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

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Didn't See That One Coming

(An artist's rendering of Wily Mo Pena)

The thing is, Wily Mo just don't like people talking shit about him. You see, when I got off the T this morning in Government Center, the gentlemen in the beat-up Sox cap selling newspapers was sharing his opinion with everyone who cared to listen. "The Sox needa new centafieldah. Wily Mo just ain't gettin' it done. Guy's killin' me at the plate."

Wily Mo will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, sir. But honestly, talk about unlikely heroes. Apparently, Wily Mo has suffered ten strikeouts in his previous sixteen at-bats prior to that grand slam. That is...not a healthy number. Anemic, actually. Consumptive, even. Most people, including Eck (and who's going to argue with Eck? Certainly not me), were wondering why the slumping Wily Mo was even hitting in that situation. And that? Is why we're going to Vegas and gambling with Tito.

But I mean, considering all that's happened in the past few days, we are clearly in the end times. So Wily Mo hitting a grand slam isn't really that surprising.

For instance, after yesterday's (faux) drama about Gary Thorne and Schilling and bloody sock, etc, etc, Doug Mirabelli was evidently giving press conferences in the Sox locker room before the game to definitively state that he never said that Schilling faked the ankle injury. I mean, Doug Mirabelli is holding press conferences? We're all gonna die.

And then there's the matter of Josh Beckett winning his fifth straight start and finding himself in the company of Pedro Martinez and Babe Ruth as the only Sox pitchers to win five games in the month of April. That's some lofty company there, brah. And I certainly hope that he realizes that, were it not for a brain fart on the part of Chris Ray, Beckett would be drowning the sorrow of his first loss of the season in half price PBR and Dave Matthews bootlegs.

I spent the third inning today coming up with new lyrics to Paul Simon's "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" except in my version, I beat up Julio under the monkey bars and steal his lunch money.

Given Terry Francona's penchant for snark, (i.e. his comments to Doug Mirabelli as reported by the Globe, "Can't you just play every five days and not talk?,") and Papelbon's...Papelbon-ness, I would trade in a semi-important organ to witness a live conversation between them. Because you just know that Tito would spend the entire time making smart ass comments and Paps would take them all at face value. I mean, you've seen what happens when the boy
wins bets. I'm not completely sure he understands the concept of sarcasm.

In the future, I think perhaps I will abstain from watching Sox/Orioles games with an Orioles fan. Because, um, yeah, they don't find Wily Mo hitting an unlikely grand slam nearly as amusing as I do. It's the kind of situation when you don't really know what to say. I root for the Orioles 143 games out of the season. But the Sox are my boys. So I didn't say anything. I just handed Marianne my laptop so she could commiserate with fellow Orioles fans. (Most of whom appear to be contemplating suicide). Sometimes, I guess, there's just nothing to say.

The Yankees lost again with Phenom Philip Hughes on the mound. Isn't "phenom" part of his given name now? I thought we had to call him that. Apparently, he's the next Joe Montana. I realize it's baseball but isn't every highly touted prospect in every sport hyped as the next Joe Montana? I thought that was the rule. Anyway, the whole Hughes thing seem mildly desperate as the kid's like...twelve, but hey, if the Yankees are desperate, that can only mean good things for the Sox.

Now, can someone tell me why Mike Lowell always looks so damn worried and Manny spent the entirety of today's game looking like he smelled poo?