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

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Back Where He Belongs

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You all know about this already, but I'd be remiss if I didn't post something about it. So, without further ado, Basegirl announces that Troy Brown is returning to the Patriots! And here I am, reporting it to you only two weeks after the rest of the world. Cutting edge, I am.

Anyhow, as I've freaked about the potential loss of my main man Troy in the past, I thought it quite important to let you all know that this recent signing (one year, $1 million, reportedly which represents quite a pay cut/hometown discount) has done wonders for my football-starved psyche. Especially with the way the Red Sox are currently playing *ahem,* Patriots season looks awfully shiny and fun from over here.

Welcome back, Troy! You belong here!

Look Familiar?

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(Up, down, up, down...)

Hello, we are the Boston Red Sox, or, sometimes, the World Champion Boston Red Sox, although we only occasionally play like it. We enjoy losing in excruciating, nail-biting fashion, leaving our starting pitchers in too long, giving up grand slams to outfielders batting .169 and making girls cry. Just for variety, sometimes we also score many runs off the Yankees and pound them into horsemeat. But that doesn’t last for long. We also don’t like Kristen and have decided never again to win a game that she attends in person, be it Fenway’s friendly confines or some other stadium, even if it’s in another country.

We also enjoy being an emotional rollercoaster of a team and causing heartache and woe for our fans (especially Kristen) who are in the process of a move and don’t have time to pay attention to every pitch. We realize that it would be far too benevolent of us to perform as expected and WIN BASEBALL GAMES so that she can be reasonably stress-free and continue living her life, secure in the knowledge that we, the Boston Red Sox, are playing like the champions we allegedly are.

Upon first glance, it probably appears to the casual observer that we are punishing Kristen for being distracted and focusing her attention on things not related to baseball including said move as well as other, more unpleasant and much more serious matters. But in reality, she can’t leave us alone, continues to write and bitch about us and will not stop saying things like “Do the Toronto fans think we’re going to disagree with their assessment that David Wells is fat?” and “If I had to stare into Jorge Posada’s crotch to get signs for nine innings, I’d stab myself in the cornea with a spork.” So really, it’s quite obvious that she can’t leave well enough alone.

We’ve decided to show her. We issued Saturday’s 17-1 thumping of the “esteemed” and “historic” Yankees as a public apology for the multiple debacles she was forced to watch, Clockwork Orange-style in Toronto and we even kept the good feelings going for another day with a 7-2 smackdown of those very same Yankees. However, we felt she was getting too comfortable with our newfound place in second and yanked the proverbial rug out from under her yesterday as she sat in Grandstand 29 next to her brother and watched us get bitchslapped by the Baltimore Orioles to the tune of 8-1. Even her previously steadfast faith in Bronson has been shaken.

We’ve even got her friends turning on her now. Annette, Amy and Beth have forbidden her from attending any more games until she gets her winning mojo back. Her brother has taken to berating her for choosing the wrong games to attend (as if it’s somehow her fault that we were going to play like chimpanzees with epilepsy), and she’s starting to feel quite depressed about the whole thing. Excellent, a Red Sox fan should never be comfortable.

In conclusion, we’ve caught wind of the fact that Kristen plans to attend Wednesday night’s game pitting Matty Neptune Nuts Clement (her name) against…some dude from the Orioles. Apparently, she was planning on sneaking in, trying to slip in under our radar, perhaps attired in something other than her trademark Varitek jersey and Tom Brady baseball cap. But we’ll be on the lookout if she tries anything funny. We expect, should we blow this one in spectacular fashion as well, that she’ll throw up her hands in exasperation and have done with us for a while. Or so she’ll say. We know Red Sox fans, and we’ve hooked ‘em good.


The Boston Red Sox


All joking aside, I'd like to offer my sincere condolences for the family of Red Sox Spanish language broadcaster Juan Pedro "J.P." Villaman who was killed in a car crash this weekend. Descanse en la paz, J.P.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Blogging Across the Border, Part the Third

Or: I. Hate. Everyone.

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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Who wants to venture a guess as to whether or not Johnny Damon ran into the wall after this attempted catch? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I best keep this short lest I inadvertently start an international incident with Canada by saying something uncharitable about their…everything.

Good things that happened today’:

My baby brudder turned 22! To celebrate this, we went to a steakhouse and had a gigantic dinner. However, the best part happened when my brother’s girlfriend informed the waiter that we would be needing some sort of celebratory dessert. We expected the customary singing and dancing waiter bit that is always more embarrassing for the wait staff than it is for the customers, but this guy outdid himself. He didn’t sing and he didn’t dance, but with the strawberry dessert concoction, he also brought a tinfoil donkey hat, constructed out of approximately eight yards of aluminum foil, with sparklers in the giant ears. He then proceeded to place said hat on my brother’s head and light the sparklers. My brother, who didn’t see this coming, sat perfectly still with an “I’m’a kill you all” look on his face. It was, quite simply, the funniest thing I’ve seen in a good long while. I laughed for a good twenty minutes. Oh, and you better believe there will be pictures of this forthcoming. Bloody brilliant, that was.

The new Star Wars movie? Bit of ass kickery, that is. Seriously, it rules. We killed some time earlier today by scoping out a theater and catching a matinee. It’s easily the best of the three prequels and made me remember why I loved Star Wars in the first place. Hayden Christensen can’t act his way out of a paper bag but neither could Mark Hamill so perhaps it’s fitting. However, all due credit to George Lucas but would it perhaps have been possible for him to write an ending that didn’t remind me quite so much of the “It’s just a flesh wound!” scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? No? Those of you who’ve seen it know what I’m talking about. But that’s a minor issue. So, in short, Star Wars=teh rawk!

This conversation happened at dinner:
Bro’s girlfriend: The white jerseys don’t have names?
Bro: Nope. Just the gray ones.
Me: Except for the Yankees, they don’t have names on their home or away jerseys.
Bro’s girlfriend: How come?
Me: They’re just that cool.
Bro: It’s like a code. Jeter is number two which clearly means he likes it in the ass.
Me: Bwahahahaha! (cue Keith’s India Pale Ale shooting out of my nostrils)

The hilarious text messages I received from no fewer than four parties requesting that I get my ass out of Canada posthaste. I will comply as soon as humanely possible.

My brother’s ingenious heckling of Gregg Zaun and his hockey mask: “Atta boy, Belfour!” (so…three of you got that, eh?)

Bad things that happened today:

Pretty much everything else.


Home tomorrow night, kids. And like Jennifer Love Hewitt and her giant…hair, I can’t hardly wait.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Blogging Across the Border, Part the Second

Or: Heckling for Dummies.

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Sadness and woe.

Okay seriously, Canadians have absolutely got to learn how to heckle. “Trot, your name sucks!” is the worst they can come up with? The worst? Wow, that’s just pathetic. It was all I could do to keep from turning around and yelling, “His name is Christopher!” But what I have learned, is how to hit them where they live. For instance, after the aforementioned “heckling” on their part, I found it’s quite wounding to turn to your companion and loudly declare, “Hey, how’re the Leafs doing?” “Dunno,” your brother will say, “But judging by the hockey mask on that catcher, I’d say some of them have found work playing for the Blue Jays.” It’s a cheap shot but the Canadians love their hockey and if you remind them that it’s just not happening right now, you can almost hear their little maple leaf-engraved hearts breaking.

I realize that’s a bit disingenuous considering that I spent a goodly amount of time at the Hockey Hall of Fame today myself and I certainly love, love, love hockey. But come on, you’re gonna boo David Ortiz and you don’t expect any retaliation? That’s just bush league is what that is. Also, how you gonna boo David Ortiz? Bellhorn, okay. Millar, sure, we do it too. But David Ortiz? Really? I guess whatever helps you sleep at night.

Speaking of the Hockey Hall of Fame, (we’ll get to the clusterfuck of the baseball game in due time), it’s pretty much the coolest thing in the history of ever. I realize that the vast majority of you (save Mer) could not care less about hockey but the Hall of Fame is just so…accessible. Even if you don’t know the difference between icing and a two-line pass. I’ll admit that all the “Gretzky, Saviour of Canada and Disciple Who Walks On Water” business can get a bit tiring after all, but I mean, he is Wayne Gretzky. Me? I was there for Ray Bourque and all his pertinent information. Because to me, Bourque was and continues to be The Man where hockey is concerned. The last time I visited the Hall of Fame, two years ago, Bourque had yet to be inducted. Now he’s there, right where he belongs. Additionally, I wasn’t allowed to touch the Stanley Cup last time either, but this time I walked right up to it and rubbed my finger over Bourque’s engraved name. I might have kissed it were I not wise to all the places that trophy has been.

Let me tell you something, you can make a case for the Lombardi Trophy and the World Series Trophy being better trophies in sports, but I probably won’t listen to you. When it comes to commemorative hardware, there is nothing cooler than the Stanley Cup. Partly because there’s only one of them, awarded year after year. And partly because if you win one, you get your name put right on it. Win two, it goes on there again. But the majority of the reason the Stanley Cup rocks so hard is that it’s the most substantial trophy of them all. You’ve all seen Richard Seymour or Tedy Bruschi hoisting a Lombardi trophy and it is indeed a beautiful sight. But in the hands of those massive men, the trophy looks downright puny. The World Series trophy, shiny and sparkly and lusted after as it was, looks awfully delicate in the hands of someone like David Ortiz or Jason Varitek. But the Stanley Cup looks…hefty, weighty, heavy. It looks real. It looks solid. It’s the only trophy that accurately represents the amount of sweat and blood and tears that goes into attaining the right to hoist it. True, it’s beaten up and dented and smudged, but so are hockey players. It seems fitting somehow. I was glad to be able to touch it.

But enough about that. Very few of you are here to read about hockey that’s not even happening. Although, considering how things are going, you might not want to hear about the baseball that’s been going down either.

Oh Bronson Arroyo, I still love you, but your team, refusing to give you any run support, apparently doesn’t. Did you steal their flatirons? Did you keep them all up doing your Pearl Jam impression into the wee hours? Did you drive them all crazy by stalking the clubhouse and saying “Haven’t lost since last August, bitches. How you like that?” Because for some reason, the bats have chosen a rather unfortunate time to slip into a coma. Maybe it’s the exchange rate? Whatever it is, I’d really appreciate it if you’d take care of it come tomorrow. Tomorrow being the final game of the series and, I hate to tell you this but being swept by the freakin’ Blue Jays is not bloody acceptable. This is a team that plays on carpet. This is a team that sports softball-like black unis. This is a team who’s fans say “eh” after every sentence. Not cool. Fix this, please.

Tonight, unlike last night, was pretty much a debacle from start to finish. It got so bad at one point that my mom looked over at me, stewing in my seat down the right field line, two rows back, and said, “You okay?” I shot to my feet, “Gotta go for a walk before I tear someone’s throat out with my teeth,” I said. “That’s what I figured,” she nodded. I walked around the entire concourse and watched John Halama and Matt Mantei (oh look, he is there, funny how we didn’t see him YESTERDAY!), pour gas on the fire. And then, just as I was hanging up with Amy, Keith Foulke came in. “Oh good,” I said, “Foulke’s coming in. In no way will this turn into a complete and total fucking disaster.” Turns out, I was right, but at that point, it wouldn’t really have mattered. Oh baseball…what you do to me.

I really miss Fenway. I mean, it’s great to experience baseball at other parks and in other cities. But there comes a time when you want to be surrounded by like-minded fans who aren’t going to make fun of Trot’s freakin’ name for cryin’ out loud and who don’t cheer along to the bloody FedEx Special Delivery of the Game. Kee-rist. And maybe I care too much. After all, these are Blue Jays fans and were the Maple Leafs playing, this series would be little more than an afterburner thought but when they pick on MY BOYS, I get riled up. “No,” I think, “I can call Bellhorn a waste of space, but you’re not allowed.” I clench my fists and my knuckles get white, “I can tell Johnny Damon he sucks all day and night but you are not allowed to call him Mullet Man.” “I can sigh and say ‘Edgah, you’re killing me!’ but you are not allowed to make fun of the way he runs.” Those are the rules. They may be arbitrary and they may not be entirely fair but they’re MY rules, so I don’t much care what the Blue Jays fans think.

Anyway, game over and I’d rather forget about it. Save for a few moments before the game when Tek was throwing long toss approximately twenty feet in front of me and I was mesmerized by the pretty, there were very few positives to take away from this one. But at the end of the day, it was baseball. And baseball is always worth it. Wade "Steely Eyes of Doom" Miller goes tomorrow as we try to salvage the final game of the series. If it doesn't work out, I'll take it as a major hint that the universe clearly does not want me in Canada. So be it.

Blogging Across the Border, Part the First

Or: At Least We Don't Overuse the Letter "U."

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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Papi feels my pain.

You’ll all have to forgive me if I seem a bit cranky. I’m about to attempt to sleep on a sofa bed despite ongoing, nagging insomnia and Alan Embree and I are not speaking. Argh.

The last time I traveled to Toronto to watch the Red Sox play and let Blue Jays fans know what real baseball fans were like, Frank Castillo ruined my weekend. Tonight, it was Alan Embree. Or maybe Terry Francona if it was in fact his fault that the bullpen was so horrifically mismanaged. I mean, Matt Mantei was right there. RIGHT THERE! Oy.

Nevertheless, you all know how the game went down if you watched it. It wasn’t head-clutchingly awful for the majority, however, it did seem to be one of those frustratingly typical up and down, up and down, seesaw Red Sox games. We have the lead, we lose the lead. We have the lead, we lose the lead. We tie the game, we blow it in dramatic fashion. Le sigh.

Now listen, I’m not saying that all fans are always right, but if Every. Single. Person. In my section was screaming at Terry “Hook him! Take him out!” then perhaps our manager should, you know, listen.

I also feel it is pertinent to mention that Blue Jays fans can be awfully dickish. Yes, all seven of them. But throw something back at them and they revert to typical back-on-their-heels fan behavior. Case in point: we’re leaving Skydome (I refuse to call it the Rogers Centre, mostly because I’m being persnickety tonight), and a Blue Jays fan turned to my brother and said, “Hey, guess who won the game, eh?” My brother, conspicuously fingering the World Series Champions patch on the sleeve of his Mirabelli jersey shot back, “Guess who won the World Series…eh?” The Jays fan, apparently not expecting that – though why not is completely beyond me – said, “Well, uh, I guess…see you later.” “See you tomorrow!” my brother cheerfully shot back. We turned a corner. “Was that what passes for heckling in Toronto?” I asked. “Guess so,” he said. “Pathetic,” I replied.

The great thing about attending a Sox game in Toronto, I have learned, is that it does actually feel like attending a Sox game. You don’t feel like the visitors. I’d say the crowd of about 35,000 was pretty evenly split between Sox fans and Jays fans. And frankly, I’m thinking that the only reason so many Jays fans showed up was because it was two dollar Tuesday. Not kidding. Our $27 seats were just past the third base bag and ten rows up from the field. That’s something to be said for Canada. $27 at Fenway gets you, most likely, a post in your lap. And you’d consider yourself lucky to even be inside the park. No such thing as $2 anything in Boston.

Virtually our entire section was full of Sox fans. Oh, and I’ve also answered the question: “Where are all the cute boys?” Many of them, it turns out, are on road trips following the Sox. Ah, baseball, what you do for me… However, a few rows behind us, the grade school kids who sang both national anthems were seated. And they were fine…for a while. And then the shrieking started. And when I say “shrieking,” I don’t mean, “occasional high pitched cheering.” I mean “ears bleeding, shooting looks of death at small children, very much wanting to render them mute.” Because dear holy Jesus, that was bad. I’m pretty sure I’m now never going to have small children. Which is probably good since I’m reasonably certain that the banshee imitations of those kids have sterilized me.

Here’s the thing: Canadians…don’t get baseball. I mean they understand the rules and they cheer at appropriate times (mostly) but secretly, in their hearts, I’m pretty sure they all really wish they were at a hockey game. And that’s okay. I mean, hell, Toronto has a 24-hour Maple Leafs network and were there no NHL lockout, the Leafs would most likely be in the thick of the playoffs right now. Nobody would give half a rosin bag about the Blue Jays. And so to, I guess, keep these people’s attention, Skydome and the Blue Jays have so much distracting shit going on between innings and during the game that it’s a sensory overload and those of us who are more traditional fans are all “Could we maybe just shut the fuck up and watch some freakin’ baseball? It’s a pretty good game.” But no. There will be no shutting up. What there will be are Fed Ex animated scoreboard races, roving camera people putting screaming children on the Jumbotron, free t-shirts, freakin’ cheerleaders for cryin’ out loud, the World’s Fastest Grounds Crew and the game ball special delivery. And then some. It’s…way too much. It’s like being at an overly caffeinated minor league hockey game. And these people eat it up. Look, there’s nothing inherently wrong with Blue Jays fans and I’m sure they are lovely people. I’m also sure that I’m completely spoiled since Red Sox fans, by and large, resist the encroachment of certain “amenities” and distractions upon their baseball. But this is ridiculous. Yes, we’re glad that Ben Affleck is here too (he was), but we really don’t need to put him on the Jumbotron and scream at him until he waves at us. Because, in all fairness, Ben looked pissed and probably just wanted to watch some goddamn baseball. Not do the wave. Baseball, people, it’s pretty interesting. You should watch it.

Anyway, I’m back at it tomorrow night after a visit to the Hockey Hall of Fame (whee!). Saturn Balls Arroyo looks to make it all okay. Stay tuned for my adventures in downtown Toronto, eh?

Oh, and while I’m at it, check out the photos that Beth took at the game on Sunday. Ooo, pretty…

Monday, May 23, 2005

The Great Emancipator

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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

This is what happens when you believe in and encourage your chew toys. They reward your faith with complete games. Matty Clement replaced Adam Hyzdu as my Red Sox chew toy this year when Theo made the unconscionable maneuver of trading Hyzdu for Red, White and Blaine Neal. But I’m willing to let it slide if Matty continues to perform in such an ass-kicking manner.

Once again, with Beth, myself and Jay present, SG in-person mojo did not disappoint.

Beth and I were seated in Grandstand 18, just to the third base side of home plate and up a section. Or, as I quickly dubbed it, “prime catcher viewing territory.” Yowza. Sporting a wine hangover headache the approximate size of Rhode Island, I entered the park with Beth telling myself, “a bottle is not a serving…a bottle is not a serving.” It’s entirely possible I’ll never learn. Waiting for Beth I’d mainlined some coffee and wouldn’t you know it, spilled the last sip all down the front of my pristine, white, Varitek jersey as I jumped when my phone rang. Bloody hell. Apparently, not only do I not know my limits but I can’t even transport beverages from cup to mouth without missing horrifically. I tried my best to cover up the mess I’d made of myself by zipping my jacket up to my neck, thus effectively negating the fact that I’d worn a jersey in support at all. I don’t know what to tell you kids. They keep telling me I’m an adult but I just don’t believe it.

Prior to game time, Beth and I made our way down to the first baseline to try to catch a glimpse of some players either signing autographs or stretching or doing whatever their player-y business entails. We say John Halama who I promptly called “Eyebrows of Doom!” throw a few long tosses with…someone, someone with a nice ass, before signing some autographs for kids and wearing his glove as a hat. Beth took many, many pictures which I hope to be able to link to soon.

I turned for a split second to talk to Jay and Beth was gone, nowhere to be seen. A few moments later when she reappeared, she told me she’d seen Terry come out of the dugout and she made a beeline for him, capturing a beautifully framed picture for her troubles. “Nobody should be as excited about Terry Francona as I am,” she said, “No one.”

The three of us made our way down through the concourse and over to behind the Sox bullpen where we watched Matty complete his warm-up routine. Correction, Beth watched that. I watched Jason Varitek throwing long tosses. To someone. Forgive me if I wasn’t paying complete attention to the other end of that game of catch but such close proximity to the Thighs of Freedom gave me head explody and made it rather difficult to concentrate on anything else. Even when the security people started shouting, “Time to find your seats, people!” I just kept staring, my brain registering something like “Seats…Section 18…far away…so pretty…unf love baseball…wheeee!” A girl in a pink Sox hat a few spaces down the line screamed, “Jason Varitek, I love you!” And I shot her a look that can charitably be described as “withering.” Beth looked at me and laughed, “I am rather protective,” I said, “Plus, I could snap her little pink wearing ass over my knee.” I was very nearly forcibly dragged from the railing.

Beth and I made our way to our seats and I realized, a few batters in, that I was sitting next to a Braves fan. I turned to Beth and said, “I don’t like sitting next to a fan of the other team. Makes me want to hurt someone.” To this gentleman’s credit, he was exceptionally well-behaved. He did not mock our players, nor did he cheer too loudly for his team. Just some polite clapping. He was even so helpful as to answer my questions when I wondered rhetorically, “Who the hell is Pete Orr?” And to show that he had a good sense of humor, when Julio Franco stepped up to the plate and the fratish boy behind us yelled, “You’re so…old!” he laughed right along with the rest of us.

I would attempt to describe Matty’s performance but frankly, mere synonyms for “great” and “nails” just won’t do it justice. He wasn’t perfect, but he was damned close. He made it through four innings before allowing a hit and he never let the fact that his teammates weren’t scoring any goddamn runs for him despite the fact that THEY CONSTANTLY HAD MEN ON BASE bother him. I’ve long said that Matty always looks about one bad pitch away from collapsing on the mound in a sobbing heap but yesterday he looked…different. Strong. Like an ace, even. Matty struck out seven and walked exactly none which is a marked improvement on the few walks he usually sandwiches in there. Coming to Boston, we’d heard that his control could be an issue, and I’ve no doubt that working with Varitek is huge for him, but some credit must go to Matty himself. Despite the fact that Beth was itching to see her boy Foulkie, I think it’s safe to say the rest of us in attendance wanted Matty to finish what he started. And it only took him 110 pitches to do so. Thus far, Clement is 5-0 on the young season. And until yesterday, he’d mostly slipped quietly underneath everyone’s radar. We’ve been so focused on the status of Schilling’s ankle and the hair-pulling aggravation of David Wells’ existence and even the renaissance of Bronson Arroyo that Matty has mostly gone about his business and done his job with very little fanfare. I’d say yesterday was his coming out party, as it were. A real welcome to Boston and to Red Sox Nation. He showed us what he can do and we responded in kind, rising to our feet and cheering him as he emerged from the dugout at the top of the ninth, trotting slowly to the mound. And we stayed on our feet, clapping until our hands stung until he recorded the last out. Because he helps us, and we help him. That’s how it is in these parts.

Additionally, Manny’s home run came after a few frustrating at-bats where he’d either ground out weakly or hit a screaming liner directly at a fielder. It served as a reminder that no matter what he’s doing currently, he’s still Manny Freakin’ Ramirez. “Remember when you won the World Series MVP, Manny?” I said, “That was fun. More of that, please.” Manny responded by waving meekly at a pitch two feet outside the zone. “You know,” I said, turning to Beth, “There are people who say he only did that so Smoltz will throw him that same pitch next time and he’ll send it over the Monster.” Beth nodded, “The belief in his powers is unparalleled. I honestly think he could hit a home run in every at bat if he wanted to. He just chooses not to.” And then in the very next at-bat, he did.

My brother who was seated behind the Red Sox bullpen with his girlfriend summed it up thusly after the game, “That was a wicked shot. Like really, really far.” Manny Ramirez is still Manny Ramirez. Let us never forget this.

As for Varitek, he went 2 for 5 with a pair of singles and a run scored. Plus, he caught that gem. Because of the unfortunate coffee spillage, he was not aware that I was wearing his jersey in support but methinks he knew it anyway. Yes, I choose to believe that Jason Varitek can read my mind, what’s it to you?

My brother, who I met up with postgame, hypothesizes that Dougie strained his wrist by pouring Gatorade for the team from atop the cooler. As good an explanation as any, I suppose. He’d already figured out that we most likely won’t be seeing Wake in Toronto due to the way the rotation falls so Kev figures that he can just sit next to the Red Sox dugout and scream “Doug! E! Fresh!” for nine innings until he comes out to sign his jersey and shut him up.

So I’m out for a while, kids. I’ve no idea if I’ll be able to get wireless access in Toronto but if I can, I’ll try my damnedest to do some blogging across the border. Supposedly, we’re also visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame and posing with the Stanley Cup. Rawk!

Oh, and as an adieu, allow me to wish a very happy birthday to a one Mr. Steve Brady. Happy Birthday, Steve! May you be rolling in women after all!

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Rivalry Weekend! Argh!

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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

You know who appreciates SG in-person mojo? Jason Varitek. Also, Wade Miller. And most decidedly Bill Mueller who was so grateful for our collective presence that he hit his first home run of the season. Which, it should be noted, Steve and I called. It went something like this:

Steve: Now’s the time to go yard, Billy!
Me (to Steve): He’s the only one left without one, right?
Steve: Pretty sure.
Me (to Billy and the park at large): Bill Mueller, now is the time for your home run!
Bill Mueller: You asked for it.
Bill Mueller’s bat: Smack!
Pesky’s pole: Ouch! Dammit, not again.
Me (to Steve): You know what that was? That was prescient.
Steve: That is exactly what that was.

Obviously, Steve and I are magic. Lest you think I made this entire exchange up, Amy and Bridget were witnesses. Next week, we’re going to try to walk on water.

Now, I’m not saying there’s a connection or anything but I’ve been to three games this year and in two of them, Jason Varitek has hit a home run. Could be he’s just that damn good, which I am not going to argue with. But maybe, just maybe, he enjoys hitting home runs for me. I’m fine with that too. Last night’s home run was no small shot. It landed dead center over the triangle on top of the camera box. That’s a ways. It’s 420 feet to deep center field. I think it’s time we acknowledge that “Captain Crush” might not be such a hyperbolic nickname.

Also, confidential to the Fenway Park video board operators: If you are going to show video of Jason Varitek frolicking and smiling with wee little children and of Bill Mueller having his neck forcibly massaged by Trot Nixon in some kind of kung fu karate chop gone wrong, you’re going to need to warn the likes of Sam and myself, who, frankly, cannot take this kind of thing without warning. Plus, you’re around this team all year long, there have to be more incriminating videos than that. And I’m not talking about the Rally Karaoke Guy, or pretty much anything else featuring Millar since I’m fairly certain that he is beyond embarrassment. But come on, this team engages in debauchery, I know it. Now let’s see it.

Anyway, I did notice a few things prior to the game which boded well for the Sox chances. I mentioned them to Steve.

Me: We’re going to win. And I’m going to tell you why.
Steve: Okay, why?
Me: Because Johnny Estrada wears a hockey mask. And this is not hockey.
Steve: No, it’s not. Hockey is for old, Canadian people.
Me: Right, so obviously, we’re going to win.


Me: I know another reason why we’re going to win. Would you like me to tell you?
Steve: Please do.
Me: Hudson is wearing long sleeves. His forearms of death are covered.
Steve: Plus, he’s no good against us. Our lineup is going to pound him. He’s always had trouble against us.
Me: You with your logic. It’s the sheathing of the forearms, I’m telling you.

We also decided that Johnny Estrada’s soul patch cannot reasonably be called a “soul patch” because, according to Steve, “It’s not patchy. It’s kind of triangular.” So we named it “The Estrrrrada,” complete with rolled “r.” From it, all his power is derived. I did also move that we just cut to the chase and start calling Estrada “CHiPs” but Steve vetoed because apparently, he thinks he’s the boss. Pshaw.

If I am not mistaken, this is the second game in a row in which Wade Miller has pitched into at least the fourth inning without allowing a hit. I’ve always been of the mind that you cannot start thinking about a no-no until at least the 6th but still, that seems promising to me. Of course, the Braves have about two and a half players actually hitting right now so maybe that’s skewed information, but my point is that Theo? I’m reasonably pleased with this Miller fellow. Good work. It was obvious that Miller started to tire toward the later innings but that’s to be expected for a guy coming off a fairly serious shoulder injury. The important part, I think, is that he was still able to get guys out, albeit with longer at bats and by relying on his defense, which, for a change, did not let him down. And the few walks that he tendered did not come back to bite him in his shapely ass. So much the better.

Now, you knew we were getting to it sooner or later. It can best be summed up thusly: Foulkie…fucking christ. Bizarrely, when Foulke came in for the ninth with a three run lead, the entire park appeared to take a collective deep breath and resign themselves to the Foulke fate, whatever that may be. We stood and cheered him because it’s as if we’d all decided that he needed positive reinforcement and booing wouldn’t do anything but make him cry. Or, as Steve yelled out, “We won the World Series because of this guy, Christ!” Yes, but what has he done for me lately?

It was, as it appears to be written, a rollercoaster ninth. Doubles to Chipper Jones are to be somewhat expected because, despite the fact that he’s ostensibly a grown man who refers to himself earnestly as “Chipper,” he can still hit. What is not to be expected and is much less acceptable, Keith Foulke, are triples to Andruw Jones with a man on second. And then infield hits to Johnny Estrrrada. Screw it, CHiPs. Look at the way Andruw Jones spells his name? You’re going to give up a triple to that guy? Come on. And Estrada wears a hockey mask! A hockey mask, for crissakes! You’re a hockey fan, Keith, surely you don’t approve of this. Foulkie…fucking christ. I shall quote Sam, who, due to Communist standards of “legal drinking age” I did not meet post game, “Did we not know Keith Foulke was going to do exactly that? I hate when I’m right.”

But a win is a win is a win. Plus, felt good to stick it to our natural rivals, no? I’ll be back at it again on Sunday, attending with Beth before heading out to, essentially, cross international borders to catch the series in Toronto. No Dougie for a while, it would seem as he’s on the 15-day DL with a strained wrist. My brother? Pissed. Nevertheless, the blood feud continues. See you all Sunday.

Friday, May 20, 2005

When the Message Boarders Meet…

(photo courtesy of Marianne)

Marianne and Kristen apologize to Steve for endless discussion of Jason Varitek’s thighs and/or Bill Mueller’s ass.

There was no Red Sox game yesterday but judging by that picture there was some game being thrown. Steve, rolling in women. This is what happens when the Red Sox have an off day.

Tonight, it’s Wade “Steely Eyes of Doom” Miller vs. Tim “Forearms of Death” Hudson as the Atlanta Braves make their way to Boston for MLB’s “Rivalry Weekend.” Because, you know the Braves were like, in Boston once. About a hundred years ago. So obviously, we’re rivals. Die, rivals! Die!

Anyway, I’ll be front and center for the match-up tonight. If by “front and center” we mean “outfield grandstand most likely facing the wrong direction and subjected to Johnny Damon’s profile the entire game,” then yes, yes I will.

As occasionally happens, tonight’s game will be positively infested with SGers. Myself, Steve (see above), Sam, Emma and Jay will be attending along with Amy (sans nuts) who’s pretty much an honorary member since she’s always mired in the debauchery somehow. We shall be sure to bring our in-person Red Sox victory mojo.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005


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(Meet my new pets!)

Okay, the less said about this, the better. However, you're all invited over for pony rides! As I no longer require a single pony but rather an entire stable full of Clydesdales, there should be plenty of horsies for everyone. Plus, they can tow beer trucks. Isn't that what Clydesdales do?

So after
that debacle - which I was not sad I missed most of because I was still pretending to work - the entire team, save for Tek and, of all people, Bellhorn, owes me a pet. I'm going to have quite the menagerie if this continues. Although, because my sourness and general annoyance at this team will most likely seep into my dealings with the animals, it's going to be an "evil petting zoo." Wow, that was a long way to go for a pun.

Currently, I'm waiting for bad TV to soothe the pain. Well, if we're going with full disclosure, bad tv, good food, rum and limeade. It's been a frustrating day, kids.

And this just happened as the Curt Schilling Ford commercial came on TV:

Curt: You know what's tough?
Amy (sans Nuts): I don't know, Curt, probably having a pitching staff WITHOUT AN ACE!
Me: Screw that, Bronson's totally the ace.
Amy: David Wells is the anti-ace, that's for sure.
Me: Interesting, because I'm pretty sure that David Wells is also the anti-Christ so that's apt.

Aaaaanyway...bad TV is about to start. And I'm running low on rum and limeade. Off day tomorrow and I think, what with the state of things, the team and I probably both need it. However, I'll most likely write something. You all know I can't stay away!

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

The Boston Red Sox, Brought to You by Rogaine

Amy and Kristen find themselves metablogging again. The following is the result wherein we discuss Youk’s new physique, Bellhorn’s new facial hair configuration, the fact that none of the Red Sox player’s children like their dads very much, and we deem ourselves imaginary commissioners of baseball:

AmyNutbar: Hi.
KristenThePerfectlySaneIndividual: Hang on, Tek Zone.
KTPSI: Ok. Your pimp (Mark Kotsay) is not allowed to catch Tek's pop flies.
AmyNutbar: My pimp needs to just stand there.
AmyNutbar: YOUUUUK. He really is more streamlined.
KTPSI: I agree.
AmyNutbar: Oooh I'd hit it.
KTPSI: Youk is eminently hittable.
AmyNutbar: I am so gonna marry him.
AmyNutbar: BELLHORN HAS A GOATEE! No more designer stubble! FEAR THE BELL!
KTPSI: Indeed.
AmyNutbar: He's so clean looking. I can't stop laughing.
AmyNutbar: He does suck.
AmyNutbar: Does Edgar Renteria run like a 90-year-old woman or is just me?
KTPSI: He does. He also does ballet at the plate.
AmyNutbar: Aww, Ortiz has Bernie Logue's initials on his helmet!
KTPSI: Tizzle is a pimp with a big heart is why.
KTPSI: Manuelito!
AmyNutbar: Manny!
KTPSI: Stupid A's.
KTPSI: Your illegal boyfriend is up.
(Amy hearts Charles Thomas).
AmyNutbar: Why illegal?
KTPSI: Because he's on the other team. It's only allowed if you know it's wrong.
AmyNutbar: Oh I know.
KTPSI: Mark Kotsay can still be your pimp though. But he needs to suck.
AmyNutbar: Have you heard of that show Teammates on ESPN?
AmyNutbar: Barry Zito is on tomorrow.
KTPSI: With who?
AmyNutbar: Bitchface Byrnes.
AmyNutbar: That's RIGHT baby!
AmyNutbar: In the commercial for this episode, Bitchface is talking about Zito's curvy woman hips.
KTPSI: Bitchface should talk about how he can't get laid so he attacked a fan on the field for some action.
AmyNutbar: He's even more of a bitchface out of uniform.
KTPSI: I would imagine so.
KTPSI: Bill Mueller!
KTPSI: I like hitting. Hitting is fun.
AmyNutbar: Are we metablogging tonight?
KTPSI: Oh, we could.
AmyNutbar: We can start metablogging NOW!
KTPSI: And...go!
AmyNutbar: METABLOG!
AmyNutbar: I am digging the new Bellhorn beard.
KTPSI: I think, maybe, he's been bored? Or he's been alerted to the legions of crazy Bellhorn fangirls?
AmyNutbar: Slumpbuster?
KTPSI: Or that.
AmyNutbar: He got a haircut.
KTPSI: My dad is not fond of The Horn. He wants me to write about why he sucks and call for his head.
KTPSI: Like people actually listen to me.
AmyNutbar: Bell does not suck.
KTPSI: Besides, if I said so, Steve wouldn't be my BFF anymore.
AmyNutbar: Oh Bell.
KTPSI: And there it is. (Bellhorn, what else, strikes out).
AmyNutbar: Oh dear.
AmyNutbar: Straighten it out, Johnny!
KTPSI: He don't need to be usin' two hands!
AmyNutbar: I love how Bellhorn has this incredible, 80 million pitch at bat, and then he strikes out.
KTPSI: And he's all, "What? Dude threw some pitches."
AmyNutbar: Johnny Damon is so on the list. He has reached new lows on the list.
AmyNutbar: Bellhorn looks less stoned today. Maybe he wants to set a better example for me.
KTPSI: And all babies. Everywhere.
KTPSI: I don't think the Red Sox like babies.
AmyNutbar: They keep having them a lot.
KTPSI: That team is breeding rather much now, no?
AmyNutbar: Steve said something about "Increased virility: another side effect of World Champs."
KTPSI: Edgar is getting a stern talking to.
AmyNutbar: Edgah is almost by Johnny Damon he's so low on the list.
KTPSI: All the babies are crying.
AmyNutbar: Oh that must be all the wailing I'm hearing.
KTPSI: Bronson likes happy babies.
AmyNutbar: Bronson also enjoys rainbows, hugs, and kittens.
KTPSI: But they can't have kittens in the clubhouse because Matty Clement is allergic.
AmyNutbar: Non-allergenic.
KTPSI: Ok, because Varitek carries Matty's medications in a fanny pack. But sometimes, Manny steals it.
AmyNutbar: Probably he wears it as a hat.
KTPSI: He likes the pretty colored pills.
AmyNutbar: Do you hear that jangling? Is there a herd of cattle celebrating?
KTPSI: Oakland is...windy.
AmyNutbar: Durazo just made the fucking oddest succession of faces. I kind of feel bad for his girlfriend after witnessing that.
KTPSI: WHATTHEFUCK? (Bellhorn made a routine pop fly into an adventure)
AmyNutbar: Holy crap, Bell!
KTPSI: I just SAID it was windy! Just SAID!
AmyNutbar: See, look how alert he is today.
AmyNutbar: Aww, Youk, gallant effort.
AmyNutbar: I love the way he wears his gloves in his pocket. It's like his butt is waving at me.
KTPSI: Hi, Amy! I'm Youk's ass!
AmyNutbar: You love me!
AmyNutbar: He so pretty :-)
KTPSI: Youk's ass and I both love you.
AmyNutbar: Warm fuzzies.
AmyNutbar: Now let us see if the offense can give me the warm fuzzies as well. Last inning was all cold pricklies.
KTPSI: And papercuts. And sour milk. Last inning tasted like sour milk.
AmyNutbar: Eeew.
KTPSI: I hate you, Oakland, did I tell you that yet?
AmyNutbar: Oakland sucks.
KTPSI: *head explodes*
AmyNutbar: Hmm?
KTPSI: Bloody Ortiz shift. I feel like it's cheating.
AmyNutbar: It's stupid.
AmyNutbar: And I want it GONE.
KTPSI: Let's vote to get rid of it. All in favor?
AmyNutbar: AYE
KTPSI: Seconded.
AmyNutbar: Okay. It's removed
KTPSI: Good. I like how we're so diplomatic about things. We should run baseball.
AmyNutbar: Honestly? Yes.
KTPSI: We would be the greatest things ever to happen to the Commissioner's office.
KTPSI: I heart Trotter. I can't not. Even when shit like that happens.
AmyNutbar: TROT NIXON RUNS FASTER THAN EDGAR RENTERIA. I want him and Kevin Millar in a footrace, stat.
KTPSI: The snail who lives along the first base line would win. And be sitting there drinking a beer, waiting for those slow-mos to get to the bag
AmyNutbar: Or Johnny Pesky.
KTPSI: Johnny Pesky kicks their youthful asses every day and twice on Sundays.
AmyNutbar: Johnny Pesky is all shouting to them "You call that running, girls? I know dead guys who run faster than you!"
KTPSI: He is getting poked with a sharp stick. Until he cries
KTPSI: He can't not run into things. He just can't.
KTPSI: JD sees something, another teammate, a wall, an otherwise stationary object, and he thinks "I wonder if I can move this with my head."
AmyNutbar: The FSN Bay Area feed just showed this kid with a giant plastic bat in one hand and a foam finger on the other. Yelling is fool head off.
KTPSI: I hope that kid sits on a melted ice cream cone.
AmyNutbar: Seriously. It was not an "I'm cute" moment. It was a "My mom took me to Raiders' games in utero" moment.
KTPSI: Dude, Raiders fans? Yikes.
AmyNutbar: This kid was like a mini Raider fan. He's probably in some kind of training program.
AmyNutbar: Petition to get Bill Mueller's home pants as tight as his away pants.
AmyNutbar: Seconded.
KTPSI: It’s done.
AmyNutbar: Mark Kotsay needs to P.I.M.P. himself right into a double play here.
KTPSI: Agreed. We deem it so. And we are imaginary commissioners.
KTPSI: Fuckermother! (Instead, Mark Kotsay hits a bases clearing double).
AmyNutbar: Fucking hell on a stick. Are we kidding?
KTPSI: This is the same city that boasts Raiders fans. So, in short…yes.
KTPSI: Are the Cardinals still paying him to suck for us?
KTPSI: This is going to hell rapidly.
AmyNutbar: Why am I in this handbasket?
KTPSI: I wouldn't blame Bronson if he turned around and started pelting his teammates with the ball.
AmyNutbar: They owe him beer for life after last season.
KTPSI: The fucking leprechauns are back! *whimpers* (The Foxwoods commercial=pure evil)
: Oh jaysus.
AmyNutbar: See? I said it Irishly.
KTPSI: Nice work.
KTPSI: David Wells returning to the rotation. I'm unclear, is this a good thing?
AmyNutbar: Varitek wants us and his unborn baby to like him.
KTPSI: Ahem, while we were interviewing David Wells, Varitek got a base hit. But we did not see it, because NESN hates me.
AmyNutbar: Youk could tie it.
KTPSI: Youk wants to.
AmyNutbar: This is the 1 year and 1 day anniversary of his first one.
KTPSI: Did you have to look that up or did you know that by heart?
AmyNutbar: Um.
KTPSI: Hee. If I were anyone else, probably I would be scared by that kind of recall. But I'm me. So I just shrug and assume you knew it.
AmyNutbar: I really do have a good memory for random things.
KTPSI: Me too. I am killer at Trivial Pursuit.
KTPSI: And way too many vowels. I just...I'm spent with the anger. I don't know what to do with them anymore. I think I'm having an existential crisis.
AmyNutbar: It's so late. Yet it is not. MARK BELLHORN HOME RUN NOW. (Mark Bellhorn hits a double).
AmyNutbar: Do you see how Bellhorn HALFWAY listened to me?
KTPSI: I saw that.
KTPSI: He can hear you with the hair out of his ears.
KTPSI: So help me if Edgah hits into a triple play...
AmyNutbar: Yes he can. He's so clean.
AmyNutbar: Maybe he had to meet some chick's mom.
KTPSI: Probably that is it.
AmyNutbar: Or they had a hygiene intervention.
KTPSI: I haven't seen Millar tonight. So maybe.
KTPSI: *Montell Jordon mojo*
AmyNutbar: Ooooh. And Matt Clement's beard is probably being debugged.
KTPSI: Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew.
AmyNutbar: Or de-birded. It could be a nest you know.
KTPSI: Probably. Maybe Sam should be informed of this?
AmyNutbar: She could band them. Then we'd know if they returned.
KTPSI: You know what? B's not gonna lose this game. No matter what.
KTPSI: That's pretty awesome.
AmyNutbar: B rocks my face off. And that pleases me.
AmyNutbar: 401 sound good to you?
KTPSI: In what way?
AmyNutbar: Manny.
KTPSI: Heh. Oh yeah. *tightens helmet*
AmyNutbar: The chinstrap on your helmet is very becoming.
KTPSI: Thanks, it's padded so it doesn't chafe.
KTPSI: Are they disrespecting the Tek? Is that what's going on there?
AmyNutbar: I do think that's precisely it.
KTPSI: The jersey is on.
AmyNutbar: Good.
AmyNutbar: Fuck his SHIT UP!
AmyNutbar: OH TEK. Why can't he hit with the bases loaded?
AmyNutbar: YOUK IT IS AAAAAAALLLLL you, baby.
KTPSI: I hate this team.
AmyNutbar: Are we kidding?
KTPSI: *cries*
AmyNutbar: Are they unaware of how violently the A's suck? Bobby Crosby is on the DL because of whiplash from sucking so hard.
AmyNutbar: Bye bye, Charles Thomas. Mark Kotsay, time to P.I.M.P. your ass to the bench.
KTPSI: Whoop!
AmyNutbar: YOUUUIK!
AmyNutbar: Did you see that?!
KTPSI: That's a majah leagua stretch.
AmyNutbar: That was big league indeed!
AmyNutbar: MARK BELLHORN HOME RUN NOW. (Jason Kendall misplays an easy foul pop up).
KTPSI: I know a catcher who would not have dropped that.
AmyNutbar: Me too. His name is my brother.
KTPSI: Also that.
KTPSI: JD, you know what to do.
AmyNutbar: No he doesn’t. Because he sucks. And he's on the list. FOREVER!
KTPSI: There is a Johnny Damon clock at Newbury Comics. Surely that is not necessary.
AmyNutbar: Whatever. If he gets on base Edgah is just going to hit into a DP.
KTPSI: Johnny Damon hates kids!
AmyNutbar: Oh he does. His kids think he sucks.
AmyNutbar: How many times can you ask Edgah not to hit into a DP in one night?
KTPSI: He's testing my patience. (Edgah strikes out).
KTPSI: Hey, good job, he didn't take anyone with him!
KTPSI: Papi, fix this.
KTPSI: I hate life.
AmyNutbar: I'm going to eat my fist.
KTPSI: What bloody inning is it?
AmyNutbar: 8th.
AmyNutbar: Bronson looks really stoned right now.
KTPSI: I do not blame him
KTPSI: What the shit was that? (Mike Myers was involved in a spectacular pratfall at first that resulted in the runner being called safe).
AmyNutbar: Youk's all "Fuck man, who do you think I am?"
KTPSI: I am still watching this game. Why is that?
AmyNutbar: (Quoting me from the SGMB game thread) “I'm going to kill something small and cute soon.”
KTPSI: Well someone’s dying, that's for damn sure.
KTPSI: I totally have to stay up for the end of this disaster, don't I? It's defeatist to go to sleep now.
AmyNutbar: Hey Millar, your wife still thinks you suck.
KTPSI: You pinch hit for Youk, you better not suck.
KTPSI: Bastards.
KTPSI: Oh, wait. (Somehow, just to prolong the anguish, Millar is called safe).
KTPSI: Not bastards yet.
KTPSI: Come on, Bill Mueller.
KTPSI: I want good things.
AmyNutbar: BUELLY.
AmyNutbar: Mueller's kids think he sucks. FYI.
KTPSI: Does he have kids?
AmyNutbar: 2. And they are weeping.
KTPSI: I don't like baseball.
AmyNutbar: This game made the baby Jesus cry.

And just in case you can't get enough of this kind of thing (you sick, twisted individual), check out Emma's blog. Yeah, I was multi-tasking.

The Other Side

(Suckity, suck, suck, suck)

AmyNutbar and Kristen MetaBlog, Part the Second coming in a bit once I pry my foot out of Mike Myers' ass. In the meantime, read this. Nicked from Tomato Nation, Sars, despite being a *cough* Yankee fan *cough* might be my new imaginary BFF. Seriously, read this hilarity and tell me honestly if you wouldn't want to watch a game at a bar with this chick. Especially if, you know, the Yankees are sucking up the joint all Hoover-like. Derogatory nicknames for your players? "Will Boots Bellhorn and Last Out Renteria please step forward?" Fleeing in terror at a call to the bullpen? "Mike Myers? I weep. WEEP!" Rude drawings of slumping players? I'll have to refer you to Sam for that one. Anyhow, read it. As she says, "we laugh so we do not weep."

Monday, May 16, 2005

Pomp and Circumstance

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(These people are far more well-behaved than anyone I know)

I’m back, kids! Graduation weekend (because Friday is officially part of the weekend now, right?) was a whirlwind. Things of note that went down between Thursday morning and Sunday evening:

The Red Sox lost. Actually, no, that’s not right. The Red Sox got slapped around like the proverbial rented mule. Jeremi “I was doing so well, too” Gonzalez got his AAA ass kicked all over the field by the flippin’ Mariners of all teams and even poor Tek looked exasperated, as if he was thinking, “Let’s just call a do-over. I’ve got some pay-per-view to watch.” I could have been mad about it but really, Jeremi Gonzalez was never supposed to be anything other than a placeholder until our rotation shapes itself up again. His first two starts were bonuses. So re: Friday’s game, you win some, you lose some.

My baby brudder graduated from college! Southern New Hampshire University held its commencement exercises in the Verizon Wireless Arena in Manchester on Friday and my family - because, as previously established, we're completely insane - took up residence in the first row of the balcony in Section 220. The better to do a choreographed wave when my brother received his diploma. Also, thanks to the cameraperson who dutifully put each graduate on the Jumbotron as they walked by. That made it much easier for us to scream our fool heads off. Apologies to Karen Miller, the poor girl who had the misfortune of being listed behind my brother in the program. Sorry we drowned you out. But if your family loved you, they would have screamed louder. The best line of the day came from Carolyn who’s college graduation from Anna Maria College was on Sunday (more on that later), “Kev gets the New Hampshire Fire Honor Guard with the drums and the bagpipes? That’s so unfair. I probably get a nun with a recorder.” Also, because Deb is awesome, Kev’s graduation present from his big sister was Red Sox tickets. Orioles/Sox. May 30th. Aww, yeah!

All day Saturday I spent working. And I mean All. Damn. Day. I swear I’m about an hour and a half away from completing this entire project and then you’ll never have to hear about it again. And I can stop having nightmares about spreadsheets and Wisconsin 12th graders. (Don’t ask.) Saturday night I started to watch the game with my dad but was out by the fourth inning. I made myself stay up until Wade “Steely Eyes of Doom” Miller gave up a hit because I’d be damned if I wasn’t watching a no-no go down, but I shuffled off to bed with the score 3-1 Mariners. My dad, in his infinite wisdom, taped the game. When I woke up the next morning and stumbled out into the living room, he had the tape on. “Perfect timing,” he said. Trot was up with the bases loaded. I plopped down on the couch, rubbing the sleepies from my eyes. “Do you know how this ends?” I asked. “I think so,” my dad said, and hit play. And just like that, Trotter did the job. I had been thinking that the Sox had been hitting an inordinate amount of grand slams this year and turns out, that was not merely a function of my overworked and under-rested brain. Trot’s grand slam was the team’s fifth of the year. They had six all of last season. Them boys can hit. I watched the remaining three innings in fast forward, partially because I needed to get ready to go to Carolyn’s graduation in Paxton, MA but mostly because Keith Foulke is less excruciating sped up. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Apparently, he heeded mine (and Amy’s) warnings that, “Varitek and Millar will tell you, it’s always better when your kids don’t think you suck!”

Sunday commenced with a long, long, looooong drive down to Paxton, MA to Anna Maria College to watch Miss Carolyn graduate . Carolyn is…how should I explain this? Let’s see. I don’t have a sister. But if I did, Carolyn and her two older sisters, Beth and Jen, would be it. Her parents are my godparents and both of our parents went to high school together. But even that doesn’t really cover it. Let’s put it this way: my mom gave both Kevin and Carolyn a photo card of pictures taken of both of them throughout the years, starting when they were just a few months old and Baby Carolyn is giving Baby Kevin the exact same look of exasperation she gives him now. These people are as close as you can get to family without blood ties. So there was no way I was missing Carolyn’s college graduation. Even if it did mean driving all the way out to North New Backwoods, Massachusetts and freezing my ass off while standing under a tent on the lawn and listening to some ancient nun prattle on about cedar. (I don’t know.) Butch (you’ve all heard of Butch, no doubt), tried to keep a dance beat to the drumming said nun was doing (again, I don’t know), but it proved mighty difficult when she made us all turn to the East, West, South and North and say some sort of wind prayer. Bottom line, if you want a respectful crowd at your graduation, don’t invite my family.

After Carolyn grabbed the diploma that she swears Anna Maria can’t take back, we all piled in cars and headed over to a Japanese steakhouse for some post-grad celebratory munching. The crowd, as they are wont to do, found their way to the bar and arrived approximately twelve seconds after Manny had launched his 400th career home run, a three-run jack that made it 5-4 Seattle, which would prove to be the eventual final score. I’m not sure what’s going on recently but the Red Sox have a habit of doing dramatic thing when I can’t watch them. Just the other day I was in the ATM for Kevin Millar’s first homer of the season, I missed Varitek’s walk-off shot because I was at work and last night, Manny’s homer happened as I was walking from the car into the restaurant. Something fishy is going on here. Luckily, because of the enormity of the blast (and think about that for a second: four hundred home runs. Before his 33rd birthday), NESN replayed the shot again and again. Still, the gentleman with Matty Clement facial hair seated at a table near the TV was kind enough to recount the at-bat in detail for me. Most likely because when a crazed-looking blond, wielding an alcoholic drink comes tearing into the bar and bellowing about “Manny hit a homer?” you’re going to tell her whatever she wants.

And that, kids, was my weekend. These damn West Coast games are killing me but I sincerely hope that the Sox can again make Oakland their green-stocking bitches and take a few much needed games. Apparently, because we knew it was too good to be true, the Yankees are never going to lose again and Tino “True Yankee” Martinez, will single-handedly wipe out world hunger while simultaneously hitting 84 home runs. Baseball, she is a fickle mistress. Tonight it’s Saturn Balls Arroyo vs. Kirk “Excessive Use of Vowels” Saarloos, Part the Second. Here’s hoping the outcome is the same as the first time around.

Edit: Cannot believe I forgot to mention this. You know who I don't like? Ichiro. And I'm'a tell you why. And it's not because I don't think he's hot (something that has Sam all worried and equating me with a weasel), but it's because he is so frikkin' disruptive that he's bothering ME out there and I'm not even the one pitching. This is most likely one of those "Hate him because he's on the other team, would love him if he were on my team" things but I'm just sayin', if he had to, I dunno, go away for a while for some unspecified reason, I'd probably be okay with that. However, since we're all done with the Mariners this year, I'll let it slide. He is, of course, required to show up for all Mariners/Yankee games and he is most definitely required to drink an extra shot of espresso or two before games to be at his most mosquito-esque. Argh. Freakin' Ichiro.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Once more for the cheap seats in the back!

Just when you think you can't possibly love a player any more...this happens:

(via Dirt Dogs)

The raised arms are so childlike, so anti-Tek, so very against character. But it's exactly what was needed in such a moment of release. It's less "I am the
man!" though few would dispute that, and more "We won!" WE. Because you know he's thinking "we." You know that Varitek was thrilled to be able to pick up his pitchers, put some focus back on Matty's brilliant start and take some of the heat off Keith Foulke. You just know that he was thinking, "I can fix this." when he stepped into the batter's box.

The funny thing is, immediately before Tek went deep, I said to Sam via IM "If Varitek ties this game, his love for me is undeniable." I said "tie" because asking for a walk-off two days in a row seemed greedy to me. And then...BOOM! And while I'd like to believe that Varitek was indeed expressing his love for me, it's more likely he was expressing his love for his teammates. Because that team? All about the love.

Deja Vu

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Holy good god. For real? Thank you, Lord for Jason Varitek!

More later. Brain on backwards today.

*is dead*

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

A Walk Off in the Park

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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Look at The Youk with the hair ruffling! So fatherly! Awww...

How much do I love walk-off home runs? “Lots” doesn’t really cover it. One minute, you’re sitting there, watching a brilliantly pitched game by Bro-Yo go to waste, in part because of your team’s penchant for hitting into double plays and killing dead any semblance of a rally, and the next minute you’re out of you chair, jumping and phantom high-fiving the air because of course, there’s no one home. People have learned to steer clear of you.

One minute you’re cursing your existence because your back and neck muscles have atrophied into a painful amalgamation of calcified vertebra due to your seemingly permanent position of being hunched over a library table. And the next you’re jumping around your room like a cocker spaniel, limber and loose, dancing to some salsa music in your head.

One minute you’re chastising the large Dominican man on your television, “Papi, we DO NOT hit into double plays. You’re Papi Freakin’ Ortiz. You’re the Tizzle. You fuck people up. You don’t let ‘em get away with that shit. You HIT THE BALL!” And the next you’re clapping like a madman and repeating, “A walk is fine, tying run on first. Walks are good,” Rainman style.

One minute, you’re yelling at the radio, “What’s this Millar? Felt left out because the A’s were kicking the damn ball all over the field yesterday? You want in on the fun? Let’s all play Boots-A-Ball, Scores-A-Run!” And the next minute you’re screaming, “Millar, you hairy bastard, I freakin’ love you!”

Red Sox fandom, it toys with the emotions, it does.

I’m currently buried in work (Yes, still. But only until Sunday), I’m prepping for a move (Hooray!) and I wasn’t kidding about that neck/back vertebra thing. I just took a hot bath and Tylenol PM in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain and I apologize if I fall asleep in the middle of this entry. I am in pain people...but Kevin Millar made it okay. And those are words I didn’t think I’d ever have cause to utter.

I feel it is my duty to inform you all that Amy(Nutbar) called Buckethead’s home run.

Amy: Kevvie, now is the time for you to hit another home run! One for each baby.
Me: Because otherwise they’ll fight.
Amy: And Mrs. Kevvie is too tired to deal with fighting babies.

Looks like Millar is a good dad after all.

Psst! If you’re keeping track, Saturn Balls still hasn’t lost since last August 15th. Just sayin.’

Because I’m a Red Sox fan, I’m going to find something to complain about. And it’s not even something I’m all that well-versed in considering that I spent the first six innings trying not to look at the people making out in the library. (Seriously, is there something erotic about the BPL that I’m not getting? This is two days in a row now. Surely these people have a room or a 1984 Ford Tempo available for their carnal needs? I feel as though I’m being mocked.) Anyhow, what’s with the fearsome Red Sox lineup and their problems with newbie pitchers? Last year it was Scott Kazmir and some punk from the Orioles (such a punk, in fact, that I can’t be bothered to look up his name) and this year so far it’s this Kirk Excessive Use of Vowels Saarloos. The hell? I mean, I know that even a young pitcher is a new pitcher in that the team hasn’t seen them before but come on, we’re the mother-effing Red Sox! One time through the line up if you need it, boys, but I don’t want to see any scrubs getting off easy in the future. Unacceptable.

But a walk off home run makes everything okay.

In other notes:

  • The Yankees have now won four in a row. *shrug* According to Yankees fans, we should be worried now.
  • Jason Giambi may be headed to the minors. *attempting to suppress giggle fit* It’s useless, HA!
  • Because this can’t be a completely ass-free commentary, I’d like to note that Octavio Dotel has the highest ass I’ve ever seen. It starts somewhere in the middle of his back. And since I first noticed this when he came out of the bullpen, I was unable to look at anything else. Until Millar’s homer. High ass? Yes? No? You be the judge.
  • Dotel is also apparently colorblind as he spent his entire bullpen session wearing the wrong color uniform jersey. Um, wow. Red Sox players have worn each other’s jerseys before but I’m pretty sure they were all the same color.
  • David Ortiz with the Comcast commercial? Want to HUG!
  • This is always fun to see. Would say more but refraining from drooling is proving difficult.
  • Johnny Damon? Still trying to win back my love. Still not working. (He doesn’t appear smart enough to understand the concept of reverse psychology so no one explain it to him, okay?)
  • The Rolling Stones are set to play Fenway Park. Tickets! Must get tickets! Springsteen at Fenway rocked my socks off and the Stones are…well shit, they’re the freakin’ Rolling Stones! You need an explanation?
  • Various members of the SGMB were at the game tonight. I’d like to thank Caitriona, Annette, Holly, Emma and anyone else I’ve forgotten for the mojo they no doubt brought in person. It’s all you, kids.

Oh, and just in case we forgot: WALK OFF HOME RUNS!

Tomorrow it’s Barry “He crazy but he sure is pretty” Zito vs. Matty “Neptune Nuts” Clement. I’m calling it: Clement’s goatee will eat the A’s batboy by the fourth inning.

Old Fashioned Whupping

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(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Enough of this!

Okay, first things first: Like my good friends Beth and Sam, I too received an email from the Big Dog informing me that Basegirl will now appear on Boston.com’s blog feeder page. Apparently, someone thinks I have something of interest to say. Now is when I really, really start to regret putting those prom pictures up. So woo hoo for increased readership! As Amy(Nutbar) would say: how prescient!

So I was trapped in the library for the first seven innings of this game because, say it with me now, work. But I made it home for the 8th and 9th. A good, old-fashioned ass kicking was going down. Rather than recap the entire thing for you, I offer the IM conversation between Amy(Nutbar) and myself wherein we front as ganstas, call for Eric Byrnes’s head on a platter and offer theories as to why Danny Haren’s so mad. Explanations for certain comments appear in italics.

KristenthePerfectlySaneIndividual: I'm’a tell you what, I feel much better about things when my boys be laying the smack down.
AmyNutbar: 7 run innings are the best ever.
KTPSI: I got in the car, we're up by three, I get out of the car, we're up by 10. It's like a very short drive.
KTPSI: Hey, that's your pimp! (Mark Kotsay’s up.)
AmyNutbar: Oh pimp.
AmyNutbar: You aren't allowed to get RBIs.
KTPSI: Adam Melhuse is D-Lowe's bitch.
AmyNutbar: Not in this game.
KTPSI: Not so much Cla Meredith's bitch though.
AmyNutbar: Does Cla Meredith have a bitch?
KTPSI: Mmmm, Eric Chavez and teh sexy.
KTPSI: The pics in that magazine? On Sam's blog? Unf.
AmyNutbar: Cla Meredith's era is only 45.00
KTPSI: Oh, that's perfectly acceptable.
KTPSI: Dude, your boyfriend could do this. (Amy’s boyfriend is the recently disposed
Blaine Neal)
AmyNutbar: And be hot about it…
AmyNutbar: …and large…
AmyNutbar: …and in charge.
KTPSI: Remind me again why we got rid of Hyzdu?
AmyNutbar: To get me a boyfriend.
KTPSI: And we got rid of him because…?
AmyNutbar: Apparently I am not allowed to have boyfriends.
KTPSI: Theo Epstein likes to make girls cry?
AmyNutbar: Oh you know he does
KTPSI: That bastard.
AmyNutbar: This conversation is wholly amusing.
KTPSI: Which one?
AmyNutbar: This whole one.
KTPSI: Ours?
AmyNutbar: Yes.
KTPSI: ‘Cause we are pimps, is why.
AmyNutbar: Probably.
AmyNutbar: This could be a blog post.
KTPSI: I say it should be. I deem it so.
AmyNutbar: Heheheh.
KTPSI: The A's have their little league team out there.
AmyNutbar: Do not hate on Charles Thomas.
AmyNutbar: Charles Thomas rocks my face off.
KTPSI: I think I was hating on, um, no, still hating on Cla Meredith. Just projecting onto the baby A's.
AmyNutbar: Hahahhaha.
AmyNutbar: Charles Thomas rocks steady.
AmyNutbar: Unlike Tomko, he'd give you a beat.
KTPSI: So Millar's kids don't think he sucks anymore? Is that the deal?
AmyNutbar: Pretty much.
AmyNutbar: Do you see? See how cool Charles Thomas is? (Charles Thomas made a running catch that, frankly didn’t seem all that impressive to me but I’ll let Amy have her delusions).
KTPSI: I was in the car. I got out of the car to go to the ATM, I get in the car, Millar has hit a home run. I missed it. This is why drive-thru ATMs are necessary.
AmyNutbar: Pretty much.
KTPSI: Dude, Cla(y) Meredith is so the bat boy. He's totally not a player. They're messing with us.
AmyNutbar: Do not speak ill of Olise Claiborne Meredith III. His daddy will sue you.
KTPSI: Or he'll run me over with his Beamer.
KTPSI: One of his Beamers.
AmyNutbar: Hummer.
AmyNutbar: He totally has a Hummer.
KTPSI: But he carries the Beamer in the back.
KTPSI: Good job, Edgah! You didn't take anyone down with you!
AmyNutbar: Bill Mueller now is the time for your home run.
KTPSI: Bill Mueller only wears the high socks at away games.
KTPSI: I have figured this out
AmyNutbar: And when he's playing 2b.
KTPSI: My dad thought it was freakish that I would know that.
KTPSI: Is that freakish?
AmyNutbar: No!
AmyNutbar: The
Rick is frontin'.
KTPSI: I prefer to think I am merely observant.
KTPSI: I’m sure The
Rick had burning questions about Bill Mueller's sartorial choices as well.
AmyNutbar: Sartorial is a good word.
KTPSI: I like that and "tonsorial."
AmyNutbar: What does tonsorial mean?
KTPSI: Of or relating to the hair.
KTPSI: Like, you could say, "Manny has made some interesting tonsorial choices."
KTPSI: And you would not be wrong.
AmyNutbar: Ah.
AmyNutbar: I am familiar with the tonsures.
AmyNutbar: Derek Lowe had a crucial tonsure situation. He tried to hide it with a mullet.
KTPSI: It's true.
KTPSI: Hey, your boyfriend's in! (Amy’s, um, other boyfriend is in fact Youk).
KTPSI: I put a pic of him on in today's blog post for your viewing pleasure.
AmyNutbar: Bellhorn probably pays for his beard grooming.
KTPSI: And also cause he rocks fairly hard.
AmyNutbar: I daresay he rocks steady.
AmyNutbar: Bellhorn probably pays for his beard grooming.
KTPSI: I love how Bellhorn is all "Yeah, I'm just a scruff" but his scruff is very carefully trimmed.
KTPSI: The Horn is fooling no one.
AmyNutbar: And it is very careful to only cover certain parts of his face.
KTPSI: No parts that could be easily lit on fire.
AmyNutbar: Exactly.
AmyNutbar: His mouth scruff is thinner than the cheek scruff.
AmyNutbar: For easy bong access.
KTPSI: Totally. And the hair is carefully gelled even though it doesn't look it.
AmyNutbar: HIT HIM!
AmyNutbar: HIT HIM!
KTPSI: Run into Varitek again, go on, do it!
AmyNutbar: HIT HIM!
AmyNutbar: HIT HIM!
AmyNutbar: HIT HIM!
KTPSI: I mean, he'd have to run into the dugout to do that, but still.
AmyNutbar: Come on, Halama.
KTPSI: Varitek should charge him.
AmyNutbar: Put it square on his ass.
KTPSI: Just come storming out of the dugout and tackle him!
AmyNutbar: Tim Wakefield ALWAYS LOOKS PISSED
AmyNutbar: Why?
KTPSI: What the shit was that?
AmyNutbar: Pussiest ground rule double ever.
AmyNutbar: Had he hit him like I suggested, it would not have happened.
KTPSI: I feel qualified to say, Eric Byrnes has no ass.
KTPSI: They should listen to us. More.
AmyNutbar: I think Halama's voice should sound like Billy Bob Thorton's
KTPSI: I think so too.
KTPSI: Why does Millar wear that sweatband thing around his neck?
AmyNutbar: He's a weirdo.
KTPSI: I'm gonna keep being pissed at Johnny Damon for as long as it works.
AmyNutbar: Hahaha.
AmyNutbar: I was yelling at him for sucking.
AmyNutbar: This very evening.
KTPSI: He sucks hard. You could tell me otherwise, but I would not believe you.
AmyNutbar: I also believe he sucks like a
KTPSI: Or like that new vaccuum that doesn't get clogged.
KTPSI: Did Dougie do well tonight? Am I gonna have to hear it tomorrow?
AmyNutbar: He has an infield hit.
AmyNutbar: Hehehe.
AmyNutbar: I wanna say that's all.
AmyNutbar: (and it went as an error)
KTPSI: I heard that on the radio. Troup and Joe were making fun of him. Talking about his base stealing prowess.
KTPSI: He's 1 for 1 lifetime.
AmyNutbar: Oh Dougie.
AmyNutbar: WWDRD! (What Would Dave Roberts Do?)
KTPSI: He's not Dave Roberts but he is exceptionally smiley.
KTPSI: And I can get behind that.
AmyNutbar: I wanna get behind Blaine Neal.
AmyNutbar: I'm sorry. That wasn't even appropriate. Or physically legitimate.
KTPSI: I was gonna say, behind?
AmyNutbar: In front of.
AmyNutbar: Ha.
KTPSI: Well that's fine then. Unless you're a circus performer.
AmyNutbar: ?
KTPSI: And you're all kinds of bendy.
AmyNutbar: I am pretty bendy
KTPSI: In that case, you will be totally fine.
KTPSI: Dude, Cla(y) Meredith is younger than me.
AmyNutbar: Not me!
AmyNutbar: Just barely.
KTPSI: I will now put in my curlers and take up my afghan.
AmyNutbar: Tuck it in nicely around your legs.
KTPSI: My brittle, arthritic legs.
KTPSI: How you gonna just go hit Manny in the head?
AmyNutbar: You just best not.
KTPSI: I mean, for real. Was that Danny Haren? He still pissed we kicked his ass all over the field in the World Series?
AmyNutbar: Or Bellhorn bought the last of the good weed from his
Boston area hook up.
KTPSI: Dude, Bellhorn's a bitch like that.
KTPSI: But you know he'd be all "Dude, I so didn't know, man. Here, I'll share."
AmyNutbar: You know he would. But did Danny Haren's bitch ass ask? No.
AmyNutbar: He just went and was like “Manny got access to the good shit and I don't.”
KTPSI: He just pouted and hit Manny in the noggin.
KTPSI: "Noggin" TM Steve.
AmyNutbar: Plus, he's a mouthbreather.
KTPSI: He's totally a mouthbreather. And probably a close talker too.
AmyNutbar: And he's not even a mouthbreather in the cute Youk way. I've actually seen Youk shut his mouth. Danny Haren was mouth breathing aaaall over the field tonight.
KTPSI: Dude, last time he faced us, we kicked his bitch ass all over the damn place. He's scared. Youk ain't scared of no one.
AmyNutbar: Youk is only scared of
Rhode Island.
KTPSI: I would say something mean about
Rhode Island but Amy (sans nuts) will read this and will totally start lobbing paperclips at my head.
AmyNutbar: Hi, Amy!
AmyNutbar: It's like a metablog. Or something.
KTPSI: We're so self aware.
AmyNutbar: We know we're crazy. We know this shit will be posted for all to see.
AmyNutbar: In the dugout! Always with the "Who the fuck took my spot on the bench?" look.
KTPSI: The "I'm’a get Dougie to kick your ass for me. Why you think I got a private catcher for? Move, bitch."
AmyNutbar: Dougie is so square shaped.
AmyNutbar: A square is a rectangle is a Dougie.
KTPSI: And also: hit bombs.
AmyNutbar: And gives out Youk's phone number.
KTPSI: To Amy. (both Amy’s have the Youk love).
KTPSI: He's totally Youk's pimp.
AmyNutbar: He gave out Youk's number on a trophy tour.
KTPSI: He did?
AmyNutbar: Yup.
AmyNutbar: During his speech.
AmyNutbar: Poor Youk.
KTPSI: Or lucky Youk. Depending on who called him.
AmyNutbar: It wasn't me.
AmyNutbar: So I don’t think he was very lucky.
KTPSI: Obviously not.
KTPSI: Curt Schilling very much wants me to buy a truck. He won't leave me alone about it. He haunts my dreams.
AmyNutbar: Trucks are not for girls.
AmyNutbar: You never see girls in truck ads.
KTPSI: But Curt is asking so nicely. And he even got Adam Vinatieri to ask too.
KTPSI: I think I probably promised them both that if they won their respective championships, I'd buy a truck.
AmyNutbar: Adam Vinatieri is so funny in that ad.
AmyNutbar: He like books it out of there before the ad is done.
KTPSI: Have you seen the one with bobbleheads? Terrifying.
AmyNutbar: No. And I don't want to. I am scared of bobbleheads.
KTPSI: It's not even their voices. And then there's a cartoon triceratops. It was totally Bellhorn's marketing final.
AmyNutbar: Hahhahhhh!
AmyNutbar: Bellhorn needs to stop sharing his weed. Except for with those who can handle it. And Remy.
KTPSI: Did you hear Remy on Friday? I'm not entirely sure he can handle it.
AmyNutbar: He can't handle it. But we reap the benefits of it.
KTPSI: You know, I'm pissed at Johnny Damon and all, but I'm not going to be mad at NESN if they want to show me interviews with him with wet hair and the no shirt.
AmyNutbar: No shirt interviews are the best.
AmyNutbar: Except for when it is Edgar Renteria.
AmyNutbar: Then I just feel dirty.
KTPSI: JD has nice shoulders. Which doesn't mean he sucks any less.
KTPSI: I do too. Edgar lust is like just wrong.
AmyNutbar: He has a baby face.
KTPSI: And looks terrified, like of breathing and maybe loud noises.
AmyNutbar: Bellhorn is the only one without at bat music.
AmyNutbar: Do they refuse to play The Dead at Fenway or something?
KTPSI: Heh, he's all "I couldn't decide which Phish song, man, there's like, so many. soooo many..."
AmyNutbar: Hahahahhahha.
KTPSI: And then he gets distracted by a lava lamp.
AmyNutbar: Hahahhaa, I totally plugged the lava lamp in for my tryst.
KTPSI: Niiiice!
AmyNutbar: It was pretty funny.
AmyNutbar: Because I didn't want it to be pitch black. But bright light is no friend of the booty call.
AmyNutbar: As um, the blog commenters will agree. ;-)

The conversation then devolved into topics only tangentially related to baseball which none of y'all need to hear about. Least of all my mom. Hi, Mom! So there you are, a glimpse into my scary, scary mind.

Tonight it's Bronson "Saturn Balls" Arroyo going against some Kirk Saarloos who, it appears, suffers from the Andy Pettitte disease of excessive letter hoarding. Perhaps he can share some with Cla Meredith? Regardless, Saarloos sounds like a Lord of the Rings villian to me and with a 1-2 record and a 5.64 ERA, he seems considerably less fearsome than your average Christopher Lee character. Besides, don't look now but Saturn Balls is pitching his little curls off. He's 4-0 and it was noted this morning on SportsDesk that the team is so confident behind him, it's like it was when, gulp, Pedro was around. Como? High praise indeed. Guess we'll see.