It's A New Dawn, It's A New Day

Respect The Tek is a steroid-free zone. We are not writing under the influence of any blog-enhancing drugs. If you know where blog-enhancing drugs can be acquired, please kick some our way.

Honestly, though, we've reached our limit with steroid talk. We don't want to hear about it anymore, or care about it anymore. Oh, yes, we believe that roiding is cheating, and that there should be aggressive testing and harsh penalties in order to keep baseball safe for the likes of a certain Most Valuable Midget. We think that cracking down now is worthwhile, but trying to ferret out everyone who used during the long, sordid era when Major League Baseball was out having lunch and getting its nails done is pointless. At this point, it's sadly necessary to assume that more people did it than didn't, and that nobody is guaranteed clean*. And it's also true that there's always been cheating in baseball, Gaylord Perry, and that we've never been stat freaks**, so we can't get all worked up about 'purity of the numbers' arguments.

So, we humbly ask our fellow Red Sox fans to cool it with the A-Rod steroid heckling this season, because there are plenty of reasons to loathe the Yankees that are less likely to kick us in the karma.***

Moving to new business: Paps'n Cap'ns (and the rest of the pitchers and catchers) have reported to spring training as of yesterday--this is like Valentine's Day for those baseball fans among us who think that Cupid can totally suck it. We can't decide which is our favorite sign of the coming spring:

• Justin Masterson drives a clown car and smiles like Christmas morning.
• Dustin Pedroia is shredded and jacked, and possibly other verbs associated with nacho cheese.
• Ladies And Gentlemen, Your Closer exists, and shops for groceries with his teammates. (If Penny and Papelbon are going to start planning pranks together, you know Josh Beckett better lock his doors every morning and check the backseat of his car every damn night.)
• Speaking of Beckett, he can still make the mitt make that beautiful sound.

Ah, but who are we kidding? This right here is our favorite thing. Our favorite, damp, sinewy, glove-totin', oversized-shorts-wearin' thing.

Who needs truffles and diamonds? Our hearts are already full.


*We're divided on the subject of those who tested positive in 2003. We're dreading the spectre of all those names trickling out one by one and ruining a whole lot of days for a whole lot of people, but at the same time, it's not fair to compensate for one violation of confidentiality by doing it a hundred and three more times. Mainly, it all just makes us want to see Frank Thomas roll up on Bud Selig and the MLBPA and knock some heads.

**This is why Nate Silver will never hang out with us. (Yeah. This is why.)

***And no, making fun of Leigh Teixeira is not acceptable, either.

We do not call it a comeback in this house

So. We promised we were going to blog, but tonight's game doesn't really inspire conversation. Still, isn't it nice to see our Papi back where he belongs? And isn't there--well, not much else nice to say?

We've used our boundless cunning* and vast network of insider connections** to infiltrate the Sox clubhouse and document some conversations that took place once the big man rejoined the band.

I. Overheard from the Bash Brothers
Papi: I cannot believe this. I leave you alone for a couple weeks and what do you do?
Manny: Hit a home run?
Papi: And what else?
Manny: Hit another home run real hard?
Papi: Manny...
Manny: It's not my fault Boston hates me! All I ever do is play baseball!
Papi: Sometimes what you do is, you don't play baseball.
Manny: ...Is this like when a tree falls in the woods?
Papi: No, it's like when we play a game and you sit in the clubhouse playing Star Wars on the WII.
Manny: But I hurt my knee and I'm a Sith Lord!
Papi: You been talkin' to Scott Boras too much.
Manny: Look, it's okay with me if Boston doesn't like Manny. My feelings ain't hurt. Sticks and stones don't break my bones.
Papi: ...
Manny: Manny can play baseball anywhere. Boston...Japan...Iraq...
Papi: Think abot this, Manny. They don't have baseball in Iraq 'cause they are too busy shooting each other with guns.
Manny: The moon, then.
Papi: They don't have baseball on the moon, either, 'cause they don't have air.
Manny: I'm gonna wear a spacesuit. I'm not dumb.
Papi: You got me there, man. Have fun on the moon, or...wherever. Just one thing, though.
Manny: I can get you a spacesuit too, don't worry.
Papi: No, no, listen. Fenway...Fenway keeps the Monster.
[They think about this for a minute. Manny looks up at the sky.]
Manny: Goodbye, moon! I got to stay in Boston!
Papi: It's one in the afternoon, Manny. That's the sun.
Manny: I know. That was a symbolic gesture to the heavens, much like the actions of the Biblical figure Job. You should read more.
Papi: ...
Manny: Did you say one o'clock? Time for juice and cookies!

II. Overheard, Talking About Practice, Practice, Man, We Talking About Practice
Papi: So what'd I miss?
Tek: Well, um, Manny wants a trade.
Papi: I know.
Tek: And Pap and his wife are expecting a baby.
Papi: I know that too, I was there.
Tek: ...What the dang--
Papi: When he told us, man, when he told us. You catchers got dirty minds.
Tek: We do not! I just didn't understand you there, man, 'cause I've been a little preoccupied, what with me bein' in the worst offensive slump in the history of mankind.
Papi: Yeah, what's that about?
Tek: I think my bat's allergic to leather.
Papi: Come here, come here. Watch me and copy what I do.
Tek: Copy what? The way you heal sick children with hugs? 'Cause that's pretty cool.
Papi: Man, just pay attention.
[Papi crushes a batting practice fastball into the bullpen.]
Papi: Now you.
Tek: Gotcha.
[Tek flies out to shallow center.]
Papi: No, no, no, no. I said copy me!
[Papi hits a ball directly into the red seat.]
Tek: Okay.
[Tek grounds it foul down the first base line.]
Papi: Why you playin'?
Tek: I don't know, Papi, why am I playin'? Please make me stop.
Papi: I show you one more time.
[Papi hits a ball over the monster, over I-95, over New Hampshire, and into Portland, Maine, where it lands in the outstretched glove of a grateful Sea Dog.]
Papi: You got it now?
Tek: Um, maybe if you show me that one again.
Papi: Hit a damn baseball!
[Tek hits a double high off the Monster.]
Papi: My work here is done! I gotta go, it's time for rounds at Children's Hospital.
[He dusts his hands off and walks away. Tek takes another cut and bounces a ground-rule double around Pesky's pole.]
Tek: There goes my hero.

Interlude: Another County Heard From
A-Rod: Hey, Papi! Remember that time we had dinner during the All-Star Break?
Papi: You mean last week?
A-Rod: That was awesome.***
Papi: It was okay.
A-Rod: We should do it again! We should bring our families! Actually, we should go on vacation together!
Papi: ...I'll let you sit next to me at PF Chang's if you be quiet.
A-Rod: You're my best friend!
Papi: You're buying.

III. Overheard via the Parents Television Council
Beckett: I'm fuckin' glad you're back, dude.
Papi: Thanks. Pass me a bottle of water?
Beckett: Hey, waiter! Bottle of water for the fuckin' man here!
[Justin Masterson looks confused.]
Papi: Never mind, I'm good.
Beckett: You sure? 'Cause I don't mind, I can make the rookies do whatever you need. I got 'em good and scared of me.
Papi: Umm...so how you been?
Beckett: Me? Great.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah. Executin' pitches.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah.
[Long pause.]
Beckett: I mean, I don't expect fifteen fuckin' runs every fuckin' time I pitch...
[Beckett sniffles. Papi nods.]
Beckett: I know it's my fuckin' job to throw fuckin' strikes, I know, but--
Papi: Hey.
Beckett: Two fuckin' runs, man, that's all I need is two--
[Beckett lets out a sob and is instantly folded into a hug of record-breaking size.]
Papi: It's okay. Papi still loves you.

In conclusion, overheard in all of Boston: BEAT L.A.!


*This is a lie. We don't really have that.

**Or those.

***The resemblance to a Chris Farley sketch here is purely coincidental. Rodriguez has never really gotten into Saturday Night Live. He does have a tape of that one time Jeter was on, though.

We do not know a hawk from a handsaw in this house

Old Business:

We've been easing our way into the offseason by downloading classic games from iTunes, and so far we've watched Game 6 of the 2003 World Series--we were too busy hating baseball and all its works and all its empty promises to properly appreciate the dominance of young Josh Beckett* at the time--and Roger Clemens' 1986 twenty-strikeout game. It's a lot of fun. For the record, Baby Beckett and Baby Rocket really do have extremely similar stances, Miguel Cabrera really was a svelte young thing, and the Mariners really did used to wear wide, gold-striped elastic belts. Next stop for our Tardis: 1965 and Sandy Koufax.

Also, we know we're behind, 'cause we haven't said anything since Mikey Lowell failed to sign on the dotted by the deadline.** It's hard to keep up with all the rumors and denials of rumors and noncommittal comments, even if we limit ourselves to Nick Cafardo's mad flailing as our main source of news. No rumor too random to bite your nails over, huh? And how come there's no news on Mike Timlin?

New Business:

Well, tonight Buster Olney claimed on SportsCenter that he expected Lowell to make a decision within 72 hours. So that'll make the weekend interesting, since nothing else is going in baseball news at all.

Oh, and we heard something about Barry Bonds and Alex Rodriguez? We heard that they're forming some kind of wacky Harlem Globetrotter exhibition team together, with a $300 million dollar payroll and George Mitchell as the GM? The Alcatraz Sharks, or something? Bright orange uniforms? Do we have that information right? It's not like ESPN is talking about it at all.

Rodriguez and Bonds have had their parallel storylines going all year, with these great Shakespearean overtones. They are men of great talent and power brought low by ego and greed; they're everywhere and yet they seem elusive, surrounded by myths and mockery.*** We should be fascinated. And we would be fascinated to find out what actually goes on in their heads, if they'd like to step to the corner of the stage and begin the monologue. But as long as they have agents and lawyers, that will never happen. And we just don't want to read, hear, or watch any more of Keith Law and Murray Chass and freakin' Charles Barkley pontificating about Barry's or Alex's issues. We're over it.

Unless there is going to be swordfighting, in which case we are there. With bells on.


*He shakes off Pudge Rodriguez like forty-seven times, to no apparent ill effect. Further evidence for our totally intangible case that Jason Varitek is magic.

**We support the Papel-blog's NDRaPRSFftEMRSoML effort and are definitely all for the emotionally motivated re-signing of Mike Lowell, but we could never be club members because we are not normally discerning, rational or pragmatic. Not like you couldn't tell.

***Also, we once read a scholarly analysis proving that King Lear could really rake.

We do not think, therefore we are not in this house

Scene: A drawing room in Second Empire style. A massive bronze bust of Babe Ruth stands on the mantelpiece.

BONDS: [enters, accompanied by A-ROD] So here we are.

A-ROD: Yeah. Waiting for history.

BONDS: Pass me that copy of Highlights?

A-ROD: Sure. I got Redbook.

[They read.]

BONDS: [laughing] Oh, Gallant. You so crazy.

GLAVINE: [enters, slamming the door.] This is ridiculous--they keep cancelling my appointment!

BONDS: Oh, crap, a paparazzi. [A-ROD hides his magazine.] Look, how many times do I have to say this? There are way worse killers in the world than steroids! Like Voldemort!

GLAVINE: I'm not a paparazzi.

A-ROD: Don't listen to him, Barry! I've seen him around New York! He's here to ruin our family lives!

GLAVINE: I play for the Mets.

A-ROD: The what now?

GLAVINE: I've been in the game for years. I was a World Series MVP. I pitched to you both this season, for Chrissakes. I even gave up a home run to Barry.

BONDS: Nope, not ringing a bell.

A-ROD: Anyway, how did a pitcher get into history's waiting room? Mr. Torre always says that pitching doesn't count.

GLAVINE: Right. Well, I've been going for my 300th win for about a month.

[BONDS and A-ROD exchange smirks.]

BONDS: 300? That is a tiny number, man.

GLAVINE: Oh, yeah? So is one. Which is exactly how many home runs you have not hit in your last thirty-something at-bats. [A-ROD snickers.] What are you laughing at, Slappy? You're not getting it done either. I haven't seen you swinging this badly since...well, October.

A-ROD: [flinging himself down on a chaise longue] Why is it so haaaard?

BONDS: I've been wondering about that, actually. It's so weird, but that one last roundtripper can seem harder than hitting the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds--

[GLAVINE pretends to vomit into a potted ficus.]

BONDS: --and hundreds and hundreds that came before.

GLAVINE: I hate to agree with you, but it does feel that way. It's kind of ironic.

A-ROD: It's like meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife.

BONDS: Why is that one home run--

GLAVINE: Two for you, actually.

BONDS: --So hard to come by?

A-ROD: It's not fair! What have I done to deserve this? Nothing! That's what! All I've ever done is play by the rules! Unlike some people.

BONDS: Hey, what the hell, man?

A-ROD: No offense, Barry. I mean, I am glad that your giant head got everyone in the game to stop hating me, but we all know--

BONDS: Oh, and you never did anything wrong? Listen, when your closet's clean, then come clean mine.

A-ROD: I don't know what you're talking about!

BONDS: Sure. And I thought that stuff was flaxseed oil!

GLAVINE: [pretending to cough] Cheater.

A-ROD: [turns pale] I will have you know that Derek is a valuable teammate of mine and nothing more!

GLAVINE: ...Actually, that was for Barry.

BONDS: Hey, man, I ain't even know Derek all that well.

GLAVINE: No, I--forget it. You know, maybe it is karma, though. We've all done things that didn't exactly help the game of baseball. We've all put money ahead of the sport--

A-ROD: Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Met. Pitchers don't get paid.

GLAVINE: [blinks] Roger Clemens?

A-ROD: He's not a pitcher, he's a Yankee!

GLAVINE: My point is, we've all done things that tarnish our public image. Me, I once cost the game a whole season and thousands of fans, and also killed the Montreal Expos. Although, really, it was more like putting them to sleep. Now, we've been lucky enough to keep playing and persevere to the point that all three of us are just about to reach these amazing milestones. Maybe it's a struggle because karma is kicking our asses until we remember that baseball has given us more than we could ever give back.

[Silence as all three contemplate this.]

GLAVINE: And also, my bullpen sucks.

BONDS: And bitches aren't throwing me anything over the plate.

A-ROD: And I lost my binky.

GLAVINE: Nuts to this existential stuff. I'm gonna go beat the snot out of Guillermo Mota.

[Exit GLAVINE.]

BONDS: You mean we can just walk out of here? Sweet, I have someplace to be.

A-ROD: Yeah, don't you have a game tonight?

BONDS: Nah, fool, Sanford & Son is on.

[BONDS exits, then returns to take his copy of Highlights For Kids! Magazine. Exit BONDS, for good this time.]

A-ROD: [looking around the empty room.] You know, I've learned something today. When we focus only on the milestone numbers, we forget so many wonderful things about baseball. Like the loving support of our teammates. And making tons and tons of money. And elbowing people in the crotch at second base. The paparazzi can't take that away from me, no matter how hard they try!

[Exit A-ROD, pursued by a bear.]

We do not acknowledge Florida in this house

The All-Star Game generates nearly as much chatter and analysis as American Idol, and deserves to be taken much less seriously. About 74.3 percent less seriously, if you look at the statistics.* American Idol actually has an impact on our everyday lives, insofar as we still hear that stupid "Jesus Take The Wheel" song once a fortnight. But since we can't live All-Star season vicariously through Simon Cowell...

COWELL: Alex, it was a great performance--
[Shot of teary-eyed DEREK JETER wearing "A-Rod A-RMY" T-shirt in crowd]
COWELL: --If I closed my eyes! You look like a Portuguese cabaret singer!
[Boos from the audience.]
COWELL: I'm just being honest.

...We did vote. Repeatedly. But come on, if it wasn't a popularity contest, they wouldn't let you vote twenty-five times per e-mail address plus however many ballots you can scavenge off the bleacher seats. So these, and only these, were our guiding principles:

1. We don't feel obligated to vote for people who are definitely going to win, even if they clearly deserve it. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Boston" factor.
2. We sometimes vote against people we dislike rather than for people we like. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Miami" factor.
3. We vote with our hearts first, the stats second, and then we just close our eyes and poke at the person whose name we recognize best.

Without further ado, because we're fresh out of ado, here is our 2007 AL ballot.

1st Base
Probable Winner: David Ortiz
Most Deserving: Ortiz
We Voted For: Kevin Youkilis

You know why Papi hasn't hit up to his previous home run pace? Nobody is throwing him pitches! Pitchers be hatin'; Papi still be postin' a 1.027 OPS. During this season's insanely long bout of interleague play, he even made a nice pick or two at first (and we think it's stupid not having a DH slot, anyway; it's not like the All-Stars are about the Purity Of The Game Of Base-Ball). Of course, we knew Papi would coast to the All-Star Game on his Clooneyesque reserves of charm, so we wrote in the Greek God of Blogs. He's having as good a season as last year's MVP** and still finds time to play horsey with Manny Ramirez.

2nd Base
Probable Winner: Placido Polanco
Most Deserving: Polanco
We Voted For: Polanco and Dustin Pedroia

Everyone agrees that Polanco deserves the position, although taking a glance at B.J. Upton's numbers is rather confusing, but he plays for the nonexistent Tampa Bay Devil Rays*** so who cares? So each of us voted for Polanco some and Pedroia some, since Our Little Man Dusty is having a comparably impressive year (he's a lock to go All-State!).

Shortstop
Probable Winner: Derek Jeter
Most Deserving: Orlando Cabrera
We Voted For: Cabrera, and also everyone who is neither Jeter nor Julio Lugo

Cabrera is similar offensively and much better defensively (4 errors is better than 11, no?). And his biggest selling point? He's not Admiral Calm-Eyed Deke.**** He got the bulk of our votes, but we threw a couple each to Yuniesky Betancourt (Mariners love, plus he's got a hell of a life story), Carlos Guillen (fear), and Miguel Tejada (we pity the fool who tries to play actual baseball for the Orioles, we do, we pity the fool).

3rd Base
Probable Winner: Alex Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Rodriguez
We Voted For: Mike Lowell

Look, A-Rod is the best player in baseball right now, and we have no problem acknowledging that. We think sometimes the fans and media are unfair to him; his personal life should be his business and no one else's, and the fact that he hasn't won a World Series doesn't mean he isn't a stunning and committed ballplayer. That said, he's also whiny, annoying, and prone to the occasional bush-league move, and we can respect him all day long and still not punch a little hole next to his name.

While he may fade down the stretch, Iron Mike currently has excellent numbers.

Catcher
Probable Winner: Ivan Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Jorge Posada
We Voted For: Jason Varitek

Who would've thought this would be the most competitive category? It defies logic. Posada's offensive pace is bound to taper off, but for the first half of 2007 there's hardly anyone hitting better in any position. Rodriguez is a hotshot offensively and defensively, catching one of the strongest rotations in baseball. There are underrated younger competitors: Victor Martinez has a filthy-dirty number of RBIS; Joe Mauer's batting .319 and hasn't let a ball get past him once this season.

Yeah. Hi. Did you look at the name of the blog?

If we were to try and justify it statistically, we would note that Varitek has a lower CERA and fewer successful stolen bases than either Posada or Pudge, but we aren't. We're voting with our hearts. And the hearts of Josh Beckett and Jonathan Papelbon and Curt Schilling, and all those great big grown men who get starry-eyed when they talk about Captain Fenway. We don't expect him to win, don't even need him to win, but we voted for him with every one of our mumblety-mumble ballots.

Jason Varitek. Early and often.

Outfield
Probable Winners: Vladimir Guerrero, Manny Ramirez, Ichiro Suzuki
Most Deserving: Guerrero, Suzuki, Magglio Ordonez
We Voted For: Suzuki, Ordonez, Nick Swisher

Manny doesn't wanna go to the All-Star game. Manny wants to throw a big three-day party instead, with girls dancing on the bar and Julian Tavarez smoking a bowl underneath it. Manny wants to grill some burgers--he has a grill, maybe you've heard about it--and invite all his teammates over, except maybe Curt Schilling 'cause he doesn't know how to get down, and play a lot of Outkast and maybe put the game on just to cheer for Papi and/or Youk.

Stop voting for him, people, it's just mean. And it's ridiculous that Ordonez, who is literally hitting better than anyone in the game, can't crack the top three here. Here's hoping for a groundswell.

We can't explain why we voted for Nick Swisher instead of Guerrero, except for some kind of impossibly powerful Moneyball hangover, a lingering fondness that began during last year's playoffs, and the fact that The The Angels Angels of Anaheim are among our least favorite teams (they hang out down there with the Yankees, Indians, and Braves; we're busy girls).

In conclusion, this is a bunch of hooey. We've handled it with the mindfulness it deserves.

Let's all go vote for the ESPYs!


*The statistics here are the same ones we used to plan our voting strategy; specifically, well, almost none. Wait until you see how astute we were with the NL.

**Justin Morneau is still a monster, though, and he's surely playing hard--he crashed into someone so hard at home plate that he started coughing up blood. Baseball is so much cooler than football.

***Seriously, you expect us to believe that there is a team called the Tampa Bay Devil Rays? Piffle. And I'm a big fan of the Schenectady Flying Dutchmen.

****TM Fire Joe Morgan.