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

Friday, September 30, 2005


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(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

The thing is, I’m pretty sure David Ortiz might actually be God. I’m not sure I can envision someone else “delivering us from evil” in quite the same way. That may seem like heresy and I’m fairly certain that the nuns at my Catholic high school would cluck disapprovingly at such a declaration, but Red Sox baseball is both a religion and a drug, and David Ortiz is my savior. A messiah in a Kangol hat with ice in his ears, Ortiz brings us to the edge of the Promised Land...yet again.

There have already been far more eloquent statements written by far more gifted writers about how much David Oritz means to this team…and I won’t try to outdo any of them. I will simply say that insomuch as it is possible to actually love someone whom you’ve never met, I love David Ortiz. Ignoring the imaginary baseball world scenarios where I run into Ortiz on the street, he envelopes me in a giant bear hug and says, “Hey baby, what’s going down?,” I really, truly love the man. As much as Jason Varitek is the “heart and soul” of this team, Ortiz is the circulatory system that keeps it all together. And thanks to him, this team’s heart is still beating.

And let’s not forget Jon(athan) Papelbon because he isn’t going to remind us. In the mess and destruction that’s been the Sox bullpen this year, it’s easy to overlook the specter of Papelbon, rising from the smoking rubble. This guy, since he took an unassuming seat on the bench, has been rock, solid nails. His ERA is under 3 and he’s become the closest thing we have to a sure thing in that bucket of fun we call “the bullpen.” A week or so ago, Bill Simmons wrote a column wherein he mentioned that the Sox don’t make it to the postseason – or anywhere from there – without Jonathan Papelbon. A few weeks ago, it would have seemed like a ridiculous statement, but now, it’s fact. And he’s right.

How great must it be to be Papelbon right now? A reporter on NESN’s Extra Innings show posed the question to him in the locker room this evening:

Reporter: “How much fun is this?”
Papelbon’s eyes light up and he couldn’t suppress the smile that he’d kept hidden so well all night, “It’s more fun that I’ve ever imagined.”

And damned if he isn’t right.

It all comes down to this. And we knew it was going to. We have all these great fantasies about the Yankees getting eliminated (and don’t even try to tell me there isn’t some serious karmic voodoo waiting for them for having Shawn “Who?” Chacon and Aaron “Whatshisface?” Small pitching like they have. No way, no how. But as with all karmic debts, this one will come back to bite them in the ass. Hard.) There is no easy way.

I remember last year, I was cheering for the Twins to eliminate the Yankees in the Divisional Series because, if you are a sane person, you want the Yankees to lose in any way possible (hopefully, in a painful, humiliating way, but we’ll get to that in a second), and I remember someone saying to me, “If the Red Sox win the World Series and they don’t have to go through the Yankees to get there, doesn’t it become less special?” And I scoffed and denied it. But after laying the 0-3 smackdown on us, and having the Sox come roaring back to humiliate the Yankees IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE, they were right. In retrospect, they were absolutely right. It wouldn’t have been the same if we’d beaten the Twins or the Indians, or the White Sox, or the JV Squad from Hoboken High. We need to beat the Yankees.

And we still need to beat the Yankees.

Real season starts tomorrow at 7:05.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Nervous Wreck

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(It's as if all of this...exploded)

I am actually making myself sick.

I don't know if it's psychosomatic or if this is an actual, physical problem. But I do know that I do not feel well. My stomach is in knots, my nose is stuffy and my TMJ is back, which means I'm spending an inordinate amount of time clenching my jaw and/or grinding my teeth.


I haven't eaten anything solid since lunchtime yesterday and even that didn't set too well. Last night, I just...forgot to eat. This is not like me. This is not normal.

I brought actual work from my actual job home to work on last night because when one area of one's life explodes with complications and stress, all other areas must follow suit. So it was work-work to freelance-work to baseball-anxiety. Do not pass "Go." Do not collect $200. Do not remember to eat dinner.

I found myself downing a giant mug of coffee and a sliced tomato at 10:30 last night. Surely, this is not healthy living.

This morning, when I got up and ran into Colleen on the way to the shower, we grunted our good mornings and she asked me how I was feeling. "I'll tell you one thing," I said, running my toothbrush under the faucet, "I'm not raising my kids to be sports fans."

She looked at me quizzically, her hand on her hip and cocked her head, "Oh no?"

I spit out my mouthful of toothpaste. "You're right," I said, "Half the reason I'd like to
have kids is to raise them as sports fans. We're all doomed."

"That's what I thought," she said.

She has known me for a decade. She can call bullshit with the best of 'em.

And speaking of bullshit, would you like to know what I was doing after the debacle of a Sox game ended last night? I will tell you. What I was doing was stealing Marianne's MLBTV feed on my laptop (reasoning that she was not using it), and watching the top of the 9th inning of the Yankees/Baltimore game. The 9th inning of a game in which the Orioles were leading by a score of 17-9. There was already one out. I repeat: the Orioles were winning by eight runs and I felt the need to watch for myself to ensure that they would not self-destruct and implode, allowing the Yankees to improbably take the game.

"Kristen," Colleen said as she cleaned the kitchen and benevolently organized my path of destruction, "Go to bed. The Yankees are not winning this game."

"One time," I responded, "they scored thirteen runs in an inning."

"When was this?" she asked.

I was cut off by Michael Kay spouting off from the YES network feed, emenating from my laptop speakers, "Earlier this season, the Yankees scored thirteen runs in an inning against the Devil Rays, so anything is possible."

"Oh," Colleen said.

"Bite me, Michael Kay," I growled.

But in the end, she was right. The Yankees did not win. Neither, I might add, did the Red Sox, or the Indians. Leaving us right back where we started. A two-way deadlocked tie for the AL East and a three-way tie for the AL Wild Card. It's as if last night never happened since no one accomplished anything. I suppose of the best and worst case scenarios, it's right down the middle. But even though I prefer it to slipping, there's something unsettling about stasis.

"What happens if the season ends with all these teams tied?" Colleen asked me.

I began to read to her from the article on MLB.com: "What if the Yankees, Red Sox and Indians all finish with the same records? The Yankees and Red Sox play in New York for the AL East title and the loser plays the Indians for the Wild Card berth on Tuesday. New York is at the Jake if the Yanks lose and the Tribe is at Fenway if the Red Sox lose."

"Got that?" I asked her.

"Ow," she said, "My head."


Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to track down some Advil and ginger ale. Better stock up.

Monday, September 26, 2005

It's Back!

Chicks Talk Football is back. This time with it's very own site!

Beth, Mer, Sam and yours truly discuss, argue, hypothesize and fight with knives.

Design work still to be done but check it out. We get down and dirty about, among other things, Rodney Harrison's penchant for claiming disrespect, the heroics of one David Akers and the infamous Tom Brady goat picture.

Link added to the sidebar as well.

Girls talking about football. Does it get any better than that?

Deja Vu, All Over Again

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(photo from Boston.com)

Roethlisberger learns: Mess with bull, get horns, etc.

This is how the story goes:

Tom Brady leads drive. Adam Vinatieri makes kick. New England wins.

Some would say it’s time for a re-write, but an entire six state region would argue otherwise.

Tom Brady leads drive. Adam Vinatieri makes kick. New England wins.

It’s become my favorite bedtime story.

And you know what? It wasn’t perfect. Yesterday was not perfect. Not by a long shot. It was the kind of game where you go into halftime down by three points but feeling like you’re down by three touchdowns. Red zone turnovers and mental mistakes resulting in penalties seemed as if they were going to doom the Pats for the second week in a row. But then, somehow, quite possibly because he’s a magical wizard who makes Gandalf look like a hack, Belichick smacked some sense into his team and they came out ready to rock. I like to think that he just walked into the locker room, looked around slowly and said, “I’m so disappointed in you,” before retiring to the coach’s office and letting the team stew in the disappointment. Because I’m fairly certain that there are few worse things than disappointing Bill Belichick.

There were still some hiccups, like that last bit wherein the defense was all, “Wha? There’s still time left? Oh…shit,” as they watched Hines Ward catch a game-tying four yard touchdown pass from Roethlisberger, thereby preventing the patented Ward Waterworks for another minute and a half. But then it ended how it always seems to end:

Tom Brady leads drive. Adam Vinatieri makes kick. New England wins.

Thank you and goodnight.

Oh, and while we’re at it, I’d like to echo Sam here and say that “for the safety of all future Patriots players, that entire stadium [Heinz Field] needs to be blown into little teeny tiny bits, set aflame, and paved over.” Because…word. Site of Brady’s twisted ankle in the 2001 AFC Championship game. Site of Ty Law’s broken foot on Halloween of last year. And now Rodney Harrison and Matt Light go down with serious injuries. I’m off to Pittsburgh in a rented bulldozer. Who’s with me?

I would talk more about Rodney Harrison right now but I’m not sure how to translate uncontrollable weeping to the written word. Let’s…just not speak of it.

But when all was said and done, when the smoke cleared and Hines Ward’s tears had dried, the world was as it should be, and the Patriots had locked up another win. Baby Ben was injured and both teams had taken quite the beating in another last man standing situation. It wasn’t dominance, but it was good enough. And I’ll take it.

Here is what we know: If you need a definition of clutch, you need look no farther than the men wearing number 4 for the Pats and number 34 for the Sox. This is greatness and performance under pressure. And damn is it sweet.


Speaking of dominance, the Red Sox, in what seems like the first time in the history of ever, swept the Orioles and remain in a deadlocked tie with the Yankees for first place in the AL East. Seven games remain. All home games for the Sox, all away games for the Yankees. Let’s hope that home-field advantage really means something. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Strap in.

*readies gallons of water, flashlights, batteries and canned goods*

*straps on hard helmet*

Prepare for some apocalyptic baseball (TM Beth).

It’s so on.

Sunday, September 25, 2005


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(photo from NFL.com)

*deep breath*

Isn't Week 3 a little too early for last-second field goals and playoff intensity?

Per Amy: "Adam Vinatieri is like the tiny, white David Ortiz."

More later.


Wednesday, September 21, 2005

*Hulk smash*

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Do you think those balls are juiced like the Yankees?

I...have nothing to say. I sincerely hope the Sox plan on winning their remaining 11 games. And then I hope they're getting everyone who's been paying attention to them this season a big fucking "I'm Sorry" card from Hallmark. The good shit with the watermark on the back and everything.

Because I don't want to hear any slogans. I don't want to know about any t-shirts. I want to win some goddamn baseball games.

And the Yankees? Fuck 'em. They got where they are largely by cheating (don't EVEN consider arguing with me about this), and it's not over yet. I hope the Yankees and their fans aren't using their souls. They're going to miss them.

I hate that sports do this to me. I hate that I can't properly illustrate my rage with words and am reduced to throwing bottle caps at the television and damn near putting my foot through the screen before Amy stopped me to remind me that "Mike Timlin is not going to buy you a new TV." But if anything good can come of this, it's the hope that the team is just as pissed off as I am. And well they should be. They blew this and they have to work that much harder to fix it. And they better fucking try.

Apologies for my lack of synonyms for the word "fuck" but the game ended ten minutes ago and to keep myself from destroying my dishes on the hardwood floor or devouring an entire half-gallon of ice cream, I'm ranting here.

I'm not giving up. Because I can't. I don't have it in me. It's not part of my nature. So I will continue to watch. And I will continue to hope. And make no mistake about it, I will continue to throw things and most likely will need to purchase a new television before the season is over. But I can't give up. I couldn't find my way off this bandwagon with a map.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go tape a picture of Mike Timlin to my pillow and work out my, er, frustrations.

And now, the severe beating of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays

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Who's your Papi? Who's your Papi?!?

Steve made an excellent point in the SGMB game thread last night after Schilling completed seven full innings of two-run ball:

"I really want to see the margins of Curt's notebook."

"I am awesome."

"I am very awesome."

"$14 million dollars / $60 per month = 233,333 months of EQ! - r0xx0r!"

"Paladin only at level 16. Have to get some work in."

"Curt Christ. Jesus Schilling. Curt Schilling-Christ."

And after that start, maybe I'm a believer again too.

THAT was more like it. That's what I like to see. Relentless beating up on the playground nerds by the big bullies. Some guy named Seth McClung getting his ass handed to him on a whopping platter of back-to-backs by Pebbles and Bam-Bam (tm Steve). The middle of the lineup kicking ass and taking names. Our B-team in at the end and, despite the fact that we all now know what they look like in drag, closed out the job like the major leaguers they see fit to become.

And Lou Piniella almost, ALMOST, killing someone with a bat.

Good times.

The Yankees won too but they had to break teeny, tiny Brian Roberts to do so (and simultaneously sent Marianne into a downward spiral of depression and despair, the likes of which we have never seen). And who the hell runs over a 5'8" first baseman anyway? On a bunt. Bubba Fucking Crosby, that's who. Had to be a Yankee. Cheap ass way to get a run if you ask me. And a person's arm should NOT bend that way. Way to end Roberts' season, jackass. I sincerely hope you enjoy hell as you'll be spending lots of time there. Get comfy.

The good news about the Yankee game, if there's any to be had, is that with a four run lead in the ninth, the Yankees still brought in Rivera, apparently not sold on their abilities to get three outs before the other team scored four runs. And they were right to be as the O's tagged on a couple. I see cracks in the veneer, kids. I see trouble for our pinstriped foes.

It's not all Cracker Jacks and lollipops in Sox land but last night, last night was good. A good, old-fashioned beat down was just what the doctor ordered. And we like it. Embarassingly large margins of victory are good for the soul.

I don't know who told the team that the Devil Rays said something uncharitable about their mamas but the middle of the order went OFF with vengeance and fury. Even Captain "You know what's fun? Striking out." Tek got in on the action. Speaking of, I need your help, people. Does a 4 for 5 night from the Captain warrant a beer purchase on the part of my brother? I need to know the limitations of my demands.

Oh, and you wanna argue against David Ortiz for MVP? You wanna step to the man? Because I'm pretty sure the traditional definition of Most Valuable Player is not, "Best Player" but rather "Player Who Gives His Team The Best Chance To Win." And if you can find a better candidate than David Ortiz, well, I will call you a dirty, dirty liar.

But it's a good thing the Yankees declined to sign him when Minnesota released him. Since he's not a power hitter.

Tonight, we march on and conclude the very, very long stretch of games without a break. Wake takes the hill and faces off against Scott Kazmir, he of the inexplicable unhittable stuff. Let's hope the Trop is kind to Wake and Kazmir gets tossed for plunking Dougie's substantial rear end.

I shall leave you with an observation that Amy made last night whilst trying to talk Marianne out of her figurative tree: "There is only one thing to do in this situation. When the going gets tough, and there are hard days and rough roads ahead. You have to ask yourself one very important question. And that question is: What would Dave Roberts Do?"

Marianne sniffled and answered quietly, "He'd run really fucking fast."

That's it, boys. Run fast. Run really fucking fast, right to the end. And bring us home.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Not Going Out Like That

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(some ninja moves would be most helpful right about now)

Nope. No way, no how. Not happening. Ain't now way the Sox are blowing a division lead to the Yankees and being kept out of the playoffs by the Indians. It's not happening. Someone said they wanted this to be easy. This is the Red Sox. We don't do "easy." We wanted the Yankees to roll over and die. The Yankees don't die for anyone. They're the proverbial horror movie villian who needs to be shot with a twelve-gauge, diced up with a chainsaw, buried under fifteen feet of molten lead and blown up with TNT before you can be sure they're dead. And even then, you better sleep with one eye open.

So this was never going to be a cakewalk. Nobody gives you a free pass because of what you did the year before. Ask the Patriots and their tough as nails schedule. (Speaking of, screw YOU, NFL.) Nobody cares what odds you've overcome in the past. This team, this 2005 Red Sox team, has made like Dante in "Clerks" (We're not even supposed to be here!), one too many times for me to believe it any longer. And you know what? They were right. They were.

They weren't supposed to be here. It's incredibly difficult to repeat. Especially when you consider that the ace of last year's team (or both of them if we're being picky), and last year's lights-out closer are both ineffective at best and a smoking disaster at worst. Only one of the team's MVP-caliber sluggers is pulling his own weight. Our bullpen enjoys firebombing games and our clubhouse is replete with guys named "Chad." They were right. They weren't supposed to be here. But you know what? I'm not buying it anymore.

I've heard the expression that the year after a championship is like playing with the house's money. I don't buy that either, because they're playing with my money. I am not one iota less invested in this pennant race this year as I was at this time last year. I've got the sleepless nights, the mysterious stomach pains, the curious decions to call toast and coffee "dinner" because it's all I can keep down. And somewhere along the line, the team went from being so wrong, it's wrong, to being so wrong, it's right.

The very fact that they're not supposed to be here is why they belong here. They belong as defending champions. Hollywood and professional sports love dramatic stories and ain't nothing more dramatic than a team that has no business winning it all, well, winning it all. And I want it all again.

Greedy? Selfish? Entitled? You know what? I don't care. Bring me another championship. The difference, as I see it, between that mindset and the nauseating mindset of Yankees fans, is that they believe they deserve another championship. They believe it's owed them simply because of who they are. Us? We know we have to work for it. I don't expect anyone to hand this team anything. I expect they'll have to claw and scratch and fight for every last inch. And that's the way I'd want it.

A battle well-fought is always more satisfying than a battle wherein the opponent rolls over and dies. There must be blood, sweat and tears - of the players and the fans - to make it all worth it. This time is no different.

Which brings me to that picture up there. The Red Sox of recent years are kind of like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They're loud, crude, obnoxious, repleat with catchy but annoying sayings ("Cowboy Up" is totally the Sox version of "Cowabunga"), and I'm pretty sure Kevin Millar orders his pizza with peanut butter and pepperoni. They're ridiculous and they make no sense and pretty much have no business being the success they are. And yet, somehow, it all works out in the end. Shredder and his henchmen? Manifestation of the Yankees. My memory is a tad rusty but I do believe that Shredder meets his untimely demise at the hands of a dump truck trash compactor. And I'm pretty sure the last thing he heard was "Cowabunga!"

It may seem silly for the Sox to take their inspiration from an early 90's kid's cartoon that only made a smidgen of sense to begin with. But it's not like anything else the Sox do makes any kind of sense. So why the hell not?

I want to see us swinging for the fences and playing with every ounce of heart we have. This is not last year. This is THIS year. And this year is now. I want us to keep playing until they turn the lights off and tell us we can't play anymore. Until they kick us off the field and lock us out. And then I want us to sneak back in and keep right on playing. 'Cause we're not going out like that.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Do Over

Psychotically swamped today at my actual job, kids.

Also, not very happy with the sporting world. I'd love to vent but I don't so much have time to breathe so it'll have to wait until tomorrow. Hopefully, I'll have some interesting Monday night games to dissect as well.

Anyway, feel free to rant and rave all you want in the comments section. And in the meantime, read those fine blogs over to the right there. They're stellar.

See you all tomorrow.

Sunday, September 18, 2005


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Last time the Pats faced off against the Panthers, this happened.

*gestures upwards*

Let's see that again, shall we?

Game on.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

We're Not Worthy!

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(Garth and Wayne tell Timmy where it's at)

I hereby offer Tim Wakefield as the gold standard of "professionals" who sack up, shut up, and do their jobs.

Seriously, Timmy, we're not worthy.

Three complete games this year (even though 9 full in a 10-inning game
technically doesn't count as a CG but we're ignoring that), is one HELL of a showing. And exactly what this team needs right now.

So it took our most expensive player getting drilled to win it in the bottom of the 10th? So it even got to that point by some hideously inept defense on the part of a one Mr. Johnny Damon (
Ponytail, jackass! How many times do I have to say it?) So teams might be figuring out David Ortiz and refusing to let him beat them, reasoning that one base is better than four? It's a win and I'll take it any way we can get it.

Wins are wins these days and we need every last one of 'em.

And freakin' Wakefield. Would you look at this guy?

You wanna mess with that? Didn't think so.

See, this is how I explain it, Tim Wakefield is like the Troy Brown of the Red Sox. Half my life he's been on the Sox. He's never been the most flashy guy, the most expensive, or the one getting the most headlines. But he's always been there, willing to do whatever the team needed. So far, I don't think he's taught Wally the Macarena but I'm fairly certain that if Theo asked him to, he'd roll his eyes, shrug his shoulders, and resignedly start gettin' jiggy with the green beast.

But what he's doing right now is above and beyond. He's given our bullpen - "beleaguered" hardly seems to cover it anymore - all the rest they could ask for. And he's done it himself. I'll tell you one thing, my Dave Roberts shirt just arrived in the mail but you can bet that with my next paycheck, I'll be ordering a #49.

As for David Ortiz, who hit ANOTHER home run to tie the game in the 6th, well, let's just let him say it:

Dan Roche: Did you think it was going to end this way?
Tizzle: Nah man. I was expecting something different there. I guess they been watching ESPN lately.

They damn well better be.

Friday, September 16, 2005


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(The Sox hold on the Division lead gets rather precarious indeed)


To: Boston Red Sox
From: Someone who gives a shit

Re: Lackluster play

Okay, you underacheiving bozos, this is the last time. This is the final memo you're getting this year.

I realize that my threats to up and become a Kansas City Royals fan are merely that, empty threats. Geography and genetics prevent me from actually making good on said threat but DON'T THINK I haven't been tempted. Days like yesterday, when you've blown a seemingly winnable game against the Oakland A's with Curt "Geez, that Faustian bargain really is coming back to bite me in the ass" Schilling on the mound and we're counting on the godforsaken Devil Rays to keep the Yankees at bay (they can't), it's looking downright soothing over there in Royals country.

I mean, just think, the team, three times out of four, is going to lose. You know this. You expect this. You go into it thinking, well, at least I'll get to see some baseball. Not baseball played at a particularly high level, mind you, but baseball nonetheless. So when they win, which happens when the wind is blowing the right way or the moon is in the seventh house or some such fateful alignment of planets, it's an added bonus. Imagine that, watching the games every day and being pleasantly surprised when the Royals, against all odds, pull one out. Man, what a life.

But no. No, instead I'm stuck with you buch of drag-asses with your slogans and your hair bleach and your 24-hour "Look at us!" network. Most of the time I don't complain, but right now, with you playing how you're playing (read: as if you've already been mathematically eliminated), it merely serves to rub my nose it in. And so I say: WAKE THE HELL UP!

I'm addressing all of you individually because you've all got something to answer for. Except for you, David. You just stand right here next to me with your arms folded in a threatening manner, tapping your foot. Maybe they'll get the message.

Johnny: I've never seen you throw a baseball with any modicum of ability so why the hell are we just figuring out that this could be a problem now? Seriously, dude, I am an actual girl and from the moment my dad taught me to throw across my body, I've had a better arm that you've ever displayed. I know you're hurt and you play beat up and blah, blah, blah, I'm a hard worker-cakes, but perhaps if you STOPPED RUNNING INTO SHIT this would be less of a problem. You've got to suck it up now. Gabe's not going to be able to take any of the strain off your noodle-arm and despite the headaches you give us in the field, we need your bat. And speaking of headaches, look into a ponytail. No wonder you keep running into shit.

Edgar: Here, try this: *bangs head against wall* Lather, rinse, repeat.

Manuelito: I'm not sure who you think you're fooling with your disappearing outfielder act but we ARE going to notice if there's a $20 million hole in left field who becomes a black hole of suck at the plate. Dude, you are Manny Freakin' Ramirez. You do know this, right? You can't just...go away. This is not Colorado. We are paying attention. For the love of Teletubbies and gummy bears, start hitting the goddamn ball. Sheeet.

Trot: You know, you're pretty much okay. I don't have too many issues with you. Be nice if you'd finally learn how to hit a lefty from time to time but you're Trot Nixon, you're undoubtedly the guy who has many guns necessitating an entire rack. Therefore, who the hell am I to tell you what to do? Right. However, I'm going to request nicely that you stop giving grooming tips to Billy because he does just fine on his own and none of us needed to see the Buelly Fu Manchu. Stop making him watch wrestling, Trot. Please, for all of us.

Tek: You, young man, are walking a very, very thin line. I'm usually your biggest supporter, as it were, but even I can't take it when you SWING AT THE GODDAMN HIGH FASTBALL THAT YOU HAVE NEVER, EVER BEEN ABLE TO HIT ON YOUR THREE PLUS DECADES ON THIS PLANET AND YOU CONTINUALLY MAKE ROOKIE PITCHERS LOOK LIKE FUCKING CY YOUNG BECAUSE THEY THROW THAT SHIT TO YOU AND YOU CAN'T NOT SWING AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY STOP SWINGING AT THE UNHITTABLE HIGH FASTBALL THE END! Jesus. You can probably hear me yelling from my apartment which is less than a mile from Fenway. And I am not kidding, sir. One more time and I'm coming down there myself, waiting outside the players' entrance and lobbing high fastballs at your head until you learn not to fight them off. Christ. Learn some discipline, dammit.

Millar: Remember how last year you opened your stance or something and you were magically able to hit home runs and beat the hell out of the Coke bottles? Remember how fun that was? Yeah, me too. But the memories are fading, jackass, and if you wanted to refresh them a little, go right ahead. Oh, and about your defense. I realize that we're a little thin in the outfield with Gabe out but could you at least try to look like a semi-serviceable outfielder and not a three-legged elephant on rollerskates? This means calling for the ball. This means catching the damn ball when you call for it. This means not diving just for the bloody hell of it and having the ball land fifteen feet behind you. Goddamit, Kevin. Shag some flies, for cryin' out loud.

Buelly: Listen, you have two choices. Either fill in the mustache and make it a full-fledged goatee or shave the whole damn thing off. That's it. There's no middle ground. I have very little problems with your hitting right now since you and Papi are pretty much the only ones pulling your weight.

*waits for obligatory Papi/Buelly hug*

But the Fu Manchu has got to go. I don't care what Trot says. That dude attends Monster Truck rallies for fun. We are not listening to him for grooming habits. In fact, we're not listening to anyone on the team, especially not Millar. If he comes towards you with a bottle of hair dye and some rubber gloves, just run the fuck away. I'm serious.

Tony: God bless you, dude. I'll bet you didn't know you were getting thrown into the middle of this funhouse. And you've done well for yourself. Mostly, I want to tell you that things just get harder from here on out. This is Boston and everyone from the clubhouse boy to the hot dog vendor to the Jesus freak outside the park is batshit insane. It's gonna get you too. I hope you're ready for it. Prepare the bomb shelter now.

Keith: Sit down and be quiet. Until you can prove to me that you can throw a pitch that isn't bound for the Mass Pike, I don't want to hear a peep out of you. Listen, thanks for last year and all that. Really, well done. We're not going to forget that. But I'm far too frustrated with the bullpen right now to give you another free pass. Best we don't speak.

Mike: Frankly, I'm a little scared of you. But right now, I'm even more scared of your alarming tendency to give up home runs. How about we stop that right now and no one will get accidentally run over by a rusty pickup truck? Good plan?

To the rest of the bullpen Gashouse Gang: Suck it up, boys. The time to play is now. Stop dicking around with the fans in the bleachers and start pitching like your pants are on fire. I mean it. I am not afraid to come down there and pelt you all with rotten tomatoes. And if you throw them back to me, I'll launch them 502 feet. What I'm saying is you can't pitch, boys. Prove me wrong.

To the starting rotation: *slaps every member of starting five upside the head*
Consistency, gentleman. Consistency. And I mean of the "seven innings, three runs or less" kind not the "three innings, seven runs and hey, is Manny playing Power Rangers without me?" kind. Until further notice, you're all on the hook.

Now listen, I know what you all (or most of you) did last year. And I am continually grateful for that. Really. I mean it. But this is THIS YEAR. Last year doesn't matter. Let's ask Bill Belichick who knows a little something about defending titles:

Belichick: Last year doesn't matter.

See? The man knows his shit. As far as I'm concered, every member of The 25 should have a delicious marshmallow statue built in his honor. But this year doesn't care about last year. As far as this year is concerned, last year never happened. The time for giving out free passes based on last year's performance ended a while ago. We are hanging onto the division lead by a very thin thread, gentleman so I suggest you get your heads out of your asses and play like you fucking mean it. The time is now.

~Someone who gives a shit

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

"Okay, Papi, you gettin' tired of me yet?"*

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(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

"You know," Marianne said, after watching David Ortiz knock what would turn out to be his eleventy billionth game winning home run, "Someone should edit together all of Papi's walk-offs and game winners and set them to like, a badass gansta rap song."

"This is an excellent idea," I confirmed.

Annette, when informed of our plan, agreed. "Absolutely," she said, "I would buy that. In fact, I would buy several copies. For every member of my family."

After all, I can only assume that while drilling said home runs, from follow through to bat flourish, Ortiz has the refrain, "Damn, it feels good to be a gansta," running through his head. I mean, wouldn't you?

It wasn't all sunshine and puppies, though. Gabe Kapler, the Hebrew Hammer, the World's Most Perfectly Sculpted Jew, ruptured his Achilles tendon while rounding second on a Tony Graffanino home run and is most definitely out for the remainder of the season and the potential playoffs. Allow me, if you will, a moment to indulge myself with a primal scream of rage and anger:


*deep breath*


*deep breath*


On a scale of things that suck a momumental amount, this ranks just below "waking up to find your head covered in honey and superglued to an anthill," and just above, "mandatory 24-hour shirtless Rod Stewart marathon on VH1." In short, this blows. And it blows hard. It blows more than, as Sam would say, something Denny Naegle would pay.

Why Kapler? Of all people. Not that I wish harm or misfortune to any member of the Red Sox but damn, another Achilles injury? Didn't we just go through this? Some dude named Nomar? It's not that Kapler is of Ortiz-level importance, at least offensively, but I don't believe that his impact on this team's chemistry can be overstated. I'm a big believer in chemistry and it's importance in contributing to championship teams and I believe that Gabe Kapler was a huge part of last year's team and has continued to be a major part of this year's version. And yes, it's true, as David Wells said in his postgame interview, "at least he'll still be in the clubhouse." But there's a difference between cheering from the bench and tearing ass out onto the field your own self to fire up your teammates. We know Kapler can do both. It's just too bad that from here on out, he only gets to do one.

And while we're on it, screw Skydome, or whatever the hell it's called now. That place is a veritable house of horrors for the Sox, and I don't just mean their abysmal record there. First there was Bill Mueller's issues with the turf last year, then there was Johnny Damon's collision with the outfield scoreboard at the beginning of this season, and now this. Kapler rounds second, and goes down with a ruptured Achilles. Fucking turf. Baseball is played on grass, not plastic. I can't even begin to explain how mad this makes me. Evidently, there is speculation that he caught a seam in the carpet and went down. Or that the concrete underneath the turf had something to do with it. Hmmm, concrete. Yes, that seems like an excellent surface on which to play a game where players routinely fling their bodies with abandon. Good idea! Fuckers. Seriously, this is not Kevin Millar we're talking about who could trip while sitting down. This is Gabe Kapler, a gentleman usually in control of his faculties. Argh.

It's also upsetting because of all that Kapler's been through in the last season and a half or so. On the postgame show, Gary DiSarcina kept referring to Kapler's "escape from Japan," leading to speculation on mine and Marianne's part that he either tunneled under the entire country to freedom with the aid of nothing but a Hello Kitty spoon or rode the crest of a lava wave on a surfboard all Kurt Russell "Escape from L.A." style. "It's like there's a Gabe Kapler action cartoon or something," Marianne observed.

"Absolutely there is," I agreed.

Because if there's any Sox player worthy of an action figure, it's Gabe Kapler. Unless it's David Ortiz who, blasphemy be damned, is a fucking god.

*Tizzle on the postgame show to NESN's Eric Frede.


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(Toronto, I'm talking to you)

Okay, I'm not gonna talk about it. That up there *gestures upwards* pretty much sums it up. It's your choice as to who's on the business side of those firearms. Could be Edgah. Could be Foulke. Could be the Blue Jays. Could sure as hell be the Yankees and Jason "Hee-Haw" Giambi. Your choice. Me, I'm'a a pick the whole world of sports suck, such that it is. And I'm going to move on.

I don't usually like to put up a bunch of links and call it a day but it's come to my attention that there are some things that y'all need to see. For your own good. And rehashing last night's game is not going to do anyone any good.

First of all, Sports Pickle would like us all to know what it'd be like if Dale Sveum got his way.

Secondly, Sam clearly has nefarious designs on all of our retinas as she presents pictures of the Oakland A's hazing rituals. I'm still waiting for those bootleg pictures of Kevin Youkilis and Lenny Dinardo in Hooters uniforms to show up. But it's not all fun and games, kids. Remember, wearing cheerleader boots can save your life!

According to The Brushback, Ken Griffey, heretofore known as The Glass Outfielder, has apparently filled up his punch card and received a complimentary sugery. Well done, Junior!

TMQ. Read it. If you're not reading it, I'm afraid we can't be friends anymore.

Did we all see the shot of Deion Branch being hefted into the air by, I think, Logan Mankins during Thursday night's game? Branch appears completely weightless giving the nickname I have bestowed upon him, "'Lil Deion" even that much more, er, weight. As pointed out by Heather, I am reminded of the Bugs Bunny cartoon and feel this picture should be captioned as, "I'm going to love him and hug him and squeeze him! And call him George."

Speaking of football, the Panthers want a rematch. And a rematch they shall have. But Kris Jenkins is out for the year with a torn ACL which is a huge blow to Carolina's front four. Also, teal.

The freakin' Dugout. Never stops being funny. They continually outdo themselves and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why these guys are not my bestest friends ever. Seriously, do yourself a favor and just read every single one of them. But be sure to cover all surrounding surfaces with a layer of plastic if you insist on drinking anything while you read. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Skip Bayless from ESPN.com is picking the Colts to upset the Pats in the AFC championship game. *Yawn* What an original prediction! However did he come up with that? What amazing insight and research! Yeah, I don't much like Skip Bayless.

And finally, Emma has a post of such breathtaking lunacy and rupture-your-spleen-laughing hilarity that you just have to read it. Preferably many times. And if you don't find yourself with tears streaming down your face, unable to breathe from the laughter, well then, you're just not a good person.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Can't Watch...Must Watch...Can't Watch

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(This little dude is feeling my pain)

I did not watch this one. I couldn't do it. After what they put me through on Sunday, I needed to take a small break from all things Red Sox just to, I don't know, clear my head. Remember that there are other, more important things in life. Get a grip. Plus, there was football on.

I got home from work and went promptly to the laundromat since the small mountain of dirty clothes in my room was threatening to spill over onto the bed and suffocate me in my sleep.

"Gonna do laundry," I said to myself, "Gonna come home, eat dinner. Not watch the game."

"Are you watching the game tonight?" Colleen asked me.

"Football," I said, "There's football on at nine."

"You're not watching the Red Sox?"

"Can't do it tonight," I replied, "I kind of scared myself with how mad I was at them yesterday. I think I need a break."

Colleen eyed me warily as she has learned to do in a remarkably short time. "Probably not a bad idea."

I went to the laundromat. Marianne and I did laundry. I happened to look up at the clock at 7ish.

"Game time," I said, "Not that I'm watching."

"Me either," Marianne shrugged, "Can't do it tonight after yesterday."


I went home. I sat down to do some work. I turned on the ESPN Monday Night Football pregame show and saw there'd been some sort of kerfuffle, of "donneybrook" if you're Stuart Scott between the Falcons and the Eagles resulting in Jeremiah Trotter and Kevin Mathis being ejected from the game. At one point, both teams converged at mid-field, separated by a line of referees and began jumping up and down. It was eerily reminiscent of Michael Jackson's "Beat It" video. I was waiting for the ref to throw down a silver glove.

"The hell?" I wondered aloud.

Furious emails began to fly between Mer in Texas (and representative Philly fan), Sam in Michigan and Beth and myself here in Massachusetts as the new season of Four Chicks Talk Football kicked off. We all began to worry about Mer. Especially when, during the first quarter, Michael Vick showboated himself into the endzone to give Atlanta a 7-0 lead. "I think I just saw a mushroom cloud from Texas," Beth wrote.

I may also have checked the Sox score. You know, once. But I did not watch!

Football kept happening and the emails kept flying. Colleen, who has Warrick Dunn on her fantasy team walked past, "What's the score?" she asked me.

"Up 5-0 in the 7th," I said.

She looked at me strangely.

"Oh," I said sheepishly, "14-0 Atlanta. I'm not watching the Sox game."

"Uh huh, sure you're not."

And really, I wasn't. Good thing too. I may have checked the score again, you know, maybe, sometime during the 8th inning and squinted when the little Gameday box said 5-5. I may also have screamed, "Fuck!" causing Colleen to cower in her room in fear.

I may then have signed on to IM and demanded that Annette tell me that Keith Foulke did not just blow a 5-0 8th inning lead. "That was only 2/5 Foulke's fault," Annette told me. "The rest of the blame rests squarely on the shoulders of Mike 'It's not MY ERA' Timlin."

I may have screamed "Fuck!" again. Maybe.

At that point, I really did refuse to check the score again. I refused to flip channels lest the Sox end up on the business end of a walkoff. My coffee table cowered in fear.

"This one's going to extras!" Annette said.

"Oy," I responded.

All the while, I kept watching football. Annette and I discussed Mer's likely mental state and commiserated as we have been there before ourselves. Shortly before midnight, I read, "DAVID ORTIZZZZZZZZ!"

"Home run?" I asked, not daring to hope.

"YES!" Annette told me.

"Who's pitching? Still Papelbon?"

"YES!" Annette said, "And he has been nails. Nails, I tell you!"

A few minutes later, he nailed it down, so to speak.


"Thank Christ," I said, "I really, really don't think I could have taken an extra inning loss."

"Papelbon gets his first major league win! Three innings! One baserunner! No hits! NO HITS! And Ortiz!"

"How there is not a solid gold statue of that man in Government Center, I'll never know," I said.

"There will be," Annette responded, "And it will be twenty feet tall. And somehow, that won't seem tall enough."

"Gotta be fifty at least," I said, "Damn, David Ortiz. Just...damn."

So tonight, I might watch the game. You know, maybe. If I don't have anything else to do.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

"This is a...this is a fuck!"

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I'm pretty much incoherent with anger right now.

I'm trying to figure out exactly how much pounding my medium density partical board IKEA coffee table can take.

That did not just happen. It does not count. Because, you can't win if you don't play by the rules, and the inclusion of Giambi anywhere near a playing surface is pretty much the definition of "not playing by the rules." I would attempt to verbalize it right now but I am afraid there are not enough synomyns for the words "fuck," "cheater," "kicked in the gut" and "homicidal." So I won't. You all understand anyway.

*goes off to destroy coffee table, consume entire pan of taco dip, drink deeply of Oktoberfest and pillage a small Macedonian village*

Friday, September 09, 2005

The Rick Rampages

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(Soon, there will be hockey. Very soon.)

And away he goes!

As always, my comments are in italics.

Kudos to last night’s second base umpire, Larry Young, for supplying me with additional evidence that many Major League umpires are somewhat less than major league. Good god, what could he have been thinking in ringing up Orlando Cabrera for allegedly leaving second too early on Trot’s dive into the right field stands to catch a fly ball? The appeal play never works, and it shouldn’t have worked there. It wasn’t even close! You have to wonder why the Sox even tried the appeal? Maybe they knew something? (This is what comes from knowing thy enemy. Maybe it was a habit of Cabby’s to leave too early and they remembered it? Hell if I know.)

The conventional wisdom is that Manny will be gone after this season, which I tend to agree with. (Nooooo!) I’m not picking on him while he’s struggling, but, in spite of his immense batting talent, the guy brings a lot of liabilities, on and off the field that seem to really be apparent this year. So if he goes, who hits behind (or in front of) Big Papi? And don’t forget that Dan Duquette brought him here, and Theo has been saddled with that contract all the while. (I…can’t even think about this. We’re in a pennant race. Isn’t it too early to think about Next Year? Besides, you can’t break up the Dominican Duo. *cries* Let’s just move on.)

I’m mesmerized by Roger Federer, current #1 men’s tennis player in the world. Many, myself included, believe him to be the best ever. Last night he simply steamrolled a very good player in David Nalbandian in three straight sets. There is no one thing that stands out with Federer other than his shot-making is absurdly precise. He’s like a surgeon at work. You might want to catch him this weekend for a set as the US Open wraps up with men’s action Saturday and Sunday. (Wait, I’m covering tennis now? Good god, I’m never sleeping again, am I? But Federer? Hmmm, yes, I could get behind this.)

I fear that many of us won’t fully appreciate Bill Mueller until he’s gone. (Oh, we appreciate him. Do we ever. Just not in ways I’m going to readily share with my dad. But also, he’s hitting like eleventy billion with men in scoring position. We love the Buelly. LOVE him.) The Sox may cut him loose after this season as they make way for Youks. Not that he’s a slouch either. (True, but he ain’t no Buelly).

Hey Detroit, how come the Tigers are struggling so much? (I dunno. Sam? Thoughts?) They seem to have a pretty solid roster, and I know their pitching is growing up. Or maybe Alan Trammell is a meathead, as he demonstrated the night a few weeks ago against the Sox when he pulled a highly effective, low pitch count Nate Robertson without having a bona-fide closer?

I’m only going to say this once, but if The Boss cans either Joe Torre or Brian Cashman for any reason this winter it’s a big mistake…so let’s hope he does it. (Oh, yes please! And let’s hope the carnage is televised on ESPN. Maybe it will go something like this.) With all their injuries, especially to the pitching, and the variety of distractions, I believe this is the best job that either has done. (And don’t forget the steroids and the cheating. That’s helped too.)

Gotta love the Cleveland Indians (my fallback pick in the AL). They have completely dismantled and rebuilt the team into a contender in just a few short years. They seem to keep rolling out the kids who can get the job done. Ace Cliff Lee (yes, that Cliff Lee), is 15-4 with an ERA under 4.00. Indian fans become maniacal when the team starts winning as I’ve seen from my travels out there. Good for them. (Hey, if the freakin’ Bad News Bears can keep the Yankees out of the playoffs, I’ll roll out the red carpet for them myself.)

Randy Moss and the Raiders deserve each other. (*spits in the general direction of Oakland and its scary, insane fans*) That would also be a good place for TO, don’t you think? (And now, I feel the need to share with you a recent TO quote: “At the end of the day, I don't have to worry about what people think of me, whether they hate me or not. People hated on Jesus. They threw stones at him and tried to kill him, so how can I complain or worry about what people think?” Um, yeah.)

Hockey will soon be upon us, (!!!!!) and being one of those hard-core fans that they talk about, I’m excited about the Bruins chances this year. I like a lot of the acquisitions that the team has made, and the rules changes, especially the planned reduction in clutching and grabbing which should open things up for the likes of Joe Thornton. We’ll have to search the TV dial some to find NHL games on OLN, the Tour de France network! (Seriously, the hell? What the hell is wrong with you people that you’re not watching more hockey? It’s like football! On ice! With sharp things! And sticks! It’s so excellent!) Thankfully, the Bruins will be on NESN as usual.

Speaking of hockey, it looks like the Sporting News has dropped coverage of the NHL. (WHAT?!?) TSN has been my favorite sports mag for several years but recent format changes, the fact that they can rarely get it to my mailbox in time, and the dropping of hockey coverage will prompt me to drop TSN when my subscription runs out. (Me too. Seriously, they can devote a trillion and a half pages to NASCAR which no one I know gives two shits about and they’re going to drop hockey coverage? Just when hockey is coming back? I knew I got a Sports Illustrated subscription for a reason. *sighs in disgust*)

Dontrelle Willis is a great story this summer – a refreshing break from all the steroids talk. Let’s see how he holds up. (I want! Don’t tell me his wacky leg kick and crazy ass delivery – not to mention his apparently goofy demeanor – wouldn’t fit in perfectly on the Sox? You know him and Millar’d be pouding Jaeger shots in no time.)

These are my rants, let’s hear yours!

Sports Bigamy

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(photo from Boston.com)

If Tedy's smiling, you know things are gonna be all right.

I am a cheater. A two-timer. A flip flopper. I love two things equally and when they coincide, as they did last night, I find myself torn between two extremes. Summer breezes or winter blizzards? Extra points or extra bases? "Welcome to the Jungle" or "Dirty Water?" I develop such a split personality that I cannot focus on just one of my two loves. Marianne's friend Dave observed last night as I watched the Pats and checked the Sox score on Gameday, "Which one do you love more?"

"I don't," I said, "I'm an equal parts Pats and Sox girl."

"That ain't bad," he said.

"Not usually," I replied, "Because usually, the Pats are just starting up when the Sox are making me cry. So they're a good respite."

"But not this year," Dave said.

"No," I said, "Not this year. This year, things are different."

But, as we all know, the more things change, the more they stay the same.


Memo to John Madden, Al Michaels, et al:

Stop with the on-air Brady worshipping. It's going to make people hate him. If they don't already. And I want none of that.

K, thnx, bye.

Although I maintain that the only reason one can possibly hate Tom Brady is because they are not fortunate enough to have him on their team. Meaning, of course, that their scouts and GMs and coaches could not see the promise in a sixth round draft pick and instead went with bigger and alledgedly "better" guns in the draft. Shortsightedness comes back around to bite 'em in the ass, eh?

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I don't want to hear about how Tom Brady's the Derek Jeter of the NFL. I don't want to have to listen to people try to convince me, against all reason, that Brady's not that good and that he can't hold Manning's or, if we're being completely delusional, Roethlisberger's jock strap. I don't care how much people insult him. He's my guy. For real, he can be gay, sleeping with every available female in six states, a complete and total idiot, unable to read and/or kick puppies in his spare time and I'm gonna back the guy because he brought us the rings. And one thing I know for sure, Jeter never would have said hi to anyone named "Bubba" on national television. So there.

That said, all y'all Brady haters can just, well, go do whatever it is you do when you're not busy hatin' on a sixth round, three time championship winning quarterback. Eating babies and hating fun, I'd assume. You have fun with that. And as soon as Peyton steps on the field this weekend, you can rest assured that the talking heads will have moved on to the Manning glad handling. Again. Some more. So...neener!

*sticks out tongue*

Oh, the game? Oh yes, there was one of those, wasn't there? I get my dander all up when someone gets on my boys. The thing is, I can't get too overconfident with these guys. I've reminded myself time and time again that though we may win the big game, we only win it by a margin of three points (for real, check all the Super Bowl scores) so nothing is going to be a cakewalk. But, I mean, these were the
Raiders. Their fans dress up like they're attending a GWAR reunion show. Clearly, we are not scared of these freaks.

And, for the most part. We were not. Some early hiccups on the part of the newly formed and no doubt getting it's feet wet defense notwithstanding, we shored things up in the later goings, particularly in the third quarter when we allowed the Oakland offense less than 40 total yards.

I say "we" by the way, because I can't not. Because, like Tedy Bruschi on the sidelines, I'm ready to suit up, grab a helmet and get in there and start crackin' skulls.

Oh, speaking of Tedy:

Addendum to the memo to John Madden, Al Michaels, et al.

Unless you're Hines Ward, there is no crying in football. To that end, kindly do not narrate every Patriots third down defensive situation this year by saying, "This is when, normally, Tedy Bruschi would have made a great play," or "You know, this defense is really going to miss Bruschi."

We know. We are aware. We can see him on the sidelines in his little blue shirt with his blow dried hair. We do not need to be reminded that he is not playing. We also do not need to cry. This is football, dammit! And there's no crying in football.


I would also like to point out an observation from Jay during last night's game because it's a phenomenon worth drawing attention to. Why, he wondered, do so many quarterbacks have names befitting male soap opera stars? Think about it, there's a Trent, a Donovan, a Brett, a Kerry, a Byron, a Carson, a Daunte, a Chad and two Drews for crissakes. Surely this means something. What, I don't know. But something. Theories?

As for the Red Sox, because they also played last night, things didn't go down so well. I only saw up till the fifth inning or so because the boys in blue got all my attention after that seeing as how it's a brand new, shiny season for them. Perhaps the Sox missed me? It's possible considering that they could not rustle up more than a handful of hits against a guy that, if I remember correctly, they knocked the stuffing out of in last year's ALDS. He also spells his name in a kicky fashion, (Byrd? What's up with that?), and was therefore deserving of our torment. Alas, it was not to be.

However, it's not all doom and gloom in the baseball side of my brain (and the world) as the Yankees seem to have found themselves a real live nemesis in the Tampa Bay Devil Rays (*snerk*) as they dropped last night's game 7-4 and the season series 11 games (Tampa) to 5 (New York). They also dropped to a half game back in the AL Wild Card Race. And so, things remain...at stasis.

The more things change...

Of course, what this all means for the Sox is that no matter what happens this weekend during the showdown in the Bronx, including an improbable sweep by the Yankees, we'll still be in first place. Nevertheless, here's hoping we lay the smack down, but good and come out of that godforsaken place trailing tattered pinstriped uniforms and picking our teeth with the bones of second basemen past.

Bring it.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

And So It Begins

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(Mess with the Pats, mess with Butch. And me)

Seriously, y'all, what the
hell is wrong with Raiders fans? I mean, for real, there's got to be something clinical, right? They're batshit insane. And not like how Red Sox fans are crazy ('cause I know from crazy fans), but I'm really beginning to think there's some sort of chemical in the water in the Bay Area that renders them into drooling, snarling, sub-human barbarians.

How else do you explain the desire to do this to an unborn child?


I mean really, let's just take a little look see at your normal Pats fan vs. your normal Raiders fan, shall we?


Pats fans:

Raiders fans:

And again.

Pats fans:

Raiders fans:

And one more time, just to be clear.

Pats fans:

Raiders fans:

I think what we've demonstrated here through the use of visual aids is that Raiders fans clearly have some pretty major problems. Not the least of which is that they're pinning their hopes on Randy "So what if there's time left on the clock? I'm gotta get my Bentley detailed" Moss, Warren "The only thing bigger than my ass is my mouth" Sapp and Kerry "kicked aside for that punk, Eli" Collins. Yikes.

I hope only that the Pats can win in a well-fought game.

Okay, that's a lie, I want the Raiders pounded into the Gillette turf like so much fertilizer. I want Randy Moss waking up in a cold sweat, weeks from now, screaming about Rodney Harrison. I want the Oakland D getting ripped a new one by their "media" after Tom Brady picks them apart like wet tissue. I want blood! I want fury! I want vengeance! Ahem. And finally, I want them to stop whining about the godforsaken Tuck Rule. Or I'll punch out their remaining teeth with a Super Bowl ring.

Game on.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Manhugs and Mojo

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Let's say you're Garrett Anderson. And let's say you've agreed to be on the NESN postgame show after the second game of the Angels/Sox series. Let's say your team has just lost their second game in a row to the Sox and you're in danger of being swept tomorrow and you're not thrilled with the prospect of sitting between Gary DiSarcina and Tom Caron and making nice? What do you do?

If you
are actually Garrett Anderson (and if you are, you might want to take some BP instead of reading this blog 'cause a little hitting goes a long way), you are gracious and genuine and you make me like you. And so, thank you, Garrett Anderson. You can stay. So can your shirt which shows off your biceps to excellent effect. That can stay too.

So if the Angels lost, that obviously means the Sox won. It wouldn't be a potential playoff preview if there weren't some controversy and so we were given the "phantom third strike" call on David Ortiz which not only gave Papi another chance which eventually lead to the Sox erasing a 3 run deficit and turning it into a 4-3 lead which they would never reliquish, but it also got Mike Scioscia tossed out on his ear for arguing balls and strikes. Immediately after the call resulted in runs, I got the following email from Sebastian (bitter Yankee fan):

"Your call complaint privileges have been suspended for the duration of the year. This includes football."

To which I replied: "I don't want to hear it, Phantom Tag Man."


Me: "Say that 'champ' part again. ;-)"

Sebastian: "Shit."

I so totally win.

The rejuvenated Robo-Millar also belted another Monster shot home run, as Beth pointed out, almost as if he figured "What the hell?" Can this guy really turn it on and off like that? And if so, where the hell has he been? Did it just take the threat of completely losing his job to The Magic Helmet to light a fire under his ass? I seem to remember something similar happening last year when Mientkiewicz came aboard. Suddenly, Millar was hitting like someone who had
not spent the better part of his evenings mowing on Kentucky Fried Chicken extra crispy drumsticks and pouding down shots of Jim Beam. Maybe all it takes is the threat of losing his job. Or maybe, god forbid, it's the hair.

As for Bronson, I'm not entirely sure he realizes that you need to record three outs in ALL of the innings for the game to continue. Otherwise, the other team is just going to strike up a track meet and run around the bases all damn day. Seriously, Bro-Yo, snap out of it! The top of the first inning with two outs is not the time to start fantasizing about the new Pearl Jam bootleg you picked up at Nuggets or whether you should switch to the ceramic-barrelled flat iron. It is the time to bear down and pitch like your pants are on fire. Christ, why do you sometimes need to be reminded?

That said, admirable work from there on out. Eight innings from a starter is huge. I like how we're not even letting our bullpen play anymore.

We also got some nice plays from Little Alex Cora including some perfectly placed defense against Vladdy Guerrero to rob him of a base hit. Apropos of absolutely nothing, Cora's triple prompted me to shriek at the television, "Little Alex Cora! Some day you'll be a
real boy!" No, I don't know what's wrong with me either.

Also, there was dancing. And roof-raising. And possibly jumping around. By Remy and Don-O. And I swear to you, I thought I was on recreational drugs. It was stellar.

The Yankees, meanwhile, were busy sucking it up against the Devil Rays (yes, again) at The Toilet until the last possible moment when Jason Giambi (hereinafter referred to as simply "The Big Cheat") decided to launch a two-run job and snatch a well-deserved loss from the jaws of the poor Devil Rays. I'm sorry, I cannot discuss the Giambi situation rationally. If I have to hear one more Yankee fan explain to me that he just "found his swing" all of a sudden and I have to point out that he can't, you know, actually sit on the bench due to the syringe protruding from his ass...I might take a hostage.

*deep breath*

Anyway, in addition to offering up the finale of this exciting Angels/Sox series, tomorrow night also brings with it one of my favorite things ever, ever, ever, in the history of ever: Opening Night of the NFL Season! Raiders/Pats at 9 o'clock! We get to see the Patriots raise yet another championship banner (which never gets old, by the way), we get loads more replays of that excellent Troy Brown Dunkin' Donuts commercial ("I need more cumin!"), endless replays of the Tuck Rule (get over it, Oakland, I'm serious), and hopefully, we get to see Tommy and the boys knocking the stuffing out of the troglodytes from the Bay Area. Not to be all Rodney Harrison on you but my boys are already being disrespected.

From SportsDesk:

Reporter: What about their offense? Tom Brady?

Warren "How have I not learned to shut the fuck up yet?" Sapp: What about him?

Stick it to, 'em, boys. Take no prisoners.