Some Yelling and Coco's Phat Beatz

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

OH LOOK IT IS TWO GIRLS WHO APPEAR TO BE THROWING BETTER THAN MATT CLEMENT AND JOSH BECKETT WHO ARE, IN POINT OF FACT, ACTUAL MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL PLAYERS HMMMM THAT IS INTERESTING.

Look what you did? You made me yell.

Sigh. Listen, boys. I don't like to have to resort to the "throws like a girl" insults for three reasons: 1) I am a girl. And I can actually throw, 2) I tend to reserve such truths for insulting Johnny Damon, and 3) it's weak, easy and obvious. MUCH LIKE THE WAY YOU HAVE BEEN PITCHING.

Ahem.

I hate it when you make me mad at you. I hate it when you refuse to sack up against the freakin' Blue Jays in their electric blue stadium with ushers that shush you. I hate it when you get outpitched by some dude who wears sunglasses inside at night and has a cologne named after him. No, I am not kidding. I imagine it smells like AstroTurf and maple leaves.

Joshua Patrick Beckett (oh that's right, I'm full naming your sorry ass), what the HELL was that? What, you think with the conversion factor or something that home runs don't travel as far in Canada? I have news for you, Fat Head. THAT IS NOT THE CASE. Not the case at all. You know who could have told you that? Jason Varitek. Don't be shaking him off. Curt'll tell you, that is UNWISE BEHAVIOR, SIR.

And as for you, Matthew Paul Clement, I have just about had it with you. I have very nearly reached my limit. Because you, sir, are wearing on my last nerve. I spent a good, long while defending you and finding amusement in your barnicle-like attachment to Varitek but if you don't stop looking like you're being tortured with bamboo shoots when you're out there on the mound and if you don't dispense immediately with the "I'm gonna hurl" face every time you throw a pitch...well, there will be hell to pay. You're a major league pitcher. You're an All-Star. You're a 32-year-old man. Sack up and start pitching like it.

This is what we call "tough love," boys and don't think I'm afraid to lay it on thick.

I trust we will not have any further problems.

Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, I would like to share with you what we've taken to calling "iTunes Mojo." It works like this: Player A comes to bat, you select a song from iTunes that you think Player A would appreciate based on things you either know, or, in our case, have completely made up about said player. If Player A gets a hit, walks or does something else beneficial to the team, the song stays and becomes their music until they decide they don't like it anymore.

By this method, we have deduced that, as previously stated, Alex Gonzalez LOVES Nickelback (much to Marianne's chagrin), David Ortiz gets down to the Notorious BIG's "Big Papa" (come on, no shit), Mike Lowell performs well to the sounds of The Clash's "London Calling," and Youkilis digs The Offspring's "Pretty Fly for a White Guy."

Those were the easy ones. Some of the other players were a bit tougher to nail down, as it were.

After trying "Puff the Magic Dragon" (both Peter, Paul and Mary and some weirdass Punk/Ska versions) for Manny, we finally settled on Bob Marley's "Smoke Two Joints," because, come on, it's pretty obvious. Though I suppose this would be even more applicable were Mark Bellhorn still on the team.

Coco likes to get down to his own phat beatz, namely a tune called "We Got That Thing." And no, I'm not kidding. It can be found on the internet if you look hard enough. Trust me, it's worth it. 'Specially the part about "sacrifice bunts."

Mark Loretta is proving difficult. At first, we figured he'd enjoy The Scoripions "Rock You Like a Hurricane" because of the whole etymology thing. But he promptly grounded into a double play when we tried that. On deck is something by the Beatles (provided we can come up with the right song) or U2's "The Fly." Give us credit for sticking with a theme.

We are still trying to figure out what makes Jason Varitek happy as we have concluded that it's neither Fleetwood Mac nor Journey. (Which is going to be a problem in our relationship, actually because I, personally, love Journey with near reckless abandon. Shut up, don't judge me. You love Journey too.) We are running out of options here.

Alex Cora does not like Gloria Estefan. The rhythm never quite got him. And I refuse to download any of that Marc Anthony/Enrique Iglesias bullshit. So that one is up for discussion. Of course, so is the fact that Alex Cora has any business being on a baseball field to begin with but...I'm not the manager.

Trotter, turns out, can't really get into his hitting rhythm to Tim McGraw and country music generally makes me shudder so I'm thinking we'll pull a 180 and try some Black Sabbath or Judas Priest.

And Dougie, if he ever gets to bat again, is getting some Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." But you probably could have guessed that one.

Look, when the team isn't doing well, you have to do something to entertain yourself. This is what we came up with. Just be glad it hasn't yet devolved into a drinking game. Notice I said, "yet."

So, who did we miss? The rest is open for discussion and suggestion. Also, do we think that Tek is secretly a Carpenter's fan? Please say no. We're really going to have to talk about his mental block regarding Journey. Don't stop believing...

Despite What His At-Bat Music Says...

...he cannot always be Superman.

Apologies in advance for the lack of updates this week. I'm headed to Baltimore on Thursday night with Amy, Annette and Marianne and likely won't have time to post overly much this week. I promise only to drink enough beer for all of you.

Soon, I hope to get to this past weekend's series including Friday night's "itunes mojo" and Sunday afternoon's "The Rick is always right" debacle.

Until then...work!

Talk amongst yourselves.

Two Games for the Price of One

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Okay, look. I could lie and tell you that I didn't write about Wednesday night's game because I was under strict legal instructions not to divulge any information about what went down in the bleachers and also not to share that at some point about midway through the game, it appears that Fenway Park Security evicted nearly half of the Dunkin' Dugout. I suspect that's not good PR. But the real reason I didn't write about it was because I thought it would be a way better idea to let my SUPREME IRRITATION at Matt Clement cool by watching my taped Idol finale, fast forwarding through the horror of Meatloaf (...let's not even talk about it), see the confetti fall on the idiot with equlibrium issues that this great nation has crowned and go to sleep around 2am. Yeah, that was a GREAT idea.

And honestly, the bleachers at Fenway are always a time, and during a Yankees' game, well, the time is more, shall we say, intense. By the end of the game, it was me, Marianne and four seven-year-olds in oversize Tek jerseys who didn't get thrown out/arrested/endured a beer shower.

Now, I understand that violence is never the answer. (My mommy told me to say that), but why does it always seem that during Sox/Yankees games, there are those guys who absolutely INSIST on starting shit? Every. Single. Time. Look, I understand that we can't actually bar Yankee fans from buying tickets to Fenway (I'm still not clear on why but whatever), and I suppose that I do grudgingly admit that they have a right to cheer for their team. But there is a difference between "cheering" and "standing up in the middle of a section of Red Sox fans, pointing to your sweat and beer-soaked Giambi jersey, banging a goddamn cowbell with a drumstick and openly taunting your entire section while spitting on the three rows in front of you." And THEN, having the audacity to complain when security throws you out. Dude, I'm sorry, but your ass is asking for it. This must be that famous Yankee "class" I hear so much about. And why do these guys always wear Sheffield or Giambi jerseys? It's never someone relatively benign like Rivera or Williams. Oh no, these guys have to promote two of the biggest affronts to the game of baseball and they sure as hell have to let EVERYONE know about it.

Oh, and the girls in the hooker boots and the low rise jeans and the pink Jeter jerseys and the matching Yankee hats? I'm not about to waste a $7 ballpark beer by dumping it on your head. But I can't say I'm too sorry that someone else chose to. Heh.

Anyway, Wednesday was frustrating but it did lead to the inadvertant discovery of Alex Gonzalez Nickelback mojo. I know, I know. But allow me to explain.

Gonzo came to bat at some point with the Sox down a few runs. Marianne snarked (she's snarky, did you hear?), "Oh look, here's the big hero. He'll save the day." I decided this was as good a time as any to break into Nickelback's song from Spiderman. You know, the one that goes, "And they say that a HERO will save us..." Look, I don't know why I know it either. Don't email me. Anyway, Gonzo got a hit. "Check it out," I said, "He LOVES the Nickelback." "Yeah, okay," Marianne said, rolling her eyes.

Naturally, I had to try it out during his next at bat. Worked again. "I'm just sayin'," I said, turning to Marianne, "Homeboy's a Nickelback fan." "I understand why he hasn't admitted this to anyone," she said.

Look, when you lose to the Yankees at Fenway and Matt Clement is one wild pitch away from taking actual hostages, you have to take your humor where you can find it.

And wouldn't you know it, the newly discovered Alex Gonzalez mojo carried over to last night's game against the Devil Rays.

For the second night in a row, I was at the game. I promise, I don't "know" anyone or anything like that. Yesterday was my company's annual Red Sox game. Guess who's in charge of getting tickets? I have no idea how they would have gotten the idea that I'm a Red Sox fan.

::glances around at cubicle walls::

Anyway...Fat Head continued his dominance (am I allowed to say he's dominant? I can still make fun of him, right?), Papi lumbered into third like a dump truck with it's brakes cut and Mark Loretta (promised a rare butterfly with a special light box for his contributions), got in on the fun. Timlin made things a wee bit interesting in the 8th but Papelbon, you know, did what he does and slammed the door.

I don't know if you've noticed but the Devil Rays have actually invented an entirely new fielding position to combat David Ortiz. The third baseman stands in the outfield. Like, the actual outfield, where the left fielder should be and the rest of the outfielders all move towards right. So there's...no third baseman and the right side of the field is stacked. Apparently, this is meant to minimize the holes available for Ortiz to exploit. Which is all well and good if it worked. Instead, it opens the left side up for one of his notorious bunts (okay, he's had like two successful career bunts but still, they were pretty notorious), or he can just make you look the fool by poking one through the hole on the right side anyway as your seventeen fielders positioned specifically to prevent such an outcome flail about out of position like a flounder tossed on a dock. Which is what he did last night. I look forward to future fielding configurations teams will attempt to deal with Ortiz. How about the one where all three outfielders line up behind first base? Or the one where the pitcher decides to toss from halfway between fist and home? Or, my personal favorite, the one where all fielders attempt to make an impenetrable web of Silly String to prevent any of Ortiz's hits from making it into the outfield?

My point being, if Ortiz is gonna get a hit, he's gonna get a hit. And there ain't nothin' you or any Venn diagram of fielders can do to change that. In fact, I believe it's only a matter of time before he starts wearing a shirt that says, "Shift this, bitches" in batting practice.

The good thing about planning a company outing on a day the Red Sox win is that it tends to reflect well on me. Because, you know, I had a little talk with the boys prior to the game and asked for a favor. Note: This is not actually true but no one needs to tell my boss that.

I'm just glad we saw last night's game and not tonight's as I'm in no hurry to see David Wells triumphant return to anything other than the Dunkin' Donuts drive through. He faces off against Kazmir, who can charitably be called "wild." And Manny's been acting his ass off lately with pitches up and in. Expect fireworks.

One Step Forward, One Step Back

(photo from Boston.com)

I feel like we're all friends here. Like I can level with you people. Like I can tell you that after A-Rod hit that 3-run homer last night (again, way to go, Mr. Clutch), I might've flipped over to free Comcast karaoke to try my hand at some singing.

Now, before you click out of this page in disgust, let me explain. There's a reason for this. Three reasons, actually. Reason the first is that when the Red Sox are losing to the Yankees, it makes me sad and it's not good for my blood pressure to watch A-Rod trot around the bases like a show pony. Reason the second is that after watching that idiot who will likely become our next American Idol before fading into obscurity in the easy listening bins with his Michael McDonald impersonation that he so richly deserves, I wanted to screech my own vocal stylings at the television. And reason the third is...well, margaritas.

I blame Amy entirely. It is all her fault. Do not let her make you a drink. Especially if you've not eaten for some time. I'm just sayin', could be dangerous.

The stuffed blue football I mentioned yesterday got a bit of a workout last night, mostly tossed in the general direction of all things Yankee and particularly Damon. I might have also let fly with a rude comment about Dougie's "robust .163 batting average." I didn't mean it. I was speaking from a place of anger. And also tequila.

All in all, it was just a supremely frustrating game. Especially when Manny launched that bomb to bring us within two only to let it get away at the end there. Though I'd venture a guess that no one is more frustrated at this point than Wakefield. Poor guy. I just want to give him a juice box and a hug and tell him to take a nice, long nap.

So tonight it's back at it. Matty vs. the decimated corpse of Randy Johnson. Marianne and I will be in the bleachers, doing our best to avoid getting arrested. I make no promises as this time, I won't have "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" in the style of Poison via Comcast to distract me.

Dangerous Projectiles

(photo from Boston.com)

The world is a better place when Manny is happy.

So, I have this stuffed football. It's navy blue and squishy and though the Patriots' logo has worn off, it still comes in handy as a pillow or, more often, a projectile to launch at the television when something particularly untoward is happening. I threw it at the screen when Idol kicked off Chris Daughtry. I launched it at Jimmy Fallon's head when NESN aired that Pepsi commercial for the three-billionth time and last night, I let fly in the direction of Keith Foulke only to GET UP, RETRIEVE THE FOOTBALL AND THROW IT AGAIN because CLEARLY, he was not getting it.

All I'm saying is that if Foulke's behavior can inspire me to get off my lazy ass merely to retrieve a projectile so I can throw it at him a second time, that's some epic screwing up.

But the Sox still won, so really, I should be focusing on the positive. Like the fact that Keith Foulke is kind enough to allow Alex Rodriguez to feel like he contributed with his home run in the ninth inning to bring the game to the razor thin margin of 9-3. That's some clutch hitting for you, right there.

Look, I could attempt to do this without heavy doses of sarcasm but you might as well lobotomize me.

However, we did win and we did beat the Yankees which is like two good things all rolled into one, so it was a good night. Officially Co-Sponsoring the David Ortiz "Can Stay" List (TM Annette) is Mike Lowell. And I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: Mike Lowell, Stud Muffin. You know, like how Dougie is a stud who hits bombs? Mike Lowell appears to be a stud who hits doubles. I'm thinking a small wager on "Mike Lowell will be a doubles machine" at the beginning of the season would already be netting you quite a healthy profit at this point. Kind of like if someone has bet money that Bill Mueller would win the batting title in 2003. So sometimes, there are pleasant surprises.

Like David Ortiz, who continues to say "shift this, bitches." And Manny who, right when you're not looking, launches a bomb. Or Curt Schilling who, when asked what win #200 would mean to him said, "It would mean it's the 8th win of the season and that's all that matters." Say what you will about the guy, but I'm still glad he's on our team.

So tonight it's Wake vs. Jaret Wright. If we could make him look like this again, well, the football might get a rest. S'all I'm sayin'.

Now Things are Getting Spooky

I shall expect the Governator and plagues of locusts forthwith.

Look, I thought it was amusing when Bronson Arroyo started hitting home runs. And I found it mildly entertaining when Youkilis was, you know, making plays at first like an honest-to-goodness first baseman.

But now Josh Beckett is hitting home runs and JT Snow is making errors while David Ortiz plays a flawless first and Mike Lowell is making opposing pitchers his bitch and Alex freakin' Gonzalez, for cryin' out loud feels he has any business hitting home runs and I don't need to tell you people that I AM SCARED.

Like maybe last week's rain was a precursor to what's really coming. Like maybe that was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Like maybe, before we know it, Tek will start hitting grand slams with regularity, Manny will hustle from first to third with his head down and Lenny Dinardo won't suck.

Well, some things will never change.

If Armageddon is indeed upon us, I'd say tonight around 7:05 when Big Schill faces off against the Yankees' Wang is as good a time as any for it to begin. Drag those Hazmat suits out and duct tape the windows, it might get ugly in here.

Does anyone know if Raid works on locusts?

Now, this is only baseball-adjacent but I would be remiss if I did not share with you the sheer awesomeness of what Marianne and I witnessed on Friday night while tucking into burgers and beers at the Coolidge Corner Clubhouse and watching the Sox/Phillies and O's/Nats games simultaneously.

As a side note, lemme tell you that watching the O's game in the reflection of the partition between the bar and seating areas because you are too lazy to turn around makes for some mighty interesting viewing. Because reflections tend to reflect, you know, mirror images of things, I kept wondering why runners were taking off for third after making contact and why in the name of all that is holy was Kevin Millar playing third base? For real, it took me a good eight innings to figure this out.

Anyway, at one point, the Clubhouse decided to throw on some music and chose Journey's seminal "Don't Stop Believing." This song will always be special to me because when Amy and I ran from her apartment in Brookline to Kenmore Square the night the Sox won the Series, I distinctly remember being passed by a Jeep full of people, hanging out the windows and screaming along to the song at the top of their lungs. So for me, it's a Red Sox song. The extremely inebriated gentleman seated at the table behind us evidently agreed. Much head-banging ensued. Finger guns happened. Rock horns were thrown.

Now, for those of you who don't know, Marianne is a "real" musician. She can read music and knows what the hell "cadence" is and takes endless delight in my American Idol fixation. She also knows the lyrics to only two songs ever written, Digital Underground's "The Humpty Dance" and the oh-so-excellent "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard. So you can imagine her delight when Dude Behind Us starting belting out the lyrics to a Journey song in the middle of a sports bar. "STREETLIGHT PEOPLE!"

He then followed it up with some karaoke to Pearl Jam as we reasoned that Theo must be in the crowd somewhere.

And so, Dude Behind Us, we salute you. You definitely added to our baseball viewing experience. And also further proved my theory that the world would be a much better place if we could all just rock out to some power ballads now and then.

Lookit Me! Lookit Me!

(photo from Boston.com)

Is it just me, or does Schilling look like he wants to make sure no one breaks Manny? Like maybe he's realizing that despite his occasional, shall we say, "adventures" in outfielding, Manny might save his ass more often than not. I'm just sayin'.

That game wasn't particularly pretty. Sure, it started off that way and it was 4-0 Sox when I flipped to Fox to watch that gray-haired, drunken, 45-year-old lawyer (HATE) on American Idol annoy me further with the slaughter of a Bruce Springsteen song but when you've got a 4-0 lead against the Orioles with Schilling on the mound, you're pretty much thinking you're good. I don't think that's overconfidence, I think it's realistic. Of course, when I flipped back to the game twenty minutes later to give my eardrums a break from the aural assault, the Sox were down 5-4, Schilling had given up three home runs and all hell had apparently broken loose.

Clearly, I cannot leave them alone for a second.

It's like the team needs a babysitter or something. I feel like they're a petulant child, acting out when I dare turn my attention away for a second and focus on something else. It's the baseball equivalent of holding their breath and stomping their feet until they get their way. Jesus, boys, aren't you grown men? Can't you handle twenty minutes without my constant attention? Manny aside, you really shouldn't need supervision at all times. I mean, I have other interests. I have shit to do. I have Idol to be annoyed by (speaking of petulant children...).

Thankfully, Mark Loretta isn't interested in this attention getting, acting out business and prefers instead to just win baseball games. He is quietly challenging Jason Varitek and Mike Lowell for most "no nonsense" guy on the team.

And David Ortiz is...well, he's David Ortiz. Was there a question?

So, beers better have been on Schilling last night as the team bailed him out of a jam. I hope he also bought one for Brandon Fahey because homeboy is about one violent swing-and-a-miss away from snapping himself completely in half.

Tonight the knuckleball battery goes for the sweep. Have I mentioned yet how glad I am to have Dougie back?

Good For What Ails 'Ya!*

*with apologies to Emma.

You know, when you think about it, the Orioles have served as a kind of Chicken Soup for the Red Sox Fan's Soul. Especially after two rainouts and the growing belief that we, as a region, will never again see the sun. And if we do, we'll likely start hissing at it and squinting and calling our local news stations to report a giant ball of flame in the sky. Either that or stripping naked and running down Beacon Street, awash in it's unfamiliar glory.

Sigh.

Anyway, BASEBALL! I do feel for Orioles fans (this means you, Marianne), because it can't be fun having a team come in and steamroll you like that twelve times in a row. And for serious? I still don't quite believe this supposed domination we have over the Orioles. In fact, I remember very distinctly fearing them because they seemed to always give us fits. Isn't it the Orioles that boasted sup-par pitchers when playing the rest of the league who inexplicably morphed into Cy Young winners when matched up against the Red Sox? I don't think I'm making this up. But then, it's possible, thinking, as I am, from the bottom of a fish tank formerly known as "Boston."

It is delightful to see Wily Mo get his shit together, however. And I still maintain that one of these days, he's going to unleash a rocket that'll shatter some windows on the Prudential Center. In fact, on Friday I was praying for the umps to call the game not because I wanted to pull out a win (that was so not happening what with the "Oh crap, we, uh, we thought they were just gonna cancel it early. I don't have my cleats. Or bat. Or uniform." attitude the team seemed to have going), but because I was terrified that Wily Mo was gonna let loose with a monstrous swing, lose his grip on the rain-drenched bat and send it flying violently into the stands where it would wipe out an entire section. And you just know that somehow, Matty Clement would think this was his fault, thus reducing him to the blubbering mass of tears and snot that we've all been expecting for a while now. He's fragile, people. It's coming. I can feel it.

But back to last night's game. And the fact that I've noticed that Mike Lowell's attractiveness is directly proportional to his ability to come up with hits in key situations. It's amazing, really. He strikes out and he's just "Mike Lowell: Spokesman for Just for Men." But he lines a triple, knocks a clutch double off the wall, or, as with last night, sends a home run outta there and suddenly, he's George Clooney. Same goes for Mark Loretta. Dude gets caught stealing and he's just your average amateur entomologist but he hits a walk off and we're looking at Timothy Hutton in Beautiful Girls. Studies should be done on this phenomenon.

Right. So...baseball. Tonight we square off again against Los Orioles when we send Master Schilling to the hill to face off with Bruce Chen. Now, you know Schill ain't havin' it the way things went down last time so if I'm the Orioles, I'm looking for some Dirty Harry type business to be happening. And frankly, I'm a little scared.

We Knew the End Times Were Upon Us...

...when Bronson Arroyo started belting home runs.

Look, I'm not going to be the eight millionth person to complain about the rain and the fact that canoeing to work is really becoming a bit of a hassle.

I will share with you, however, that my roommate, on her way to New Hampshire yesterday to celebrate Mother's Day, had to swerve in her car to avoid a duck floating across the road. A duck, people. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Now, I'm a little rusty on my biblical history but I think the next plague is either locusts or death of the firstborn.

I will tell you this much, baseball needs to happen right quick lest I start building a scale replica of Fenway Park in my apartment using Q-Tips and angel hair pasta. Again, not kidding.

It's a good thing I'm such an excellent swimmer.

I Love It When a Plan Comes Together

(photo from Boston.com)

In the immortal words of Meatloaf, "two out of three ain't bad." Sure, you'd like to sweep the Yanks in their house. I mean, if we're going for "embarrassing," that'd pretty much do it. But I'll take what we got here. Especially considering that the Yankees are surely demoralized this morning after losing Hideki Matsui in an epic collision between Earth v. Wrist. That's gotta smart. And for a team already missing Gary Sheffield, it's just more bad news.

Now before you think I'm getting all soft on you, never fear, I won't miss facing Matsui or Sheffield, and hey, Yankees players going down means more fun and good times for the rest of us. But damn, did that look like it hurt. Because this is a family blog (is it?) I will not make the obvious joke about Matsui's broken wrist and the problem that causes with his legendary porn collection. Oh wait, I guess I will make that joke. I am not made of stone, people.

Anyway...

Here's what we do: We make Manny watch a replay of Matsui's injury over and over again so he learns not to dive for balls wrist first. That's an owie, Manny. Owies hurt. Owies mean Wily Mo has to simultaneously play every outfield position or, worse yet, we have to snatch Millar back from Baltimore and watch him run in circles under fly balls that he'll eventually misplay into inside-the-park home runs. So, no owies. We clear on that? Good.

As for Kevin Youkilis, does anyone else think that one day soon, homeboy is gonna strike out, line directly at a fielder or ground softly to first and just start beating himself with his Louisville Slugger? I'm sensing he's about an 0-for-4 away from self-flagellating in the batter's box. I mean, clearly the dude has been engaging in some yoga during the offseason and on off days if his actual stretchy, legitimate first baseman business is to be believed. You'd think he could clue into some Zen thought processes as well, with regard to the whole "batting average" thing. Maybe he just needs a vision quest and some green tea. A dreamcatcher necklace? Can we get Kapler on this? Whatever we do, keep him away from Trot.

And this Papelbon kid, I mean, come on. Dude's a robot, right? You can tell me. At the very least, I'd like to start a movement to refer to him as Jonathan Papelbon: Serial Killa.

Tonight, it's Texas. Kameron-with-a-"K"-Loe vs. Matty. Let's show Matty some love, gentleman and kindly mess with Texas.

A Good, Old-Fashioned Ass-Whupping

(photo from Boston.com)

Now, what did we learn?

Repeat after me: "I will not anger David Ortiz. I will not anger David Ortiz."

There you go. You'll get it.

Why do people insist on starting shit? Honestly. It's one thing if the fans get into it. It's expected. And sometimes the teams let the bad blood surface and it boils over (or don't you remember Mitt Sammich Day at Fenway?) But it's quite another thing when the local news outlets are calling for players to be hit. Rather, that should be "news" since we're talking about the New York Post here and it can charitably be described as a tabloid but nevertheless, why you gotta go there? To borrow a favorite word of Yankee fans, not very "classy."

And before you start in on the, "I'm pretty sure you advocated plunking Sheffield" thing, there's a difference. I am not the media. As much as I'd like to inflate my sense of importance, I don't have nearly the readership of something like the Post. And furthermore, the players don't know I exist. And if they did, they wouldn't care what I thought. (And that's probably best considering catcher's uniforms made of tissue paper really aren't practical).

My point (my long, drawn out, belabored point) being that I consider it rather unprofessional for news outlets to be calling for that kind of thing (and yes, I'd say the same thing if the Herald were pulling this bullshit). And I don't blame Ortiz for getting upset.

But hey, you anger the big man and, in the parlance of Papa Jack, somebody's gotta pay.

That someone was Randy Johnson. Or maybe it was Alex Rodriguez. Or possibly, if we're going with the bigger picture, George Steinbrenner. All I know is that it was delightful.

Some people enjoy tight, grind 'em out games. And I do too, occasionally. Those become classics. You tell your kids about those games. But the games that are fun to watch, the ones where the pressure's been lifted and we're all just sitting around, having a party, smacking the ball around the yard are the ones where you walk up behind your most hated rival and pants them in public. Like last night. Fun times all around.

Now, I know how karma works. I know these happy feel good times can't last forever. And I know that Curt Schilling has already forgotten about it and is preparing for tonight's game as though the score were reversed. But it's raining today. It's cold and raw outside. I've got $37 in my checking account. I've got a cold and the lone remaining hottie stands a good chance of getting kicked off Idol tonight. You gotta take your joy where you can get it. And 14-3 beatdowns of the Yankees in the Bronx is as good a place as any to start.

Hate To Say "I Told You So."

(photo from Boston.com)

Did I or did I not tell you that Jason Varitek would be hitting grand slams this year?

I'm just sayin'.

Remember when we used to fear the Orioles? Huh. Weird.

Barring a Brawl...

...is there another reason Rudy Seanez is still on the team?

I can't even begin to do justice to this question so I'll just let Red take it.

And since I'm still recovering from the Stomach Bug That Ate Boston, I'll turn it over to an email from The Rick that I received long about the eighth inning last night:

Watching the Sox tonight who looked to have this one in the bag - so let the jeers begin... "Rudy! Rudy! Rudy! The human gas can! Flame on!"

So please start a new website: www.getRudySeanezoutofBostonASAPandtakethat
psychoticnutcaseJulianTavarezwithyouanddontcomeback.com before he really screws something up.

Now that's a website where the counter would look like the something you'd see at the gas pumps these days.

That, combined with Remy uttering the phrase "rolling his ankle" in reference to Papelbon which caused Amy to say, "I will now eat my face," are not exactly the kind of things a girl needs to make herself feel better. However, a win is a win is a win. Especially over those pain in the ass Blue Jays.

Tonight, El Bencho Millar makes his triumphant return to Boston. Now, I don't know about anybody else, but I kinda miss the guy.

Reuinited and it Feels So Good

(photo from Boston.com)


Okay, folks. I'm still feeling like I've been run over by a Mac truck. So I'm turning things over to my brother today, self-proclaimed "World's Biggest Doug Mirabelli Fan." Here's his take on the game Monday night:

Only in Boston

Upon receiving the news that Doug Mirabelli was returning to Boston last night I was informed by my sister (the owner of this blog that you all enjoy) that I would absolutely have to post a guest entry on the subject. I would assume that most of you out there know me as the crazy brother of Basegirl who’s all time favorite Red Sox player is Doug Mirabelli. Yes, the very same brother who lost several cases of beer to Basegirl in a bet that placed Varitek and Mirabelli in a statistical head to head showdown in 2004 (cases of beer which I am still owed, FYI - Kristen).

Well, I was trying to think about what I should write for my debut guest entry, and I contemplated several ways that I could defend Dougie, and say “I told you so” to all those who thought Josh Bard would be a capable replacement to catch Wakefield. But after watching the game last night I realized that I didn’t have to do any of that. Because where else besides Boston would the return of Doug Mirabelli, (the backup catcher) overshadow the return of Johnny Damon playing for the evil empire (sporting a questionable haircut)? As I watched the game and saw all the signs welcoming Dougie back and the police escort that shuttled him from the airport to the ballpark just minutes before the first pitch I realized that I may not be that crazy after all. Last night was yet another perfect example of why baseball in Boston is so great, and why we all love this team. My favorite part of the game was in the ninth, when they put Varitek in, and I had a giant Papelboner (hereby added to the list of things you are never allowed to say in front of your older sister - Kristen), and they showed a shot of the Red Sox bench, and there was Doug, right in the middle with a gigantic smile that just showed how happy he was to be back.

But anyway, enough of the mushy stuff. This post is about how Doug Mirabelli is the damn man, and what a great story unfolded yesterday. Here's my take on how it all went down. Picture this: (reader's of the original "Dougie's Diary might be feeling a sense of deja vu - Kristen).

Dougie is sitting in his San Diego apartment watching the 2004 Red Sox highlight video, eating a bucket of chicken and drinking a Colt 45 when the phone rings. Its Kevin Towers, telling Doug that he has been traded back to the Red Sox and they want him to get on a plane ASAP so he can be back in time to catch Wakefield against the Yankees tonight. After 15 minutes of threatening to kill Towers if this is a prank, Dougie finally believes him and hangs up the phone. He goes over to his closet and takes out his Red Sox uni (he always knew he would be coming back). Dougie then takes 15 naked cuts in front of the mirror and proclaims that he is going deep tonight. After packing 2 tank tops and 1 pair of jeans, Dougie departs for the airport. At the airport, security gives Dougy some shit for trying to carry on his Lousville Slugger, but he threatens to beat them like a Kevin Brown fastball and they eventually give in. At the gate just before heading down the ramp and back to Boston, Dougie turns and faces a half full airport (none of the people in the airport know who Doug Mirabelli is). His face looks almost sad, as if he might just miss the consistent tank top weather, but his words beg to differ “Go F@#* yourself San Diego!” he says, and down the ramp he goes.

On the plan ride back Dougie has a pre-game meal (17 packs of peanuts and 12 of those mini cans of beer). The plane touches down in Logan just 20 minutes before the first pitch and Dougie is picked up by a state police escort to take him to the game. On the short ride to Fenway, Dougie changes in the car and goes through his standard pre game warmup which consists of a single stretch of his throwing arm and an adjust of his jock strap. After completion of his warm up, Dougie announces to the state trooper driving the car that he is ready play and is "going deep tonight." The rest of the activities of the night are pretty well known from the time the escort arrived at fenway to the 0 past ball, 1 runner thrown out, 0-4 performance that Mirabelli is so well known for. But hey, who cares? Dougie's back!

Well, that is my take on what happened yesterday, but regardless, it was a great night at Fenway, and after what I saw I know I’m not the only one that was glad to see Doug Mirabelli back in a Red Sox uniform last night. (And it was pretty great to see people throw money at Johnny Damon too).

Notes From My Deathbed

I am currently on my deathbed with what is, I think, a particularly violent case of food poisoning. I'll spare you the particulars but suffice it to say, it's not pretty. But rest assured, I haven't forgotten about last night's game and some time either this afternoon or this evening, I'll post my brother's reaction to the Return of the Doug Mirabelli Experience.

For now, I'm going to attempt to keep some saltines and ginger ale down. Dreaming big, don't ya know?

Dare to Dream

Dougie's goin' deep tonight!

If this is for real, really, really, honest to goodness true, I am one happy, happy girl. Not, however, anywhere near as happy as my brother or, you know, Tim Wakefield.

And I'll be at the game tonight. Doug Mirabelli. Now there's one guy we can all agree to cheer.

If this comes to pass, stay tuned for a guest entry from my brother. Mostly consisting of joyous shreiking and variations on the words "kick ass," "awesome," and "freakin' excellent," I'm guessing.