(Photo from Boston.com)
Okay, comments section, people. I want your submissions for most overwrought, cliched headline we're likely to find in the national media today. I'm fairly certain headline writers all over were already wetting themselves with the puns inherent in a Sox and Rox series, and now that the Rockies were, um, rocked in Game 1, I'm certain they can barely contain themselves. So, what you got?
As for the game, I think Jen summed it up nicely when she casually mentioned to the assembled masses last night amongst the beer bottle, pizza box and buffalo wing detritus, "Did you ever think we'd be spending Game 1 of the World Series just kind of casually watching people fly out to center?"
No. No, I did not.
But apparently, I'd forgotten about Josh Beckett. Joshua Patrick Beckett who, I believe, is on some kind of a mission - apologies to the Rockies and their apparent mission from God. Greta and I were discussing the other night that it's a good thing Beckett can throw a 97-mph fastball, otherwise, he'd likely be in prison and the owner of a fair number of restraining orders stemming from frequent bar fights he started because someone was "lookin' at me funny." So, you know, glad that baseball thing worked out. Furthermore, I'm glad someone (Jason Varitek) has apparently upped Beckett's postgame sedatives as he's managed to drop most of the profanity and even looks in danger of falling asleep. Like there are about three million things he'd rather do than talk about his utter dominance as a postseason pitcher. Like maybe that chick in the back of the room. He'd kind of like to get out of here and show her his heater if you know what he's saying, and I think you do.
And now we read about how Beckett is embarking on some kind of pitcher outreach program and adopting Buchholz and Lester over the winter and, I guess, taking them to his Texas ranch where he's going to teach them to
Sleep deprivation, people. Catch it!
You know who else needs a cape? Dustin Pedroia. I totally wore my Mighty Mouse pajama pants last night in honor of Pedroia (oh I know you are not judging me and my sartorial choices. You do not judge mojo.) And they worked, didn't they? Amy and I have decided that Kevin Youkilis is pretty stoked to have someone on the team to pick on since he's tired of being the butt of clubhouse jokes and he's not allowed to pick on Jacoby because Mike Lowell clutched him protectively to his bosom and shook his head, silently, "no," so Youks has settled on Pedroia. And when Pedroia doesn't get a hit or an RBI, Youks gets to push him around the bases after the game in a wheelbarrow because it's funny for Youks and the rest of the team but Pedroia really hates it. Safe to say there was no wheelbarrow ride last night. And I'm guessing the Pedroia Strut was out in full force. As it should be. Because - and you know I'm not firing on all cylinders if I'm quoting Julio Lugo here - but "the little midget's the man!"
Postseason baseball makes us say weird things. We can't be held responsible. For instance:
Amy: Matt Holliday has a really pointy head.
Me: I know. I totally thought my TV was wonky.
Amy: I guess it's a good thing that he chose a profession that relies so heavily on haberdashery.
Me: It must be nice to know that when he retires, he can open a charming shop called "Holliday's Hats for Pointy-Headed Chaps."
Amy: I feel like in the inevitable low-budget local TV ad for that store, he's wearing a boa. Is he wearing a boa?
Me: I think so. Matt Holliday could totally glam rock out for Jesus.
Amy: Awwww, that's nice.
Me: I thought so.
But it's not just us. Fox caught Coco and Royce Clayton having, and I shit you not, the EXACT SAME discussion about the Tacos for America thing that had taken place in my apartment not five minutes earlier. We concluded, as you do, that whoever steals the first base, thus providing tacos (for America!), should really consider getting on the ballot come November.
Me: That should totally be Obama's platform.
Greta: Tacos for America?
Amy: I feel patriotic already.
Then Colleen gave us a breakdown of the taco provisions (apparently having done extensive research), and concluded with, "Though any Taco Bell manager reserves the right to deny a patron his or her taco if they have reason to believe said patron has already had a taco." Which, I believe, is the same point Royce Clayton was making when he said, "How you gonna come in and say, 'I ain't got my taco!' You could go to every Taco Bell in the world and say that. 'I didn't get my taco!' How they gonna know?"
This might be the kind of stuff we talk about to avoid talking about things of import like wondering whether Good Curt Schilling or Bad Curt Schilling will turn up tonight. Because we are not naive or stupid enough to think that it's going to be this easy the whole way through. Yeah, this is the postseason. That doesn't tend to happen. But for right now, I think perhaps I'm just going to think about Ellsbury being Mike Lowell's binky and how Josh Beckett's reign of terror is really a sight to see.
Oh, and thanks to Dan for the shout out on Yahoo! That's badass.
Headlines, people, let's see 'em.