unable to express them.

EMMA: OH HEAVENS! Wait. Why the hell am I talking like this? Fuck this noise.

*Monster cackles evilly, Emma struggles, and THEN!*
*Tall but oddly rotund figure enters stage left*

FIGURE: Domo arigato, my lady. I have come to assist you in your time of need. You are needed back in the kingdom of Sox, and I was deemed the most worthy and brave knight.

EMMA: BAD-ASS! It is Lord Daisuke of Matsuzaka! And who is that handsome but goofy manchild behind him?

GOOFY MANCHILD: Hey, y'all, it is me, Sir Papelbon. And I bring with me THE ALL POWERFUL VEGETABLE MOJO!

ETM: HAhahahaha! You shall never defeat me!

D and P: Wanna bet?

*They throw fastballs at the Evil Thesis Monster until it goes away*

P: Nicely done, Lord D.

D: Thank you, Jonathan.

P: But how are we to free Princess Emma?

D: Simple. We have my Sword of Awesomness to cut the rope. And it is now the fateful Ides of March, the time when it is prophesied that the Glorious One will come to return the Princess to the Land of Baseball. You must return that Mojo that is rightfully hers.

P:.....okay. That sounds good.

EMMA: WILL YOU TWO JUST GET ON WITH IT.

Both: Okay.

*POOF* *FLASH* *KAZAAM*

EMMA: Oh! I am free! How can I ever thank you?

D: By returning to your glorious kingdom, and continuing in the guardianship of your portion of the Sacred All Powerful Vegetable Mojo.

EMMA: I can do that.

*All three walk off into the sunset to glorious Spring Training*

THE END.

The Saner Morning After

2007-01-15T09:57:00.000-05:00

Some thoughts on the game that didn't quite fit in to the poetic mood I was in last night:

*Goddamnit, is Donnie Edwards annoying! Whatever defensive frustration the Chargers were able to put up last night, he seemed to be part of it. I mean, I guess that's what Mike Vrabel must have seemed like to Chargers fans: everpresent, and even when he didn't make the spectactular play, he made the necessary one, and apart from the end of the 2nd and 4th quarters, the Pats could not get any flow going, no big runs by Lomo or Corey. But, thing is, Edwards can't do everything, couldn't cover the CB's man for him, and that completion on 3rd and 10 to Reche was the beginning of the end.

*I guess luck really is too big a part to ignore in this game, isn't it? I mean, you have two potential interceptions, a game apart. McCree ( I guess) juggles one, and Rosie Colvin draws in the other like he's got velcro on his hands. And there's your game.

*And I would really like to thank the Defensive Corps of San Diego for their All New Adventures in DumbAssery. They could have won, they could have kept their cool, but those Personal Fouls at two key times, just acted as oxygen to a Pats team hanging on for dear life. Just behave like grown men. But I guess that's hard enough for normal men at the best of times.

*Once again, we see how frakking important special teams are. As someone said on the West Wing once, their successes are private, and their failiures are oh so very public. If they do their job, it's rare if they get the credit, like Osgood batting that ball in on the 1 yard line. But if they don't do their job, Katie bar the door, as with that punt-recovery-fumble-whatever the heck that was by Parker. So, ladies and gentlemen, go thank your special teams players today.

*As deemed by Amy of The Mendoza Line, New Kicker now gets his name back, for being so awesome, for doing nothing else but his job, he is now Stephen Gostkowski, Kicker. (And thank you, Matty Cassell, for holding ON to the ball; a praise that a week and two days ago, he wouldn't have gotten.)

And now we go on an Indy roadtrip. As opposed to other matchups in recent years past, I think the Colts and Pats are pretty well evenly matched. And as a 4-seed who knocked off a one-seed yesterday, in a victory that I believe outstrips the 3 seed Colts beating the 2 seed Ravens, the Pats are playing with house money now. Should be a hell of a game; I'll be on the Cape, but I may even convinced my dyed-in-the-wool baseball fan grandparents to watch it with me.

The Pain and the Pleasure

2007-01-14T23:46:00.000-05:00

24-21 Patriots doesn't even begin to cover it.

It would figure, really, that it would take a game like this to get me writing again.

I mean, I spend my last 7 months writing about passion and blood and nationalism and death, and the last months of the Sox season and the entirety of the Pats season might get to seem a little inadequate.

Tom Brady, I love to death in ways incomparable to other mortal men, but William Wallace dying on the block on Tower Hill always has a bit of an edge, don't it.

But then a game like this emerges, and I remember why I do this in the first place.

It really is one of those games which embodies everything in the spectrum of professional sports. How you can be so infuriated, so frustrated, so completely exhausted by such mortal endeavors, and then so enleavened, lifted up, and illuminated at the same time.

The same group of men, who make you scream when they combine to create an intecerption, make you sing with delight at something like Reche Caldwell's 49-yard completion in the fouth quarter.

Those same mortals, who make you bury your head in your hands, as LaDainian Tomlinson strides almost 50 yards to set up a touchdown, make you look towards the heaven, thanking the strangeness of fate on a play like the interception-fumble that set up the game-tying touchdown.

It makes more sense after several quantities of liquor, mostly because right now it's just too incredibly strange to believe.

It could end all next week. It really might, considering the weird luck which combine to carry them to victory. But fate's glass has been refilled, and we live in the weirdness of statistical improbibilty for 7 more days.

this is why I write. this reminds me why I like watching sports. see y'all next week.

Faith

2006-06-26T19:10:00.000-04:00

I am an unworthy creature. I am a Doubting Thomas. I let it hurt too much when I hope for the best and receive the worst, so more and more I recite the litany to myself. "They can't do this." "It's too much impossible." I would deserve a 7 game losing streak the way I think.

But they never blame me. They never punish me. And recently, more often than not, they come up bigger than my wildest dreams.

Saturday, sitting and watching with the Maternal Entity, we were both in that mindset. By the 7th inning, too much potential had been squandered, and it seemed like a fait accompli when the Phillies tied it up. And yet, arguing with our worse natures, was that little voice, born of 4 chilly October nights. "We're still in this. They can do it."

And even more than last year, that's true. Because we have the pitching complement to the clutchest hitter of all time. The Second Bearer of the Vegetable Mojo. (Which still resides a little bit with its former bearer, and no one is happier than me.)

It's like Jon-Boy has a secret identity that he puts on when he goes to the mound. Because the gulf between the boy lounging in the bullpen and the man glaring towards the hitter is miles, miles wide. "Don't make me bring out the Scrabble board...Don't MAKE me bring it out, man." It's adorable. It's endearing. And it's gone, ten feet on to the field.

There are several marks of a great pitcher, I think. He has shown many of them. And he showed yet another one in the tenth inning: he is man enough to clean up his own messes. He faltered, and yet caught that second wind.

And then there's the man of the 3rd, 4th and 5th winds. It's useless any more to ask, how many times can you go to that well. Because the answer is "David Ortiz". It is "How many damn times that he says he can."

I forget that sometimes. But he always reminds me. When my faith in my team is shaken by mere mortals like Rudy Seanez, his spirit catches me up and bears me onward.

It's so hard. Especially during games like today. Observing through the impersonal windows of the Internet and Gameday, it was like there was two games. The pitchers' duel from innings 1-6: the class that is Tim Wakefield, suffering through offensive futility, and than a shallow end of the bullpen (NAMED RUDY SEANEZ) which can't seem to find outs with a ten foot pole.

And then there was the second game, truly begun by an act which, this season, would be enough to shake the faith of any in the nation. The brief dimming of the All Powerful Vegetable Mojo, and Jon-Boy's first true blown-save. As befits it, in grand and shattering fashion off the Pesky Pole. Game tied.

I was about to leave work, to catch my bus. I thought, whatever happened, it would be over quickly.

But I was wrong. Oh was I glad to be wrong. On the bus, my mother and I made a absurd little portrait: me holding up my AM radio as far as I could, straining to hear and get whatever reception I could, her, head leaned over toward mine as I relayed balls, strikes, outs.

Manuelito came up so incredibly big, walking Abreu, but setting down Howard, Rowand, and Burrell in order. Yet, it couldn't last; the youth showed through, and though Craig Hansen tried his level best to pick his teammate up, we entered the bottom of the 12th, down 7-6.

The bus reached our stop; I nearly forgot my umbrella, I was so wrapped up in the game. Again, we thought it might be over quickly. But then Coco hits a ground rule double. Two blocks, two outs go by. As we come in view of our tiny little house, the strained tones of the Philly announcers came through my earphones: Youkilis slaps a double into center field. Game tied, again. We cross the street, fumbling for the keys: Mark works a walk, bringing you know who up to bat.

Finally, we reach the comfort of our porch, our couch, and the TV. And there he is. What was probably about 2 minutes seems like 30 seconds. Condrey sets; the pitch. And the ball goes up, up, up, and then down.....down......oh god let it fall......and my doubt is swallowed in the emanation of joy, both from my small family, and my bigger one, in Fenway and around the world. Jon Boy flying-tackle-hugs Papi, joined by Craig Hansen, joined by everybody.

I am an unworthy creature. But Big Papi doesn't care. He loves his closer. He loves his team. He loves his fans. He loves the game.
I love this game. This game can bring so much joy. I forget it at times.
But to quote Aaron Sorkin, "When I forget, something always reminds me."

Don't Trust Anyone Over Thirty

2006-06-14T10:12:00.000-04:00

TAVAREZ!!!!!!

Imagine the above said in the manner of William Shatner in Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan, and you have some idea of my state of mind last night.

After a pleasingly low-pressure ass-kicking of one of my adopted NL home teams by the other, the Maternal Unit and I noticed that the Schilling-Santana Match Up was still scoreless in the 7th. So we performed the sad and sacred rites of the Red Sox Fan, Sans Satellite in Exile: we Ticker-Watched.

Oh, did we. The Mets game ended; we watched. Schilling and Santana gave up mutual 8th inning homers; we rejoiced and groaned. And then....the extra innings. Oh, the extra innings. They lasted all the way through an hour and a half of Baseball Tonight, and ten minutes in to SportsCenter.

Relief was promised, in the top of the twelfth, when the ticker brought the joyous news of a run pushed across, and BBTN showed us the glorious results of Gonzo's hustle.

However, it was not to be. Because of that hobgoblin looking phone punching SOB.

*ahem*

A WALKOFF GRAND SLAM? WHAT! THE! FUCK!

I want the kids. I want them now. I don't care about money or contracts, but I don't want any member of our bullpen over 30, except Mike Timlin. You say they're not ready, or they're inconsistent? I say they can't be any worse than this. If our bullpen must suck, I want there to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Or it's gonna be a long, muggy summer with no relief in sight. And god help me, I'll become a full-time Mets fan.

I'm Still Alive.

2006-06-12T12:46:00.000-04:00

I promise I will update more substantially, soon. Real Life has intervened until now, in the form of Finals and having a really good summer job.

However, god bless ESPN, who's airing the third game of this next road trip, vs. the Twins on Thursday. But I'll try to find some highlights tonight. :)

Can We Come To Order Please?

2006-05-08T15:55:00.000-04:00

(Scene: A random conference room deep in the bowels of Fenway Park)
(KEVIN YOUKILIS, J.T SNOW, MARK LORETTA, ALEX CORA, and MIKE LOWELL sit around a plastic card table)

YOUKILIS: As chairman, I call this meeting of the Red Sox Infielders World Domination and Cooking Club Club to order.....(notes Cora waving insistently) Yes, Alex?

CORA: I forget, why exactly are you chairman again?

YOUKILIS: Because I have seniority, remember?

CORA: All four of us are older than you.

YOUKILIS: Red Sox seniority, Alexander...

LORETTA: And the fact that he's hitting the best out of all of us.

CORA: Oh, right.

YOUKILIS: Now, let's see how the Club Offiicial Plan for World Domination is coming. Mike, what's your report?

LOWELL: (in dulcet German tones; think Alan Rickman from Die Hard) Indeed, Mister Chairman. I am highly pleased with the success of Phases One and Two.

YOUKILIS: AKA " Operation Reduced Expectations", and the current phase, "Operation Double"?

LOWELL: Exactly. By first emphasizing my vulnerability, and then going on a hot streak, I have drawn in that pool of fans previously utilized by Herr Mueller, leaving them ripe for indoctrination in to our army of WORLD DOMINATION! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

YOUKILIS: (bangs gavel) All right, Michael, calm down, calm down. And stop using that German accent, it's creeping me out.

LOWELL: (normal voice) Oh, you're no fun.

YOUKILIS: Watch it....now, J.T, how are we coming on the scientific side of it?

SNOW: It's going pretty well, I think. Tito has played right into our hands, giving me all that time on the bench. I have been repeatedly able to slip out to work on our Brainwashing Machine, under the Third Base Concourse. It's looking splendid.

YOUKILIS: Good, good. Now, time for Mark's report. (notices LORETTA is not paying attention) Mark? MARK!

LORETTA:(looks up and over his hornrim glasses) Aw shucks, what? I just saw a really pretty luna moth for my collection.

YOUKILIS: (sighs) This is the problem, Mark. You're not pulling your weight, you're off with your beetles, when you need to be working on your hitting, drawing in new fans for indoctrination. This cold streak you've been on could have seriously damaged The Plan.

LORETTA: Oh, Kevin, please, don't kick me out, I promise, I promise I'll be good.

YOUKILIS: Well, all right, you better be, but for now, you're moving on to Cora's project.

LORETTA: The Subway Infiltration? Aw, but it's dark down there.

CORA: You're telling me...

YOUKILIS: (angrily) ENOUGH! I am the Chairman here. And trust me, I know what is best. Do you want to go back to being a normal infield, or do you WANT TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD? Becuase, we can do it, we have the power, we can bend the fans to our will, and mold them to our nefarious puposes. ARE YOU WITH ME?

LORETTA: YES!

LOWELL: YES!

CORA: YES!

SNOW: YES!

YOUKILIS: ALL HAIL THE POWER OF THE RED SOX INFIELD!!!!!!!!

ALL: ALL HAIL THE POWER OF THE RED SOX INFIELD!!

(knock on the door) (everbody turns the lights off, runs and hides)

ALEX GONZALEZ: Hey, is anybody here? Yoooo-hoooo....Damnit.
There's something going on here, I just can't figure out what. (leaves)

(Nefarious chuckles emanate from the darkness.)

Hahahahaha....

TO BE CONTINUED

Sunday Morning Comin' Down

2006-05-07T14:50:00.000-04:00

In some ways, blogging about football is so much easier than blogging consistently about baseball. With football, you have one day, sixty minutes of information, and 6 times the time to process it. With baseball, it's information overload, and sometimes I feel I can't do justice to it.

Especially with this team. I feel like I have a handle on them one day, and the next they throw me a backdoor curve, (to use a football metaphor) give me a new look. And I'm flat on my ass again.

I mean, Wednesday, the offense went off the way we've all been hoping they would. Against Roy Halladay, what's more. With the way things have been going, you'd think we win that game hands down.

Nope. Because, whattaya know, the pitching staff chooses exactly that moment to hide under the bed. It was collective, the negative mojo extending even to our Boy Wonder, giving up his first ER of the year.

A game which you left cowering, shaken, unsure in what exactly this team was about.

And yet, going to Fenway the very next evening ( many many thanks to fellow blogger Twitch for the ticket), it looked like a whole new team. The offense again finally clicked, putting up 5 runs before we even knew what was going on. And, I can personally vouch, the rumors of Mike Lowell's demise have been greatly exaggerated. No one's Billy Mueller, but Mikey is doing his damnedest to quickly build up his own legend. My mother told me I would like him, and as usual, she was not far off from the truth.

And Youk.....ah, Youk. He does everything, and more. Best leadoff OBP in the league, and oh yeah, he can occasionally pop one out too.

My favorite part: personally experiencing the delicious tension of "Will or won't Manny make back out of the wall in time for the start of the inning?" Brilliant.

And while, the bullpen was again a little shaky, ( including the DEPRESSINGLY PREDICTABLE SUCK OF RUDY SEANEZ), Matty stepped up to the plate, taking a one-hitter into the 6th. The only truly scary moment was the trainers exiting the dugout en masse to check on Jon Boy, after a pitch to Vernon Wells. The people watching TV, and the people sitting in the field box seats, might have known what was going on, but to those of us back in the grandstand, it was a complete mystery, of the scariest kind.

We lost Wednesday, we won Thursday, and the same team looked so so different. Bipolar, even. And with Lenny the Other White Boy pitching this afternoon, there is an equal chance of briliance or darkness in this same team body. A highly stressful, highly enjoyable train ride, that's what this team has become. With all of us strapped into the seats.

******

Speaking of the collective "us", go visit Beth's for the Official Story of Iain's Visit to Boston( with Pictures!). Part of which was a supremely awesome Get-Together of the Sox Blogging/Grady Survival Peeps at Crossroads, in Kenmore Square, which I was lucky to be a part of. A bunch of crazy, hilarious and lovely people+ good food and beer= best Saturday afternoon ever.

Papi-Man and Rob-Bon Strike Again!

2006-05-02T13:20:00.000-04:00

Heh. Apparently the team listens to me when I yell and use profanity. This is quite a poser. I don't like to overuse aspects of writing or words. But mojo is mojo,so:

WIN, AGAIN, TONIGHT, BITCHES!

Okay. That's out of the way.

That game was beautiful. Moreso, it was doubly beautiful. Containing two of the most awesome things on God's green earth.

There was, of course, David Ortiz hitting a 3-run homer, AGAINST a 15-mile an hour wind, TO the deepest part of the park. Oh, yeah, and with his usual clutch timing. I was watching on the big screen downstairs, and we had been teased all night with homers, good and bad.
The Wily Mo almost-grandslam, especially, was painful. So we weren't going to be teased; it brought us to our feet immediately, but we were not going to cheer until it definitively left the field of play. Which, yeah, it did, and there was much screaming and jumping.

It left the field, immediately caught and cradled by the other godlike figure of the evening. The young god of fire, the Agni of the Bullpen, Newest Bearer of the All-Powerful Vegetable Mojo. The transference seems to have worked rather well, thank you very much.

Yes, it wasn't technically a save situation, but with the Yankees, every lead under around 7 is unofficially a save situation. And that was a thing of beauty, right there. There's an expression in my house, a call and response, if you will: "What are the 6 most beautiful words in the English Language?" "Alex Rodriguez Goes Down On Strikes." And the picture was just as beuatiful as the words. He made A-Rod look overmatched. And then he did it to Matsui and Posada, and the game was over like that. Strike three, game final, let's go get some beers.

Of course, this doesn't mean everything's okay. While Sweet Mark did have the go-ahead hit, he's still struggling. Coco's not back. We have to keep up last night's momentum, which is not easy. But last night was certainly a morale boost, if nothing else.

7 PM! BACK TO THE BATCAVE! (If it doesn't rain.)

Short Hits

2006-05-01T18:37:00.000-04:00

*This Red Sox offense makes the baby Jesus cry. (It makes me want to pull my hair out.)

*You see, Curt? This is why you LISTEN TO TITO about such things as pitch counts. He's a smart guy, nearly as smart as you.

* DOUGIE HAS RETURNED.
THANK GOD. Nothing against Josh Bard as a person, but THANK GOD.
This may not really do anything for the offense in the long run, but it'll definitely help out Timmy, which is always a good thing. It is also, at the very least, a spirtual boost. Because Dougie won't let the offensive futility go by without a kick in the ass to everybody else.

* I resent everyone who tells me I can't boo Johnny Damon. Yes, he did great things as a member of the Twenty Five. I cheered him last year for that. And I will cheer him when he goes to another team or retires and comes back for Old-Timers day. But right now, HE IS A YANKEE. That overrides everything else; you wear the pinstripes, and with very few exceptions, you get booed.

* WIN TONIGHT, BITCHES.

Heir Apparent

2006-04-30T13:35:00.000-04:00

The Mohawk is gone.
Yet the awesome remains.
STRIKING OUT THE FRICKING SIDE.
Jonathan Papelbon, Major League Record Holder.
I think that I may have finally found an heir to the All-Powerful Vegetable Mojo. While no one can really replace the Poor Beloved String Bean, the Mojo is a eternal and temperamental thing, demanding to be used.

Bow, Jonathan R. Papelbon, that ye may receive the gift and responsibility of the All Powerful Vegetable Mojo.

Use it well. May it help you assist Sir Schilling reach 5-0 today.

(P.S. Last week was concert week, and thus crazy. I promise to both watch more baseball and post more frequently this week.)

Tuesday's Game As Expressed Through Badly Adapted Popular Songs

2006-04-19T20:23:00.000-04:00

*to the tune of Barry Manilow's Mandy*

Oh Maaaaatty.....
Well you came and you pitched without whining....
But they didn't score runs, oh Matty....
You came out, for the seventh, and were shaky
But you still pitched real well oh Matty.....

*to the tune of "Lump" by Presidents of the USA*

Youk, he came to the plate down 1
His team needed runs, he knew in his heart
Mojo flowed throw him, down into his high socks
He totally confused all the pitching Devil Rays

He's Youk He's Youk
I love him so
He's YoukHe's YoukHe's Youk
Scored runs ahead we go...

* to the tune of the Beatles' "Get Back" ( props to my mother for the inspiration)*

SWEET LORETTA HITTING
RBIS ALL OVER
OH HE IS A LOVELY MAN
YESTERDAY A HOMER
NOW HE BATS IN YOUKIE
OHHHH HE DOES ALL HE CAN....

HE'S MARK
HE'S MARK
HE'S MARK AND OH HE DOES BELONG...

HE'S MARK
HE'S MARK
HE'S MARK AND OH HE DOES BELONG...

*to the tune of Dr. Dre's "Nuthin' But a G Thang"*
One, two, three and to the fo’
Jon Papelbon and Dr. Schill are at the do’
Ready to make an entrance, so back on up
[cuase you know we ’bout had to rip shit up]

Gimme the splitter first, so I can bust like a bubble
Louisiana and Alaska, now you know you in trouble

Ain’t nothin’ but a Sox thang, baaaaabay!
Two fastball geeks so we’re craaaaazay!
Theo Epstein is the Gangsta that paaaaays me!
Unfazable, so please don’t try to faze me [hell yeah]

*to the tune of "O Canada"*

OHHHHH ADAM STERN
YOU MADE A REAL COOL CATCH
OH ADAM STERN, YOU DID SAVE PAAAAAPELBON'S ASSS....

This season is some crazy shit, y'all.

"Hey Baby..."

2006-04-17T14:57:00.000-04:00

*Barry White Playing in the Background*

"It's Mark. I knew you were worried about today's game. Hoping we could come out of this series with a win. And I know we didn't do very well, keeping it cool. Back and forth, back and forth, Papi homers, Everett homers, V-Tek ties it, Seattle pushes across a run, down 6-5 in the bottom of the ninth.

So I decided, let's bust out with the dramatic, two-run, walkoff homer, bring my team the win. Because I can't have my baby girl spending the rest of this fine afternoon feelin' blue. Just ain't my style.

Happy Patriot's Day, sweetheart."

Up and Down, Up and Down

2006-04-16T11:34:00.000-04:00

( Yes, I know, I'm late and remiss in my posting duties. If you had to hand in a 23 page paper on the military in Jane Austen on Monday morning, you would be remiss too.)

Sigh. This seems to be our destiny as a team now, and as a fanbase, to be a roller coaster. When our pitching is on, we are on. When our pitching is off, we suck the big one.

I love pitching, so I should love this, right? I don't really know. Beating up people with slugging last year wasn't so great, because we had to, due to the suckage of the bullpen. However, we were always sure we could do it, "it" being "bust out with a 9 run game on the fly".

This year- it's very very good that our pitching has improved, because our offense has, at the very least, changed. Not by a huge percentage, we haven't become the Pirates or anything. But watching inning after inning go by on Thursday night, soaked in offensive futility, it was....at the very least, unsettling.

Friday, was what we hoped our new pitching would bring. Score just enough runs to support a fantastic pitching performance by THE CURT. ( Yes, he merits all caps now.) 2-1 games are stressful, but fun.

What was not fun? YESTERDAY'S LINEUP. *Comic Book Guy* WORST. RED SOX LINEUP. EVER. This is what happens when EVERYBODY takes an off-day at once. And poor Wake got the business end of the bull's horns.

Yes, that's not gonna be the longterm lineup. Maybe I'm just overreacting, and it would probably be a good idea to reserve judgement until Coco and Trot are simultaneously back. And I'm much more confident in the starting rotation than I was last year. ( Go ahead, take away my Bronson binky card.) It's great to know that we can break out with those 2-1 games more than we did last year.

However, what happens when Beckett, or Schill have an off-week, or an off-start? *shudders*

Ah well. At the very least, we've learned the season won't be boring.

Bonus Feature: " Random Notes Scrawled on My Score Card from Thursday Night's Trip To Fenway"

*Expert Opinion from The Right Field Boxes: WILY MO IS ONE BIG DUDE.
* "Silly Tek AB Music"- I have no idea what this means. It may just be my aversion to anything Three Doors Down.
* The Vernon Wells Grand Slam- Best example ever of the collective emotional state of a baseball crowd. Matty was going okay, had a few guys on, but seemed to be working. Pitch to Wells-the moment that ball came off the bat, we all knew. You could feel the air around you change.
* Me, One AB After That: "Oh, sure, NOW you get the ground ball. DISPLEASING, MATTHEW!"
*Note to Self: If you ever bring a 7-year old boy relative to ball park, bring other adult. Force other adult to sit next to boy, to absorb fidgeting.
* Further Note to Self: NEVER BUY 7-YEAR OLD A FOAM FINGER, UNLESS YOU WANT TO GET WAPPED IN THE FACE REPEATEDLY.
* DWIGHT EVANS: DEAD SEXY.
* I don't think I had ever been to a game where Youk started before. Because it's amazing how Zen-like the YOOOOOOUK chant is. Deep and low, like a herd of cows.
*Mark Loretta's AB Music: "Lowrider". Because Mark is one funky white boy.
* Yelled "Dusty" after great catch by Mr. Mohr, and started to sing "Son of A Preacher Man". Got really strange looks from surrounding people.
*The Crowd, despite the 8-1 score by the 7th inning, was really fun, really loose, one of the best I've been in. A bunch of people joined me in singing along with "Dream On" when it played on the Jumbotron, and Sweet Caroline was, as always, fun. The late-game homer by Papi helped too.
* I have to tell you, being in the crowd as we stood en masse, in the ninth inning to cheer on Wily Mo Pena? And the cheer for a walk as if it was a 400 foot homer? Almost made up for everything else. As did the immediate infusion of hope and excitement after Youk's RBI double to bring us within three. Sure, Papi flied out, as the tying run, to end it. But for that brief 2/3 inning, we were golden. It's amazing how a Fenway crowd can come together just like that. Just amazing.

About Last Night

2006-04-13T15:52:00.000-04:00

....it sucked.

Nothing was on; the Fat Man displayed none of the tendencies of say, control, or pitching, that made me not dislike him at certain points last year. Memo to David Wells: You may have pitched seventy bajillion years, in several World Series, and have a perfect game to your credit. BUT NO ONE IS ABOVE TAKING ANOTHER REHAB START IF THEY NEED IT. Fuck your incentive. That suck would have been better expunged down in Pawtucket, and with the arrangement of off days, we could have afforded it.

You were outpitched and outcooled last night by the Other White Boy, Lenny Dinardo. That should tell you something.

However, I am rational enough, and it's early enough in the season that I realize it wasn't compleeetely his fault. I was watching with a Cubs fan last night, and we were talking on what has been alleged to be the Cubs offensive problem the past few years. That they have had the power hitters, and the home runs, but NO ONE ON BASE WHEN THEY HIT THEM.

We had the home runs last night. Hell, we had a DUSTAN MOHR DINGER last night. However, the middle of our lineup was not the problem. Kevin? Mark? A combined 0-8 is not good, dearhearts. You were working Chacin, as you should, but nothing was coming of it. No table setting means the food stays cold. With table-setting, there could have been a lot more than 4 runs scored off Chacin.
(one happy note: I never though seeing a player take a walk could make me so, so happy. But Wily Mo managed to surprise me. :)

But it's April. And we're 6-2. So it's cool.
Tonight's another game. But you better win this time. Because if you don't, I will be watching 100 feets away. I will stomp down from the right field boxes, and teach you a lesson.
( Yes, all 5'4 of me. I'm feisty.)

Dispatches from the Home (Opener) Front

2006-04-11T19:56:00.000-04:00

Dear Papi,

I LOVE YOU. I LOVE THEO. I LOVE THE COLLECTIVE FRONT OFFICE BEING. BUT MOST OF ALL, I LOVE YOU .

P.S. Yaay homers! Yaay for saying Baise-Toi to the stupid Blue Jays shift at least once. ( It's something rude. In French. Because they're Canadian, you see.)

Dear Coco,

NO MORE HEAD FIRST SLIDING EVER. It annoys me no end, how cunning you are, that you work so hard to make me like you, and I submit, and than stupid shit like this finger fracture happens. ( I feel for you too, because jamming your index finger hurts like a bitch. I did in volleyball in sixth grade, so I should know, obviously. Although it only prevented me from playing the violin.)
I can't bear to blame you. So I will blame the base. And possibly, and collectively, the city of Baltimore. STUPID BALTIMORE WHERE IT IS 6:42.

Dear Mark ,

You know that you pretty much have the second base job locked up, don't you? I know we're pretty tough on second basemen, but I think you're sticking around for a while. We understand that people go 0-4 occasionally, we won't sneak in the middle of the night and put your stuff in the parking lot if you have an off game. Not that I am not incredibly turned on by all the big sexy defense you and Gonzo are playing, and would object if it continued. But dude. That "jump 10 feet in the air and deflect the ball with your body for the double play" play looked tiring. Pace yourself.

Dear Keith and Wily,

le sigh. That was not fun.

Dear Jonathan,

You are one bad-ass, ass-kicking, dead sexy mothafuckah.

Dear Josh,

Okay, yeah, you too.

Dear Red Sox,

Well played, boys. Hell yeah.

Leaving the Nest

2006-04-08T21:41:00.000-04:00

(From TSN)
Any other DC comics fans out there? If there are, they will remember that there came a time in the life of Dick Grayson, the first Robin, when he grew up, and went out into the world, and left the sheltering darkness of the Batcave. He was no longer a sidekick, he was his own superhero, Nightwing.

I feel like that's what we're watching right now, with our own pitching superhero. Only better. Because, while on his own, Nightwing was a pretty lame superhero, Jonathan is anything but lame. Tonight, for the second time in 4 days, I watched him go out there and scare the shit out of three major league hitters. He made the usually dignified Michael Young look silly. He gave Miguel Tejada, no slouch in the offensive department, fits, sending him back to the dugout shaking his head. Last year he was pretty unflappable, especially for rookie; this year he has iceblood running through those veins. Until he gets the job done, and then he lets loose with the passion that has endeared him to the rest of Red Sox Nation. It's like if Dick Grayson has grown up to become another Batman. (In the coolness factor alone.)

Last year, it was a rare and wonderful pleasure when we were on the good end of a 2-1 game. We've now won two of them within the space of the first week. Apart from Wake's awful Tuesday outing, we've had our starters give us a strong 7 innings in each of the first 5 games.( Yes, even with the shaky 7th, the rest of Matty's outing last night was highly pleasing.) Josh Beckett may indeed have a rather large head ( which I feel for, having a big melon myself), but he also has a pair of very large cojones, and seeing him pump his fist or playfully talk with Manny in the dugout, I like him already. And Wake will come around, as good knuckleballers inevitably do. Watching our rotation perform as it's capable of gives me warm fuzzies. It makes me ALMOST not miss String Bean. ( Almost.)

The only slightly worrying thing is that our bullpen still seems a little thin towards the end there, and Seanez just flatout sucked last night. However, Foulkie's looking better, Timlin looked like Timlin tonight, and we've got the closest thing to a sure thing in the ninth that we've had in a year or so. And there's Hansen and Lil' Manny percolating in the minors, if needed. So, in all, very optimistic.

Some fans say they like baseball for the hitting, and there's all that bullshit about "Chicks dig the long ball". I won't deny that watching Papi hit one out is one of the sweetest things in the world. But I'll tell you, there's nothing like the rush I got watching Jonathan mow down the middle of the Orioles lineup tonight without breaking a sweat. You don't last very long, I think, as a baseball fan, if you don't on some level enjoy watching good pitching. It gets you up on your feet, it gets your blood pumping, and when a pitcher is hitting his spots, you feel it viscerally like nothing else.

Which is what makes Papelbon's coming of age so incredibly satisfying. A very good, possibly great young pitcher coming into his own. Nothing like it.

Dr. Red Sox and Mr. Hyde

2006-04-05T16:52:00.000-04:00

Well, that was a pair of games to give you whiplash.

Monday, everything seemed to go right. While Millwood had the lineup pretty much solved for the first three innings, it didn't matter. Schill was holding up his end of the bargain, looking the best that I have seen him look in a year. He was doing what an ace was supposed to do, playing the guy holding the barbarians back with a fruit knife while the rest of the battalion suits up.

And suit up they did. I could seriously watch an entire game of Coco Crisp scoring from first. He runs so pretty. And his mate at the top of the order ain't bad either. Though I had a soft spot for Edgar last year, more than other people did, I have to admit it's so nice to see our number two hitter battle through at-bats again. NewMark is smart, tough, and wily at the plate, and is definitely doing his damnedest to escape the shadows of the Bell and the Graffer. I think he shall succeed, verily.

Papi......I was heading out to rehearsal at the beginning of the fifth, listening to the game, and stopped to button my coat. I heard a crack over the radio and the tell-tale excitement in Castig's voice, and I just knew. David Ortiz is one of the few people in existence who can make me whoop and do an actual honest to God happy dance in the middle of the Quincy Courtyard. ( God, I missed baseball.)

I did not miss what last night's game brought with it, though that's part of baseball too. To paraphrase Aaron Sorkin, "In baseball, oftentimes, other people win." Which is bloody annoying, But last night, it was not just that they lost, it was how they lost. If Monday was clicking on all cylinders, than Tuesday was the car blowing up in a fiery wreck. Nothing was "on" last night, with the possible exception of Coco. Wake just did not have it. When that happens , Katy bar the door, because there is rarely a middle ground with knuckleballers, it's all or nothing.

And while I was loath to say so last night, it was poor Josh Bard's bad luck that Wake's firestorm of suck coincided with his first start. I have faith, or at least have optimism, that the PB number will go down, and Bard will improve. However, I can't resist one little bit of snark... DOUG MIRABELLI WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED HOW MANY OUTS THERE WERE.
(It's seriously the little things, people.)

So, given the extremes demonstrated over the first two games, I have no idea what to expect tonight. With Becks taking the ball, I have hope the pitching will be substantially better, and the offense less futile. Really, I'd just be satisfied with a happy medium. I am patient. ( Well not really. But the excitement of having Beckett out there for the first time is a nice sedative.)

****
Even in Cincinnati, The All Powerful Vegetable Mojo Lives on.

Hell yeah.

I would write more about Opening Day yesterday

2006-04-04T20:35:00.000-04:00

(hat tip to Surviving Grady)
But Coco Crisp's cuteness is overwhelming my neurons.

Plus Wake just don't have it tonight. AND I MISS DOUG MIRABELLI SO DAMN MUCH.

(Yes it's only the second inning. But that first inning stunk. More later, maybe.)

Today, It's Not Tomorrow

2006-04-03T07:49:00.000-04:00

I look out my window, and the sun smiles back at me out of a blue and balmy Boston skyline. As if to frame the day for what's to come.

Sure, the team themselves is physically 1500 miles away. In Texas where it's a relatively sweltering 66 degress, perfect weather for baseball. But they're here alright. In my new hat sitting brightly blue upon the the top of the dresser. In the strains of "Dirty Water" and "Tessie" playing over my speakers. In my itchy pointer finger hardly able to wait to check the score from the Chi-Sox-Indians game last night.

Today, and not tomorrow, all questions, pitching or otherwise, briefly fade away.

Today, Keith Foulke is the badass he was two years ago, ready to show all comers why goddamnit, he's back.

Today, Coco Crisp is not just a replacement, not just a centerfielder, but THE centerfielder, ready to erase all memories of that loudmouth in pinstripes. He's ready to draw of all of Red Sox Nation in his fond embrace.

Today, Jonathan Papelbon is the youthful pitching superhero, ready to carry the Red Sox bullpen on his broad shoulders with his oh-so-sweet smile.

Today Kevin Youkilis is ready to finally take his rightful place in the sun, to hear those chants of "Youuuk" for more than a couple days in a row.

Today, Josh Beckett is the second ace, the fiery linchpin of a rotation which could take on all comers. Ready to put all that intensity to good use, and blow all doubters away.

Today, Manny is Manny, and nothing else matters.

Today, Curt Schilling is about to reclaim his mantle of ace and number one starter, to take one of the league's top offenses and make them an object lesson in pitching aplomb. The Big Schill, back in the saddle again.

Today, Papi smiles his magnificent smile again, and is awesome in the ancient mythological sense. Adored by his followers, striking fear in the hearts of the opposition.

Tomorrow, we come back down to Earth, worry about wins and losses and ERAs and AVGs and statistics, and those things are important to be sure.
But today it's Opening Day, and our team is back, alive with possibilities.
Play ball.

Data Not Processing

2006-03-21T23:24:00.000-05:00

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

Adam Vinatieri cannot not be the kicker for the Pats. He can't be kicking for the Football Spawn of Satan, Indianapolis Chapter.

I swear, when Beth emailed this morning about her clairvoyant dream predicting this, it was amusing. I mean, even if he ended up going anywhere ( which at the time was far in the future), it wouldn't be with the Colts. Right? RIGHT?

But it came true. If I wasn't so shocked, the sheer eerieness of that would blow my mind.

And I've been trying to process it here for 4 hours now. And it just won't. It's like in Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy (book, not movie), when Ford tells Arthur that Earth has been destroyed. His brain won't deal with it, because it's just too huge to process. So he starts with smaller things, like McDonald''s burgers.

Maybe that would help.

Adam's cluch right leg is gone to Indy....no, not working.

His shoes are gone to Indy....nope.

No more Papa Gino's commercials......OH MY FUCKING GOD.

Did Theo and Belichick just suddenly get together this week and decide "What can we do simultaneously, to ensure the greatest portion of our fanbases' heads collectively EXPLODE?"

I wish it was not a horribly bad idea to get drunk on Tuesday night during midterms. Stupid responsiblity.

The Thing With Feathers

2006-03-21T11:59:00.000-05:00

"Hope" is the thing with feathers-- That perches in the soul-- And sings the tune without the words-- And never stops--at all-- Emily Dickinson

So you had no guarantees, Bronson. You had no written confirmations of your eventual fate. All you had was simple blind hope that they wouldn't, somewhere down the road, find a deal for you which they could not, in good conscience turn down.

You stupid boy. You stupid, stupid, sweet idealistic boy. You should have learned by now, I should have learned by now, that hope has no place in baseball. Well, at least not in contract negotiations.

I knew that. I should have remembered that, but I didn't. I was too wrapped up in the joy of your new contract to care.

And the thing is, I have no one to be mad at for this. It's just free floating anger, with no object on which to pin it. I can't be mad at Wily Mo Pena; I don't want to be. From everything I've heard, this is the guy you trade a little bit of pitching for. The young bit of clay, the mass of talent waiting to molded into a slugging masterpiece. The power is there, the speed is there. The defense isn't, but it could be. The strikeouts are worrisome, and yet a worthy project for a masterful hitting instructor such as Papa Jack. Heck, even the chemistry is partially there a little bit, with the news that Wily idolizes Papi, and Papi reciprocates the warm fuzzies. Everything says, this is a player who could work his way into the hearts and minds of Red Sox Nation.

And thus I can't blame Theo either. I say, we say so much, that we want a GM who will make these types of tough choices, who will not flinch from getting the rotten produce thrown at him when it doesn't work, whose head will not be inflated by the excessive praise when it does. Hypocrisy is one of my most hated sins. So I cannot clamor for the steely-eye gun-slinger, yet change my tune when the crossfire takes down one of my own.

Who's left? Bronson? For what, having faith in human nature? For loving my town as much as I do, for appreciating the energy his fans bring everytime we come to the ball park? For being stupid in exactly the way we want our ballplayers to be, except when we don't?
It's so incredibly amusing to me, that all of this is going down, while only a couple hundred miles to the South, Alfonso Soriano embodies evrerything so completely.. opposite. He's paid several times what Bronson is, and has several times the talent. But he sits there like a goddamn toddler, "I won't go to the outfield, I won't", performing the grownup equivalent of sitting on the floor, threatening to hold his breath until he turns blue.
And here is Bronson, jerked around like a rag-doll, rotation, bullpen, rotation, bullpen, peanut vendor... Yet nothing could break his hope, nothing could kill that thing with feathers within his spirit, the tune went on. He put on his cleats and walked where they pointed him, head held high, like a man. So now he walks west, with that same dignity.

I can't explain, quite exactly, what drew and draws me to him. I have no delusions about him. He was a 5th starter at best, a swingman, with a occasionaly magnificent, usually good breaking ball, and an incredibly inconsistent fastball. He was never ace-level brilliant, though there would occasionally be flashes. The 7 innings of a no-hitter he pitched last May. The time I saw him in Fenway, taking a one hitter into the 8th. The steady hand and contributions he made in the late innings, as a member of the 25.
Maybe it was just something in his presence on the mound. The quiet strength. But he grabbed my fannish heart by the strings, and would not let go, as hard as I might try.
I root for the laundry, not the men. That's just how you survive emotionally being a fan, especially in Boston. But only to a point. There are guys who creep their way in, and it hits you harder than usual when they go. Bronson was one of those.

Bronson, Guns' and Corn, Bron-Bron, Cornroyo. On good days, Bearer of the All Powerful Vegetable Mojo.

See you round, String Bean.

HOWL OF INDESCRIBABLE ANGUISH!

2006-03-20T13:49:00.000-05:00

String Bean traded to Reds for Wily Mo Pena

The Bearer of the Vegetable Mojo has gone into the West. ( Or really, the Central.) Namarie, my love.

I can't be as mad as I want to be, because at some superego, rational level, I understand the trade. It's too exhausting to be mad right now.
So for now I'll just be sad.

Jon-Boy, String Bean, and Tito

2006-03-18T09:50:00.000-05:00

I find it highly unfair:
(MLB.com)

.....that Jonathan Papelbon can both throw a fastball in the mid to high 90s AND look better in Kelly green than I do. Embarassment of worldly riches, is what I say.

I will manage to look past that though, since our boy seems to be finally getting his shit together, with that 5 innining shutout performance yesterday versus the Marlins. That he didn't get the win is immaterial. Well, not to him, since it probably would have been nice. But just the fact that he's improving and looking like the Jon-Boy from the middle of last season is enough for me. Makes this 3-something-1 Grapefruit League record a little harder to swallow.

The thing about Papelbon with me , it's something past the marvelous pitching and the adorablness. It's dare I say it, the fact that he's only 3 years older than me. I "get" partially the emotional state he must be channeling right now. He 's reacting how all of us youngens hope we can react to getting out into the real world. Even if that world of his is somewhat more fantastical.

It's gonna be really hard, when it comes down to it, to manage my established love for the String Bean, and my growing fascination with the Argyle Rockstar Pitcher (tm Sam), when it's time to throw one of them to the bullpen, or to AAA. The fact is, though Papelbon has loads more natural talent, they're very much similar birds in personality. Intense on the mound, but easy going, aw-shucks kinda guys in the clubhouse, who would cut off their left nut if it could help the team win. On a good day, the world as a whole is glad I'm not in Tito's position, but I especially would not want to have to make this decision.

But that's why there is Tito, and why FINALLY the Front Office gave him a much deserved raise while wrapping him up for the next three years. We all say sometime swe could manage better from our armchairs than he does. Truth is, would we want to? We'd love the glory after a win , but would we love the vitriol post-loss. Would our sanity last as long as Tito's has dealing with the agita of people like Pedro(godlovehim), Wells and Manny? Could we live with ourselves afterwards covering for the child-like behavior of highly-paid professional athletes? And would anyone put themselves in Tito's shoes having to make the roster decisions like he does?
Nope.
But he does it all, with his charecteristic smile and snark.
So, he's still here, and for now, all is reasonably right with the world.
*****
PS:
HAVE FINALLY GOTTEN EXCITED ABOUT THE WBC! Awesome stuff, even if the good old US of A screwed the pooch on Thursday. Who cares, when you have stuff like Cuba-Dominican Republic this afternoon? To see Papi like the rest of the world sees him: the scariest, the baaaaaadest motherfucker in town. (Oh, and a couple guys named Tejada and Pujols who ain't no slouches either.)
VIVA LOS DOMINICANOS!!!!!!!!!!

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!

2006-03-15T18:02:00.000-05:00

Big Willie signs with the Browns.

I guess I was unclear on the plan. I thought the plan was to cut him, and then IMMMEDIATELY RESIGN HIM to a cheaper but still fair contract. Apparently I was wrong. The plan was to MAKE MY HEAD EXPLODE.

This is not an auspicious start to the offseason. Not at all.

*heads off to find a flamethrower and Mapquest the way to Foxboro*