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

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Asked for...and delivered

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(Bronson gets back his big boy pants)

Gentleman? A word before I go.

Okay, excellent. This pleases me greatly. Now, listen up, boys. Today is an off-day. Enjoy it. You deserve it. You’ve done well. Get some sleep, play some dominoes, fry some plantains, talk to your dealer. You know, whatever. But I want to see y’all ready for Friday. I want to see no mercy. It’s true that I won’t be able to watch the game due to my being in, you know, Brooklyn, but through the magic of ESPN, text messaging and my uncanny ability to harass unsuspecting passerby into telling me the score, rest assured that I’ll be keeping my eye on you. You’re not out of the woods yet, boys.

I see that every other team in the AL East won last night as well. In fact, the ESPN announcers on SportsCenter have taken to holding textbooks in front of their crotches, such is their excitement over Jason Giambi’s walk-off homer in the Bronx yesterday. Ah, I see George has ordered Giambi back on the juice. We all knew it was all a matter of time. I won’t get into how the game was, in point of fact, OVER in the 9th inning when Gary “The Right Field ‘Roid Monster” Sheffield grounded into a double play and was in fact out, thus ending the game. And I won’t get into A-Rod’s ill-advised attempt at running over the Pirates’ catcher, despite the stop sign thrown up by his third base coach. An attempt at appearing “tough” I would venture, as well as a “True Yankee.” I won’t get into any of that.

What I will get into is this: Bronson Fucking Arroyo. He’s back, y’all. Also? Bill Mueller. Mr. Mueller is on a 7-game hit streak and while I can’t reveal to you all the details of his newfound mojo (he’d be awfully embarrassed and we can’t risk upsetting the delicate balance of karma), I will tell you that it came into being approximately seven games ago. Just sayin’. We (that being Marianne and myself) should not be messed with. Because we will figure something out about you (or make something up) and we will hold it against you and threaten to share your dirty little secrets with everyone. And then, you will need to win. Don’t believe us? Ask Billy Mueller.

Okay, I’m off to make my way to South Station and brave Amy’s rendition of “No Sleep ‘Till Brooklyn” for roughly the next four hours. Great fun, I assure you. Take care, kids. And Red Sox? I’ve got my eye on you.