Time for Another Lecture

Boys? Listen up and listen good. I don’t have time for this so I’ll make it short. I spent all of yesterday clutching my stomach in dramatic fashion and cursing the Chinese food place down the street for their chicken finger preparation techniques. And this was BEFORE I watched last night’s game. So ears open, please.

In short: knock this shit off. Knock it off right now. I’m not even talking about the losing. Although you’d do well to stop that too. I’m talking about the bickering. The whining. The “He plays more than me,” “We want him as our closer,” “Wahhh, I want to be traded” bullshit. Enough. Uncle. Suck it up.

May I remind you that you are all ostensibly professional athletes. Or you’re Kevin Millar. But even Kevin Millar gets paid millions of dollars to do what he does. Do you know how many guys there are, languishing away in the minor leagues who would cut off their right legs to get a shot at what you have? (And, even uni-legged, some of those guys would still run faster than Mr. Millar). Hell, even Gabe Kapler, the Hebrew Hammer himself is wasting away in Japan and counting the days until he can be a part of this team again. And you guys, you spoiled, whiny crybabies, are…bitching? You’re bitching about playing time? And closing? And probably the fact that the postgame spread in the clubhouse features Hellman’s instead of Cain’s mayonnaise?

Seriously, boys, grow the hell up. I’m tired of hearing about it. All I want is to follow a baseball team who looks like they’re having fun out there. I want antics in the dugout. I want applesauce for everyone! I want the biggest complaint I hear to be about how David Wells stole Bellhorn’s bong and wore it as a hat while sitting in the whirlpool.

I don’t want to hear about who did or didn’t get selected for the All-Star Team. I don’t want to hear about how Jay Payton doesn’t get enough playing time. I don’t want to hear Johnny Damon (pretty much, I never want to hear Johnny Damon speak ever again), complain about how Schilling shouldn’t be going to the bullpen. And I sure as hell don’t want to hear that Millar wants to be traded. I’ll address you all in turn. Now sit there and shut up.

Matty. Matt. Matthew. You weren’t selected for the All-Star Team. We know, it’s a crock, we’re upset about it too but damn, dude, ain’t no one going to remember how brilliant you’ve been this year if all we hear is you whining about how it broke your heart to be left off the roster. Now, I’m not a professional or anything but maybe, just maybe, Terry thought it’d be beneficial to get you a full week’s rest so you’d be ready to go for the second half of the season? You’ve been the team’s rock, man, and we need you to be a gamer. I don’t know much but I’m’a tell you one thing; opposing hitters are not intimidated by a skinny guy sobbing into his Abe Lincoln beard about not getting picked to play. Sack up, buddy. Pitch like your pants are on fire.

Jay Payton. Guess you’re gone now, huh? You see what happens when you mess with the bull? In this case, the “bull” being an angry Trot Nixon who is none too happy about sharing his position and playing time. And I’ve got some news for you, Jay Pay, Trotter’s been around here a good, long while and he ain’t about to take a backseat to anybody. Least of all you. I mean, you’re not even Dave Roberts! We liked you fine, Jay Pay and we appreciate what you did for us but don’t be slammin’ on the Trotter. He’s as Boston baseball as the Green Monster and we aren’t letting go of him anytime soon. You can consider yourself a casualty of our devotion to another player.

JD? I. Have. Had. Enough. No more out of you. Ever. Just stop talking. About everything. I don’t know who made you the official mouthpiece of this team but if it comes down to having to choose between Varitek (who is, you know, actually the Captain and official spokesman), yammer on dryly about Schilling’s pitch count or Matty’s velocity and you telling us for the umpteenth time about your naked pull-ups, I’m going to go with Tek any day. I don’t want to hear about your hair, I don’t want to hear about your wife, I don’t want to hear about your shoulder, your workout program, your two-story closet or your theory for eliminating third world debt. At the most, the MOST, I want to hear about you hitting that triple or making that catch. Other than that, shut up. And definitely shut up about your teammates and how you don’t agree with things. You’re not a pitcher. Unless you’re ready to toe the rubber and come in and save games, I don’t much care what you think about it. Give it a rest, JD. Just close the yap for once and see how it feels.

‘Course it’ll never be completely silent around that clubhouse because of Mr. Motormouth himself, Kevin Millar. Yeah, I’m talking to you, Buckethead. What’s this I hear about you asking to be traded? You? Kevin Millar? Weren’t you the one who pitched twelve hissy fits when the team was going back and forth between trading you and Mientkiewicz? Pretty sure that was you there, Cowboy. And it was all because you loved this team so much and couldn’t see yourself playing anywhere else and blah, blah, blah. And you got your wish. And now the team brings in Olerud to play occasionally and you’re all wrapped up in your sense of entitlement about that? You think you should be playing first every day? Have you met yourself, man? Not all of us enjoy “Adventures in Defense: The Kevin Millar Story” day in and day out. Especially in the later innings. Let the Benevolent Alien get his shots. You hang with Manny or one of the newbies on the bench. That’s pretty much your job, anyway. You’ve admitted as much. What you are to this team is a morale-booster. Not much morale is going to be boosted if the team’s class clown is whining about playing. Suck. It. Up. And put on a happy face.

We got that straight, boys? That was longer than I anticipated but what’s a girl to do when y’all are fighting and sniping at each other in the papers and verbally loosening the wheels on an already tottering wagon? I’m sorry if that pains some of you, but you needed to hear it. It’s for your own good.

Now…let’s right the ship and get things back on track. Just win ballgames, gentleman. And smile while you’re doing it, dammit.