"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Monday, April 04, 2005

Me no likey...

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(that about sums it up)

You guys? We lose Opening Day. Really, we do. You can look it up. Pedro, Wake, Wells, it doesn’t matter. We lose. It’s okay. We haven’t won an Opening Day in four years and the Yankees haven’t won a World Series in four years. I don’t know what that means, but it means something. So really, it’s okay. It’s one game. There are 161 of them left. Some of them won’t even be against the Yankees. This will be okay. I keep telling myself this…

That said, it doesn’t mean I didn’t freak the hell out during many intense moments.

Amy and I watched the first 6 innings at Vinny T’s in Brookline because Amy’s roommate – who owns the TV and therefore, has, I guess, jurisdiction on the living room – decided that she would rather watch “Desperate Housewives” and “Extreme Home Makeover.” So no baseball for us! Bah! Right, like I can complain. I don’t even freakin’ live there. Officially. Anam Cara was full due to the insane amount of time it took me to get from Weymouth to Brookline utilizing only public transportation. Also, Dear MBTA: Bite me. Love, Kristen. The apparently very busy men at Café Nicholas (busy despite there being four people in the restaurant), were evidently blind to the two hotties decked out in Red Sox gear standing in front of the counter, waiting to ask them if they were going to have the Sox game on instead of the umpteenth hour of coverage about the Pope kicking it (take a right at the fire pits and bang a left and my seat in Hell is straight in front of you). So after five minutes of being completely ignored, we headed for Vinny’s, reasoning that we could eat at the bar and drink beer and watch the game and yell and perhaps scare small children.

We made sure, by badgering the host, that the game would in fact be on. I mean, we made this guy promise. Pinky swear, even. And then, when it finally hit 8 o’clock and Malcolm in the Middle was still playing, we might have said some uncharitable things about the poor guy, his mother, his family and his apparent inability to operate a remote control. But eventually, he figured it out.

You know how the game went. There’s no point in recapping it pitch for pitch. It wasn’t pretty, to say the least. The David Wells Era is off to an auspicious start. As I’ve said, the man could have done two things to make me like him. One is buy me a pony. Two is beat the Yankees. We know how the Yankee-beating went. And I am sorry to report that when I got into work this morning, my cube was conspicuously absent of ponies. This is not a good sign. He is allowed to suck occasionally – everyone does – but he must at least try to make it up to me. Witness Varitek, who, according to ESPN’s helpful *cough* graphics, is 0-for-eternity at Yankee Stadium. But he makes it up to me by occasionally smacking the crap out of A-Rod and by wearing tight pants. So it’s all good. However, I do not wish to see Wells in anything resembling tight and he’s already beaned Giambi twice (way to attempt to get out of the way there, ‘roid boy), so I’ll be needing a pony.

During a Varitek at-bat, wherein I declared that even when he misses, it’s a thing of beauty, Amy and I had this conversation:

Me: If Varitek and I ever had children, their poor thighs would be so massive, they wouldn’t be able to walk.
Amy: Like they’d have a condition?
Me: Yes.
Amy: We’d need to have telethons for them.

We also decided that at some point during every swing Varitek takes, his legs make a sound like a guitar string being plucked. A “zchinggggggg!” noise. It happens when he runs as well. Therefore, the new “Varitek running to first” sound effect is now “Zching! Zching! Zching!” It is most excellent.

Might as well mention it now, as it won’t be the last time this season it comes up, but I thought it needed to be said. FUCKING MATSUI! I quoth, Beth, Sam, Amy and undoubtedly most members of Red Sox Nation when I say, “Why is it always bloody Matsui?”

Amy: Ahhhh! He scares me.
Me: He’s scaring the children. They should put one of those black censor bars across his face.
Amy: He’s so…good, which blows.
Me: I hate him. Hate, hate, hate, hate.

Matsui then duplicated Manny’s catch from last year which robbed Miguel Cairo of a home run. Except Matsui robbed Millar and I kicked the bar.

Me: Oh great, now that’ll be on fuckin’ SportsCenter all damn season.
Amy: I hate that guy.

It should be noted that the winter of bliss has done nothing to quell my hatred of Gary Sheffield. If it’s possible – and I didn’t think it was – I hate the man now more than ever.

Me: I hate you, Gary Sheffield.
Amy: That guy sucks.
Me: No really, my hatred knows no bounds.
Amy: Uh huh.
Me: It’s like this: have you ever hated someone so much that you were willing to expend vast amounts of energy writing a musical or perhaps an epic poem about how much you hate them?
Amy: Um, no.
Me: I’m going to do it. “Gary Sheffield is a Dirty, Cheating, Porn-Stache Wearing Asshole, Part the First.” Coming soon to Broadway.

The third inning began and I declared, again, not for the last time this season that I, “hate baseball.”

Dear Baseball:
I am sorry. I don’t mean it. Sometimes I say things I regret. It’s just that I get so frustrated. I really do love you. See also: Bellhorn, Mark.

Long about the 6th inning and after realizing that we were totally “those girls” at the bar, we called Amy’s roommate, asked for permission to watch the rest of the game there and headed back to the bachelorette pad.

Things didn’t get much better when my Bullpen Boyfriend made an appearance. Oh, Matt Mantei, I want to love you for reasons other than your smokin’ hotness. I really, really do. But you’re going to have to occasionally do something other than look hot. Like, it would really help if you --- AHHH! FUCKING MATSUI!!!


The Tino Martinez love fest (or circlejerk as Sam so brilliantly calls it) was also nauseating. And I was forced to explain the intricacies of the whole “Bye, Tino, Hi, Giambi” thing to a couple of curious and well-intentioned baseball neophytes.

Roommate the First: Who’s Tino?
Me: The first baseman.
Roommate the First: Why are they cheering for him?
Me: ‘Cause they traded him. And then got Giambi and now they have him back. So they have both of them.
Roommate the First: Where was he before?
Me: Last year he was in Tampa Bay. Before that, with the Yankees.
Roommate the First: Where was Giambi before?
Me: In Oakland. But that was like four years ago.

At this point, I got a “you’re really starting to scare me” look from Amy’s other roommate.

Roommate the Second: Kristen, what’s Johnny Damon’s shoe size?
Me: I have no idea.
Roommate the Second: What’s Varitek’s shoe size.
Me: I don’t know.
Roommate the Second: Yes you do.
Me: I don’t! I swear! I don’t know these things!

I’m pretty sure they didn’t believe me.

Roommate the First: Do you watch every Red Sox game on TV?
Me: (sheepishly) Um, most of them.
Roommate the First: Why do you do that to yourself? Why would you torture yourself like that?
Me: Well, I love baseball. So it’s not torture.
Roommate the First: But it’s the same thing every night. Don’t you get bored with it?
Me: No, the Red Sox always find new and inventing ways to either fuck up royally or win. So it’s not the same thing. Plus, I love baseball.
Roommate the First: Hmmm.

Other observations in no particular order:

Me: Dear Derek Jeter, I hope you contract a painful venereal disease.
Amy: Again.


Amy: Is A-Rod’s at bat music Jay-Z?
Me: They’re totally in the same posse.
Amy: A-Rod is a tool.
Me: The tooliest.


(Edgah makes an error)
Me: Edgah, I love you. I do. It’s okay.
Amy: Oh, Edgah.
Me: I’m trying really hard not to say “Pokey or the O.C. would’ve had it.” Because he needs positive reinforcement.
Amy: Or Nomar.
Me: Well, Nomar would have thrown it into the dugout so good job on not doing that, Edgah!


The game, as you know, was a no-go. But I’m surprisingly even-keeled about it this morning, despite the concerns of co-workers that I would have jumped out a window. I mean really, people, I’m not that unbalanced. Besides, the windows don’t even open. And there are many, many more games to get worked up about. In the meantime, I will be waiting for my pony.

Also, Dear Mom: I apologize for my language in this entry. But be warned, the season just started and it’s only going to get worse. I shall try to rein it in. Love, Kristen.

And, well, best to remember that this happened: