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

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

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.