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

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Please Don't Feed the Bears

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(Trotter prepares his bat for a savage beating)

Okay…so like, remember that time that we got into it with the Devil Rays? You know, that one time. Earlier this year, I think it was. Man, that feels like ages ago. Anyway, “a certain someone” who shall remain nameless, (unless I decide to call him out as Dewon Brazelton, which I do), decided to go after Trot and The Trotski was forced to “give him some information?” Well remember how we then realized that that right there was the only conceivable reason that Blaine Neal was on the roster? To hold Trot back? Well, my question is this: Where the hell is Blaine Neal now? ‘Cause I think Trot was about one spewed sunflower seed away from charging out of the dugout his own self to go all Mortal Kombat on the umps for blowing Kapler’s home run call.

I'm just sayin', if I'm ever in a street fight, (and let's just take a moment to consider what ridiculous scenario would end in that situation), and I get to pick three Red Sox players to be on my side, I'm'a pick Timlin, Tek and Trot. Hands down. Trot's nasty as a caged bear who hasn't eaten in a week, combined with a healthy streak of Righteous Christian Vengeance and Justice and I want that boy fighting for me. That's all I'm sayin'. Last night, the Hebrew Hammer himself no doubt learned that he may eat barbells for breakfast and speed bags for dinner but Trot's ready to defend his teammate's honor - in the box score or in a fight, it would seem - with equal intensity.

Not that I blame him.

I watched the game with Katherine and Sebastian and found myself saying, “If we lose this game by one run, I sincerely hope Tito has a S.W.A.T. team with tazers stationed outside the dugout. Otherwise? Trot’s gonna tear someone apart with his teeth.”

Despite the surely hilarious Wrestlemania implications of that scenario, it was not to be. In the bottom of the 8th inning, the Sox bats, apparently convinced that their bullpen was trying to give the game away (for the second night in a row), like it was a holiday fruitcake, got to smacking and turned the damn thing into a track meet. You could practically see the grounds crew dragging out the shot puts and drawing the lines for the javelin toss. A nine run inning has a way of demoralizing the opposing team. Especially when said opposition has just scored four of their own in the top half of the inning and has, in fact, made a game of it.

I can only liken it to the nerdy guy in high school who admired the prom queen from afar and finally, one day, got up the courage to ask her out. At first, she’s all nice and smiley and he thinks she may be going for it. Then, without warning, she turns into a demon Medusa character and pours tapioca on his shoes, leaving him in her figurative dust.

Um, yeah, it’s just like that. Possibly I should start sleeping more. Or stop drinking tequila.

In the end, despite our bullpen’s apparent stockholdings in Tums and Pepto Bismol, the boys were able to close it out. A hearty ‘atta boy!’ to Manny El Camino who, because he is younger than me, I feel justified in claiming as a binky. I also offer an understated head nod of affirmation to Edgah because we know Edgah’s not all about the flash and loud noises tend to scare him and make him pee himself.

So I’m happy with the win. For the most part, things are looking good. Those of you who still need work, you know who you are. Bullpen Bozos, I’m looking at you.