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

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

"Clutch, thy name is Big Papi."*

(photo from Boston.com)

Dudes, c'mon, you know the song. Sing along with me:

"Boom, boom, boom! Lemme hear you say way-o! Way-O!"

We've sung this one many, many times before. Seemingly every time we need a walkoff hit with David Ortiz coming up. Tap the kegs and light the cigars, Papi's sendin' us all home happy.

Seriously, it's gotten to the point where you almost
KNOW it's going to happen. I mean, right? Which does not make it any less spectacular.

I had a conversation with Sebastian (Yankees fan) and Marianne (Orioles fan) this weekend about David Ortiz. My contention was that he was just a giant love-muffin who was undoubtedly a champion hugger who could also hit a piece too. "No," they assured me, "He's fucking terrifying."

"Really?" I said. "I mean, I know he can hit. But he's so smiley and huggy. Is he really scary or just scary good."

"Dude," Marianne said, "If you watch him from an opposing viewpoint, he'll make you wet yourself."

"Huh," I said, "I just kind of want to hug him forever."

"He makes me cry," Sebastian said, "He's so fucking scary."

I suppose, after watching his walk-off against Shields, followed by his little bat flip and what Annette calls the "murderous lust" in his eyes, I'm starting to see their point. I'm just glad I get to watch him from this side.

And let's not forget - because he sure as hell isn't going to remind us - about Tim Wakefield. Timmy always looks much the same, vaguely annoyed, perhaps because he shares a clubhouse with a bunch of guys with the maturity of your average pre-schooler, and a bit put upon, but always accepting, as if he realizes that this is his lot in life. And he will do his best.

And did he ever.

A complete game. The second one in the past three days by Red Sox starters, it should be noted, takes a huge toll off our hurting bullpen. The impact of watching a starter go a full nine and hold the other team to a measly two runs cannot be overstated.

(Also, as I type this, Derek Jeter has just grounded into a double play to end the game against Tampa Bay. Mariano Rivera allowed the go-ahead run in the top of the 9th. When I informed Marianne of Jeter's antics, she replied, "How's
that for some clutch hitting?" "Fuck that," I replied, "Tizzle is all, 'Bitch, I show you clutch.'")

As Sam Horn would say, "KA-POW!"

How are we still here, I wonder? How? With the hurting of the pitching and the occasionally cringe-inducing defense and the absence of an ace and the "What the fuck is Kevin Millar doing playing first with the Magic Helmet on the bench?" And still we are in first place. By four games. Damn...it really does feel good to be a gansta.

Sit back, strap in, and enjoy the ride, kids. It's gonna be a bumpy one. Hold onto your butts. But be secure in the knowledge that David Ortiz's pimp hand is strong.

*Tom Caron opening WB Mason's Extra Innings