The Power of Positive Thinking

So we decided to try something new last night. Rather than the usual, "Remember how we said we weren't going to be sucking here, boys? Remember that? You must have heard wrong because what you appear to being doing is the exact opposite of that and SUCKING MIGHTILY!" that we usually throw at the Red Sox when faced with mediocrity, Marianne suggested that perhaps they just needed some positive reinforcement.

She reminded me of how well that had worked for Mark Loretta on Patriots Day when we offered him a shiny, green beetle if he would somehow get on base and let Papi have a shot at winning the game for us. Turns out, Mark really wanted a whole ant farm so he sent a walk-off over the Monster. Hey, beggars can't be choosers.

So it happened that last night, down 6-5 in the top of the ninth inning, we started getting positive with our cheering. Trot Nixon, up with the bases loaded, was the first recipient of our good vibes.

"Trotter," Marianne said, lovingly, "If you somehow tie this game, I will see to it that you get your own personal keg of Lonestar Light. And unlimited barbecue ribs for a week." Trot, cleary, liking the deal, drew a bases loaded walk to tie the game.

Then it was Varitek's turn and God (and myself) love him, but we know the man doesn't exactly have the best track record in bases loaded situations. "Weak pop to short," I predicted.

"Now, let's be positive," Marianne countered. You know Tek best, what does he want?"

"Jason," I said, staring intently at the television screen, "If you managed to get an RBI here, I will get you every season of This Old House with Bob Villa on DVD." Tek swung at a fastball out of the zone, missing it by a foot. "And Supercuts gift certificates for life." I added. He swung and missed at another pitch.

"It's not working," Marianne countered, "He needs something else."

"Beef jerky!" I blurted out, "Or Slim Jims. Do something good here and you can snap into as many Slim Jims as you like." Tek evidently liked this idea as he laced a ball through the hole on the right side of the infield, scoring the go-ahead run. I got so excited, I therw in a bonus, "And a fancy, new pair of pleated khakis for you too!"

Next, it was Mike Lowell's turn. "A lifetime supply of Just For Men!" I blurted out, resulting in a sacrifice fly.

Up came Wily Mo. Now, Wily Mo hasn't been around for long. It's hard to know what the newbies want in Imaginary Baseball World as we haven't really had long enough to get to know them. But we do know that Wily Mo likes to hang out with David Ortiz.

"Wily Mo," Marianne coached him, "If you get a hit, you can borrow Papi's harem and entourage for one day. And you can sit next to him in the chauffered Escalade."

"And you'll get your own bottle of Hennessey at the postgame spread," I added.

Wily Mo obliged with a single to center, scoring Trot.

"You know," I said, "I'm starting to get a wee bit frightened of our mental powers here. It's possible that we've just tapped into the key to winning baseball games. It's all about positive reinforcement."

"Or it's possible that the Devil Rays' bullpen just really sucks," Marianne said.

"True," I answered. "Plus, it's kind of unlikely that this whole 'think positive' thing is gonna catch on in Boston."

"Well some of them just need tough love," Marianne added, "Like Damon did."

"Or like Foulke," I said.

"Exactly. Who's up now?"

"Um...Gonzalez."

"What the hell are we supposed to do with this guy?"

We stared at the television for a moment, long enough to see Gonzalez fly out to end the inning.

"Well," I shrugged, "No use in getting greedy."

"Indeed," Marianne agreed.

"Now," I said, "Here's the real question: with Papelbon, do we offer him something so he'll do well or do we just not look directly at him and allow him to go about his business?"

"I'm thinking we don't mention his name again and look at the television in about four minutes."

"Good plan."

And so we talked about tangentially related baseball things for a few minutes, drank some beer and, when we finally allowed ourselves to look at the TV, Papelbon had struck out the side, securing the win for the Sox.

"The thing about that guy is...I don't even know," I said, at a loss for words.

"Word," Marianne replied.

So clearly, last night all the Sox needed was for someone to believe in them. I'd like to say that the era of good feelings, puppies and rainbows will carry over into today's game but the D-Rays are countering Schilling with Kazmir. The least I can hope for is a good brawl.

However, I would like to tempt Kevin Youkilis by saying that if he does something particularly excellent, resulting in multiple runs, I'll have a talk with Coco about letting Kevin "The Big K.Y." have a guest spot on Coco's next rap album. Think about it, Youks.

A Definition

(photo from Boston.com)

Def: clusterfuck (noun), That.

Um, yeah.

Wow.

You All Remember Manny Ramirez

2004 World Series MVP Manny Ramirez? Surely you haven't forgotten him.

So we're walking David Ortiz to pitch to Manny now?

Yeah, good plan.

Manny's got only one thing to say to that.

"Bitch, please."

Am I the only one who doesn't want to look directly at Jonathan Papelbon, lest the spell be broken? He closes out last night's game and I remarked to Amy, "Jesus, where did he come from?"

"His little stool in heaven," she replied.

As Curt would say, Amen.

No Canada

(photo from Boston.com)

Dear Jason Varitek,

Why are you bunting?

Love, The World.

Okay, so, to review:

I knew we were losing Friday night's game. I just had a feeling. Admittedly, they went and dragged it out and made it awesomely unawesome and especially painful which, in turn, made me very glad that I'd ordered the nachos at Coolidge Corner Clubhouse to drown my sorrows in (and memo to CCC: That's a "half order?" Are you effing kidding me? Look into portion control. Good god). Anyway. So the game? Not good. 'Course I thought we were going to get to blame Keith Foulke and we'd all have to embark on the latest installment of the "Can someone kneecap Keith Foulke" diatribe but I forgot that Rudy Seanez is on the team. Had I remembered, I obviously would have seen it coming.

And then, you know, Saturday. Blah. Ew. I'm thinking one of two things: Either Lenny Dinardo is trying to stick it to Theo for trading Bronson and breaking up the band or he's working on his varying succession of catalogue model looks and he figures that "anguish" should be among his repertoire. Either way, homeboy ain't pretty enough to suck that badly. I'd keep working on the Blue Steel look or finding out where the local auditions for the next season of Rock Star are being held if he knows what's good for him.

Y'all want Youkilis to do something impressive really soon. Trust me, I've got a Thug Life: Kevin Youkilis post all ready, just waiting to be deployed.

As for yesterday: that was better. Not perfect but better. And I will take it. I was, of course, fully prepared to blame Kevin Youkilis had it all gone to shit for our boy Papelbon. Because, have you heard? The Rick Vaughn hair was Youkilis's idea. And Papelbon WON the bet. Dear god, imagine what he'd have had to do if he'd lost. Mostly, I think Youks is just relishing having a rookie to pick on. Because there is no more perfect word for Kevin Youkilis than "goober." And he's sick of it.

I'm obsessed with that song "Pretty Vegas" by INXS. This has nothing to do with anything but you all might need this information when I finally break with reality and am carted off to the asylum muttering about "thumbing your way to Vegas."

David Ortiz is an android. Rumors of Manny's demise were premature at best. Jason Varitek *hearts* the Medoza line (sigh). Gregg Zaun can suck it.

I'm just glad to get the hell out of Canada.

Off day today. Back at it tomorrow with Big Schill on the hill.

He Was a Nice Guy, Kept to Himself...

(photo from Boston.com)

Tim Wakefield is way too nice a guy to put up with this bullshit. "This bullshit" meaning, of course, "no run support." It's likely he also puts up with whatever other crap this team throws at him with a good-natured eye roll and a shake of the head. The hot foot, the Ben Gay in the jock strap, the inexplicable tendency for Manny to refer to him as "Sparky." It's likely Wake just shrugs it all off.

But now we're taking advantage of his good nature. We're trading away his personal catcher. We're signing him to a lifetime deal so we can have him ready whenever we want him. We're probably sticking him with the KFC bill when Kevin Millar is in town. And we're flat out refusing to score runs for him.

Come on, guys. This isn't nice. It's not right to take advantage of the good guys. The guys who'll pitch nine innings and TAKE A LOSS without so much as wishing out loud that their teammates had managed to scrape together just two runs. And I'll tell you what else. It's also not safe. Because the nice ones are the ones with the greatest chance of snapping.

How many times have you heard the phrase, "He was such a nice, quiet guy. Kept to himself. Didn't cause any trouble," about the recently discovered serial killer with fifteen severed heads in his freezer? I'm just sayin', Postal Workers were nice too before they started getting all "disgruntled."

The man hunts with Mike Timlin.

Here's the deal: maybe we should stop testing him. Because I do believe that Tim Wakefield will cut a bitch.

And They Say That A Hero Can Save Us

Things that have given me pause over the last 24 hours:

The current heroes of the Red Sox are named Kevin Youkilis and Adam Stern. Hmmm...

America's fascination with Kellie goddamn Pickler. (HATE.)

Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes "had" their "baby" and named "her" Suri.

No, for real, Kevin Youkilis. That one.

The fact that I've suddenly realized that Adam Stern might not be unattractive. I'm sure this correlates to his performance on the field. See also: Loretta, Mark.

It's only April and, as Red pointed out, heart attacks will likely be the norm this year.

Yes, THAT Kevin Youkilis.

We have a...closer? Who can...close?

The big, spendy, shiny new free agent Blue Jays and (snerk) Yankees are duking it out for fourth place in the AL East. At present, it's the Yankees looking up at everyone else. Yes, even Tampa Bay. Spare me the "It's only April" business. One must get one's digs in when one can.

Matt Clement pitched better than Randy Johnson.

Seriously, America. Kellie Pickler is what's wrong with this country. Y'all deserve that horseshit if you're gonna be that stupid.

My 85-year-old grandmother, possibly the world's only Devil Rays fan, has taken to emailing me to trash talk about the series. My grandmother. Is trash talking. About baseball.

Curt Schilling goes for win number four on the season tonight. Already.

Adam Stern appears to be, "The Man."

Clearly, we are in the End Times.

And From Now On, He Shall Be Called "Mahky Mahk"

Welcome to Boston, dear sir.

I do believe Mr. Mark Loretta has earned himself a nickname. I would like to put "Mahky" on the table since it takes a feat of such wonderment and aplomb to get yourself a nickname in Boston. And I'd say a walk-off home run on Patriots Day, when most of the Massachusetts-employed folks were sitting with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, counts. I especially loved the fact that nearly everyone - and don't lie, you did it too - ignored the fact that Loretta was at bat and saw only that Papi was on deck. And we all said, either out loud or to ourselves, "Mark, just get on base. Do like Youks did. Hustle your ass off and get on base so Papi can do what he does." For the walk off is Ortiz's game. That's his bread and butter. But in a game where he'd already hit two homers - both to tie the game at different points - and narrowly missed a third (goddamn Ichiro), how much more can we really ask of the guy? Luckily, thanks to Mark Loretta, we didn't have to.

Marianne and I, in a moment of pure Imaginary Baseball World brilliance, realized that Mark Loretta is clearly an amatuer entymologist. Look at him, he just looks like a guy who spends his off days carefully pinning the wings of butterflies to display boards and painstakingly cataloguing the difference between an African and an Asian dung beetle. (Note: I don't even know if African or Asian dung beetles actually exist. Sam?). And so, in order to inspire him to get on base and let Papi do his thing - or so we thought - we promised him a shiny, new, green beetle. Clearly, he thought this was a good tradeoff. I'm just sayin', the Imaginary Baseball World power cannot be denied, y'all.

Oh, and for those of you who were concerned, when Remy said, "Looks like Varitek might be limping a bit there," I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, pulled the drawstring closed so that I could not see or breathe, and proceeded to whimper while lying on the floor in the fetal position for a good five minutes. There were witnesses, most of whom did not find this behavior curious. However, there were a few unfamiliar with my baseball sensibilities who clearly thought I was having my much-anticipated break with reality. It'll happen eventually, I've no doubt. Just not today. It was not to be. And thank goodness for that.

I would also be remiss if I did not thank my readers who stood up for me during the whole plagiarism fiasco. Looks like it's been taken care of. I guess imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but, call my crazy but if I come up with a stupid joke about Jake Plummer's Boogie Nights mullet, I want it attributed to me. So thanks, kids. You guys are truly the best.

Hey, did y'all hear there was some kind of road race today?

Guess I've Really Hit the Big Time Now

I'm being plagiarized. No, for real. Beth brought to my attention that an extremely uncreative and, I'm guessing bored blogger has been ripping off posts wholesale from this blog, Cursed to First and Chicks Talk Football.

Way to make a name for yourself.

I'm not entirely sure what the correct course of action is here but for the time being, I shall leave it to my loyal readers to unleash hell.

Goose Egg

Papi ain't happy, y'all.

So, David Wells is on the DL. Show of hands of who's surprised?

*hands firmly planted at sides*

Yeah, that's what I thought. But the way I figure it, better he annoys us on the DL where he won't have the opportunity to fuck up games in progress. I mean, short of him getting drunk, stumbling out of the dugout and reenacting the toga party scene from Animal House in center field. Which, you know, when we're talking about David Wells, is an ever-present concern.

However, kinda wishing we still had the Goldilocked wonder around as a solution to this mess. Hell, the guy can even pinch hit for Manny in pressure situations. Instead, it looks like we'll be turning to Lenny "if this baseball thing doesn't work out, I am sooooo starting an alt rock band" Dinardo. Somewhere in Pawtucket, Manny Delcarmen and John Lester are shooting dirty looks Bostonward.

Now let's talk about Manny for a second. I maintain that it's still too early to start clutching our pearls and tearing at our hair all, "Why can't Manny hit? Whywhywhywhy?!?" It's still early. Calm down, y'all. That said, perhaps some new mojo is warranted. Maybe he needs to not look like he's, in the words of Marianne, "auditioning to replace the third member of TLC." Personally, I think he's looking a little Earth, Wind and Fire but either way, it's doing him no favors. Or maybe it's the pants. Instead of messing with the high socks/low socks combo as he did within one game last Wednesday, he should just find a style and stick with it. I recommend high socks. High socks never did anyone wrong.

As for yesterday's game, well... You've got a lineup prominently featuring Adam Stern, Alex Cora, Alex Gonzalez and Josh Bard. Not exactly a modern day Murderer's Row there. I imagine even the normally questionable Joel Piniero looked at that and went, "Pshaw, okay." It still seems marginally unfair that perennial good guy Tim Wakefield is stuck pitching in front of the B team but you also know that if there's one guy who's not gonna complain about it, it's Tim Wakefield.

So today we've got Josh "Fat Head" Beckett (he does better when I give tough love) going against Jarrod "One pitch and David Ortiz'll send y'all home happy" Washburn. My money's on the guy who's head looks like an Easter egg.

Home Is Where The Heat Is

(photo from Boston.com)

Okay, so we're officially living in Bizarro World. Youks is turning in Web Gems, Lowell is a doubles machine, the Sox are able to overcome a shaky first inning and Papi is going deep. Right, so that last one isn't all that new. Nevertheless, the Sox winning their home opener is. At least it seems that way.

Remember when Pedro always got the Opening Day start? But Opening Day has a way of falling in April so it was always about twelve degrees around game time and the powers that be wouldn't let Petey take the mound in a North Face snowsuit? As a result, he'd let up twelve runs over the first two innings to the likes of the Orioles or the Blue Jays and by the time the Sox started to chip away at things, shadows were growing long and the game was out of hand. Yeah, I remember that too.

Seems times have changed.

Now it's still early. But, to quoth the immortal Neil Diamond, "good times never seemed so good." Despite the sudden absense of Coco "Jet Pack" Crisp (this is why we can't have nice things!), this team is looking good. Lowell has turned on the retro-jets and started hitting like it's 1999 and Papi, fresh off a contract extension, continues to solidify his status as God of New England. Even Youks and Adam freakin' Stern are getting in on the action.

And Beckett, well, here's the thing about Beckett: I am worried about piling on the praise now because we've all seen the Sure Things come on strong and then flame out in a giant ball of suck towards the end. We've all seen starters go from throwing gas to barely generating enough energy to power an Easy Bake Oven. And we know Beckett's history. So I'm being cautious. But it's a cautious optimism. Because I do believe in this kid (he's barely five months older than me so I'm allowed to call him a kid). And I do think that with Schilling mentoring him, only good things can happen. According to Mike Lowell, "He wanted to destroy the dugout after that first inning." Now that's the kind of fire I like in my flamethrowers.

As for Papi, the front office clearly knows what's good for them as my "Extend Ortiz's Contract" hunger strike was about to get serious. And I really don't think they wanted that kind of negative PR on their hands. Ortiz, because he is an excellent human being is, "pretty sure the fans will think this is a good thing." Understatement of the century, right there. You know what? I don't even know what they paid him. And I don't care. I assume the keys to the State House, a personal bling polisher, and a lackey to scatter rose petals at his feet wherever he goes were part of the deal. I'm equally certain they wouldn't have trouble finding volunteers to fulfill these requests. Honestly, how long before they just gold-plate the Prudential Center, give it some bling and rename it the David Ortiz Palace? It's gotta happen soon, right?

Now...lemme tell you something about Wily Mo. That boy ever gets ahold of one, and it ain't never coming down. Remember that home run that Albert Pujols hit off Brad Lidge in last year's playoffs? Remember how the Mars rover just found it? Yeah, it'll be like that. Might break a few windows on the Papi Palace is what I'm saying. Because homeboy is strong. Just you wait.

And finally, Jon(athan) Papelbon. Dude's a rock star. Like a have-no-mercy, balls-to-the-wall, all-or-nothing rock star. All I can say is I'm sure glad he's on our team.

Wells takes the hill tonight to do his best to kill our collective buzz. Game time's at 7:05. Be there.

No Brick Walls Ever!

Okay, new rule: Jason Varitek is not allowed to run headlong into any walls, brick or otherwise. Ever. Ever again. The fifth game of the season is entirely too early to be having heart palpitations and flashbacks to 2001 and the whole "broken elbow on the on-deck circle" thing.

So I'm hereby declaring that all parks with walls made of brick, (Camden Yards and Wrigley: this means you) are to be wrapped in bubble wrap or syrofoam packing peanuts before any Red Sox games. Failing that, Varitek is FORBIDDEN from running towards any walls. Let Youkilis do it. That's apparently what he's here for.

As you were.

Great Balls of Fire

(photo from Boston.com)

The weird thing about Wednesday night’s game (yes, it’s Friday. I know I’m late. Many apologies), is that as I’m watching the first inning while puttering around my apartment, killing time online and just generally multi-tasking away, I thought things were getting completely out of hand. I thought Josh Beckett was biting the big one and I was nearly overcome with a desire to smack him upside his big, fat head. Seriously, the boy’s got a melon there. I might have called it a “clusterfuck” at one point. And then, you know, sense kicked in and I realized that 1-0 wasn’t exactly an insurmountable lead. Especially with a dude named “Kameron” with a “K” pitching for the other team. Especially when Trot got to him. Because, you see, Trotter was angry. And you do not make Trotter angry.

But it was one of those games that I didn’t really fully realize the sheer awesomeness of until it was over. At which point I went, “Wait, did Beckett go 7? Really? And was that Papelbon out there? Kicking ass and taking names? Where the shit is Foulke? Oh, right, Tito wanted to win this one and spare Foulke’s neighbors the smell of rotten eggs for another few days.”

I suppose I was just thrown off because Remy kept talking about how Beckett was shaking off Tek. Finally saying, “We have agreement on a fastball down and away.” Because you don’t shake off Tek. You just don’t do it. In baseball’s version of a Jim Croce song where you don’t spit into the wind or pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, I’m pretty sure there’s an extra verse that explains that you don’t pitch inside to Big Papi, you don’t leave Manny alone with airplane glue and you don’t shake off Tek. It’s just not done. Greater men than Josh Beckett have tried and greater men have failed. Tek knows best.

Jonathan Papelbon, Stud Pitcher Extraordinaire. Mark it down.

As for Schilling, dude looks like a kid on Christmas morning who realized that he’s just gotten the Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em robots that he wanted. Finally, after acquiring endless playmates for Manny and sidekicks for Ortiz, they’ve gone and gotten Schilling a playmate. This is gonna be fun.

So now we gear up for Sox/Orioles. Kevin Millar…you remember Millar, don’t you? He of the errant facial hair, ill-advised sartorial attempts at dressing up like Tom Brady and varying degrees of cowboy-ness, has promised to tackle Curt Schilling if Big Schill hits him with a pitch this weekend. I cannot possibly be alone in praying fervently for this to happen, can I? Of course, with Millar involved, you know he’d collapse into a fit of hysterical giggles halfway to the mound and have to be carted out on a stretcher after pulling a muscle from laughing too hard.

Oh, and looks like Pedro’s up to some hijinks of his own. Guillen/Martinez ’06 Blood Feud is rather interesting.

Dazed and Confused

(photo from Boston.com)

Dear Boston Red Sox: (oh, yes, it's letter writin' time already),

Ha ha, funny joke, guys. No, really, that's a good one. We get it and it's hilarious and all but uh, the thing is, when can we expect Doug Mirabelli to return to the Red Sox in his role as Tim Wakefield's personal catcher, security blanket and binky? Because, uh, last night? Not so pretty.

No, really, good joke. You had us going there. But, really, any day now would be great. Any day at all. We'll be waiting.

Sincerely,
The Undersigned

Tim Wakefield's psyche
My brother
Josh Bard's knees
Jason Varitek's temperment
Red Sox Nation

PS. This is a joke, right? Guys? Guys?

Off to the Races

Well if that’s how things are gonna be, sign me up.

I am fairly certain that David Ortiz is not human. I mean, how can he be? He’s like the world’s most terrifying, and yet loveable teddy bear. Like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man with a bat. And an attitude. He just destroys people. He doesn’t bend them, he doesn’t break them. He steals their souls and leaves them sobbing and gasping for air. But he does it all with a smile. Because that’s how Big Papi rolls, y’all. I’m gonna have to agree with Red that the man should have his own theme music. Possibly the theme song from the Greatest American Hero. Suggestions?

And let’s not forget about my boy Tek. While I maintain that Opening Day was a bit too early for the all too familiar “Varitek up with two outs and the bases loaded” shenanigans, a ground out is better than, quoth Marianne, “the latest installment of ‘High Fastball Swining: The Jason Varitek Story’.” I do believe old Thighs of Freedom may have even laid off a high fastball or two. Will wonders never cease? And that two RBI double was nothing to scoff at. Getting the offense started, now that’s what I like to see.

To say nothing of Schilling and the fact that, say what you will about the man, but he views every game as the World Series. Apparently he lobbied Tito to come back out in the seventh. Of course he did. While I’m a wee bit concerned about the whole, “I’m staying in,” “No you’re not,” “Yes I am,” “Okey doke,” aspect of the whole thing, I do trust Tito. So I think it’ll be okay. While it remains to be seen if Schilling will continue to pitch as he did yesterday, it’s certainly a good start. And I, for one, will take it.

I do not want to talk about Keith Foulke. Maybe ever.

And what about Coco? This guy? We’re gonna love this guy. I just have me a feeling.

One game is not enough to predict anything. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that overreacting, while a Red Sox fan’s birthright, isn’t necessarily the most healthy course of action. And so, I shall reign it in and stick by my original prediction that, something tells me, 2006 is gonna be a fun year.

Oh, and am I the only one who doesn’t want Roger Clemens back in a Red Sox uniform? I can’t be, right?

Spring Begins Anew

These kids have the right idea.

It's Red Sox Opening Day, y'all. Where we all turn into excited 7-year-olds with our first glove.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I spent a few hours on Saturday prepping for the season by fielding grounders, catching pop-ups and hitting flies with some friends. (My body is not happy about it but I'm going to pretend that's just winter dust and has nothing to do with the fact that I'm old). I also read Sports Illustrated's predictions and breakdowns for this season and learned, among other things, that our dear Coco Crisp is a rapper on his own label and an aspiring reality television show producer. How, exactly, did we not know these things before? That is unspeakably awesome.

So today at 2:00, the Coco Crisp Era begins in Boston. I see myself feeling a little feverish long about 1:45. How about you? First pitch of the 2006 Red Sox season is at 2pm. Be there. Tek wants you to. You gonna say no to Tek?