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."
He shot back: "DURATION OF THE YEAR, CHAMP!"
Me: "Say that 'champ' part again. ;-)"
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.
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.
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.