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

Monday, August 10, 2009

Stern Talking To

(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

I would hide my face too, Daniel Bard.

Really, you guys? REALLY? You couldn't win one measly ball game? You had four chances. FOUR. Ted Williams once famously said something about how baseball is the only venue in life where someone can fail a third of the time and still be considered great so it's not like the stakes were too high here. But instead you choose to fail ALL OF THE TIME. I'm disgusted.

Look, sometimes I hate it when I'm right. And as my column at NESN.com on Friday indicates, sometimes I'm downright prophetic. I am not proud of it, no how, no way. Do you think it was fun for me, dear Red Sox, to spend the weekend in New York at various functions to be introduced to many people I'd never met before and, upon hearing that I'm a Red Sox fan, they'd do that teeth sucking, intake of breath that translates loosely to "Ooooo, that suuuuuucks." Because that was not fun for me. (This had nothing to do with the people I met, mind you, as they were all charming and delightful, but in a room full of Yankee fans, it was like smelling blood in the water).

Which is somewhat apropos because Shark Week just ended and I would rather watch shark attack simulations and diver's dummies torn apart FOR HOURS AND HOURS than watch John Smoltz get shelled on the mound at Yankee Stadium or Daniel Bard surrendering back to back home runs. Seriously, bring on the carnivorous shark carnage any day. It's less painful to watch.

You know what isn't fun? Listening to the idiots on WFAN dissect Ortiz's press conference and opine in the most blow hard fashion possible that Ortiz is somehow MORE guilty of cheating than A-Rod because at least A-Rod has a compelling story to go with his steroid use. Really, someone actually said that. At which point, HJ, seeing the steam coming out of my ears, switched the station to some nice, calming slow jams, lest I put my fist through the windshield. I mostly try to be reasonable when in enemy territory because I don't want to draw undue attention (or abuse) to myself but I needed a moment after that one. A moment and several strong drinks.

You know who's probably just as disgusted as I am? Josh Beckett. Because with the way Friday's game was pitched, it's really a shame anyone had to lose it (though, obviously, I would have chosen the alternate ending, especially if I'd known how the rest of the weekend was going to shape up). But there is little doubt in my mind that when A-Rod's home run (anyone but him, Universe, really), landed in the seats, Beckett set about the business of destroying whatever water coolers, helmet racks and small children were in his path. And I can't really say I blame him. Had I been in possession of any projectiles at that point, I might've thrown them myself. Who knows, perhaps the Red Sox would like to sign me to pitch for them since NO ONE ELSE SEEMS TO WANT TO DO IT.

Okay, that's not really the problem. Or it's not the sole problem. Everyone is equally at fault here and I'm not the least bit happy about any of it. I'm pretty much at my wit's end with this team. I suspect time outs won't work and Victor Martinez can only do so much. So...what? What do they need? They don't get a respite as the Tigers are in town tonight and Brad Penny, who I swear pitches EVERY DAY takes the mound. I will watch, provided I can find enough alcohol in the house to dull the pain of what may very well become a seven game losing streak. And if it is, well...football preseason begins on Thursday?