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

Thursday, May 05, 2005


You guys? Multitasking is hard. And I’m not talking about the kind of multitasking that involves writing memos to freelance copyeditors, proofchecking sample pages for the new instructor’s manual and mainlining Crossaint du Jour’s cinnamon hazelnut that I do every morning. I’m talking about the kind of multitasking that means the game is on, we’re scratching for runs, I need to cheer for the Sox and simultaneously berate the Tigers, Amy is IMing me, Emma is IMing me, I need to write a blog entry, must keep up with the game thread on SGMB, what’s this about Ingrid Bergman?, oh shit, the pizza is here, have to go pay for it, where’s my credit card?, Amy’s roommates are sleeping, stop screaming at Keith Foulke, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Foulkie, oh, it’s okay, yay we won.

THAT’S the kind of multitasking I’m talking about.

Prior to the game, I informed Beth that she needed to have a talk with her boy because I was not at all comfortable putting him into a game in which we only had a one run lead. Despite the fact that that’s, you know, HIS JOB and all. I am delighted to see the talk worked.

My scattered thoughts (because while doing all of the above did you really think I had enough remaining mental capacity to keep a running game diary?) include:

Johnny Damon does not want me to be mad at him. He really, really doesn’t want it. He’s trying ever so hard to win me back. For instance, did y’all know that by the 4th inning last night he’d already singled three times? Yeah, me neither because in my head, Johnny Damon is sucking. I don’t know when or why I came to this conclusion. Probably sometime around the time I first saw his Puma commercial and my jaw hit the floor and I decided that he needed to go away, right quick. So he knows I’m mad at him. And he’s trying to make it up to me. He’s hitting .371. I…don’t know what to say to this. Um, Johnny Damon, you suck!

Tim Wakefield continues to rock my socks off. Seriously, I know the man loses a game or two here and there but he’s just such a rock. He’s always there. You can always count on him. And the knuckleball is nothing if not inconsistent. In fact, when it’s on, Dougie has a hard time reigning it in. Emily, Amy’s roommate, watched Dougie flop around behind the plate like a hooked fish in an attempt to block a knuckler in the dirt and she said: “Does Mirabelli suck? What’s the deal?” I replied, “No, Dougie’s the man. I mean (disclaimer), he ain’t no Varitek, but the knuckler is dancing.” “Hmph,” Emily said, “I think he sucks.” I just laughed, “You’re so lucky I’m not my brother right now.”

Kevin Youkilis most definitively DOES NOT want to be sent back to the minors. He DOES NOT. The Paw Sox are smelly and they have cooties and Youk is hitting like his pants are on fire just to keep himself out of Pawtucket. Steve has a theory that the Sox are going to try to – deep breath – tradeBillMuellerandmakeYouktheeverydaythirdbaseman. And inhale. I dunno if that’s true. In fact, I’m going with the “LA LA LA, I can’t hear you!” tactic on this one. But anyway, Youk? Is the man. The game-winning-RBI kind of man, even. You get down with your clutch hitting self, Kevin Youkilis!

I think something is up with Manny. Something perhaps unrelated to baseball but he just doesn’t look as, I dunno, spaceshot happy as he did last year. He’s still a far cry from Malcontent Manny but there appear to be less goofy dugout antics. This could all be due to the absence of the O.C. and the 3-foot Pedro bobblehead doll. Or, you know, the actual Pedro, but it makes me sad. Or maybe he’s pouty because Millar has actual children to take care of now and can’t give Manuelito his undivided attention. At least he and Papi are still wearing each other’s wristbands.

Edgah, Edgah, Edgah, what am I going to do with Edgah? Damned if he didn’t try his hardest to hit into a triple play last night with the bases loaded. He tried, he sure did. Had Brandon Inge not booted a ball spectacularly, he just might have managed it. So there I am, ready to crucify him when he makes a spectacular ranging play in the hole, leaps, pivots and throws out the runner at first by a half step. Goddamn, Edgah, goddamn. He also made an amazing throw, nailing Guillen at the plate. Amy, who had JUST ASKED me if the Sox ever threw anyone out at the plate, promised to run streaking down the street if they ever did. I'd say Amy owes her North Carolina town some fast-moving nudity. Such behavior on Edgah's part prompted Holly to say on the SGMB: “What's the name of a famous rollercoaster that would be a good name for a shortstop?” Edgar Renteria: Emotional Rollercoaster.

Keith Foulke is not dead. Nor has his body been possessed by the wandering soul of John Wasdin. Or it has, but the soul was busy last night, embodying the Yankees’ pitchers. *Hee* (Schadenfreude update: 11-17). Good job, Keith. Beth will be pleased as she’s safe for one day from suffering the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortunes. (Did she just make a Shakespeare reference in a baseball entry? Why yes, I believe she did.)

And that, my friends, is how it went down. 4-3 Sox. Ace pitching by Wake, clutch hitting by Youk, and Foulke doing what Foulke is paid to do. 1:05 game today. Get the StringBean mojo going!