We didn't plan to blog today. Up 10-1 in the 7th last night, we figured, "eh, this one's such a laugher, there won't be anything to say." Sure, we could write something about the time Jonathan Papelbon took it upon himself to teach his teammates to count to three,** going all Count from Sesame Street on their asses, but that one's definitely funnier when we do the voices. It doesn't quite translate to the written word. Up 10-5, we thought, "hmm, well at least it's--wait, fuck, another run! Okay, this isn't funny anymore."
A game as horrifically, transcendentally, amazingly, trainwreckingly bad as last night's game deserves--nay, demands--a detailed response from the blogosphere.*** As representatives of said imaginary land, that means us. We think.
At first, we were willing to write it off. Bad games happen, even to good teams. There are no extra points for style: the fact that we lost this one the way we did doesn't mean it counts for than your average 1-0 or 2-1 loss. But then we realized the truth. The truth is that there is obviously some sort of grand conspiracy going on here. Maybe there's a grassy knoll, maybe there's a Broadway musical; we're not 100% sure on all of the details, but we've definitely got some ideas.
1. It's the return of the Curse of the Bambino! No, really, hear us out: the Babe was born in Baltimore, right? And this game happened where? That's right! Baltimore! At Camden Yards, even, which is allegedly located at the exact same spot he was born lo those many years ago. Ergo, the Curse is back. Sorry, guys, this means Orioles fans are going to be chanting "11-10" at us for years to come.
2. The entire bullpen hates John Smoltz. Now, they'll try to deny it--"He's a surefire Hall of Famer," Masty'll say; "Who doesn't love Smotlz?" Okaji will ask (okay, he'd ask in Japanese, but we're the kind of stereotypical Americans who get by with some English, a couple of catchphrases in Spanish and French, and charm)--but the facts can't be denied. Smoltz pitched well yesterday, but the bullpen was in full-on sabotage mode. Never mind that Smoltz wasn't in line for the win anyway; little details like "facts" and "logic" merely get in the way of a brilliant conspiracy theory. Actually, that isn't even the biggest flaw in this theory, anyway. The biggest problem is the fact that Jonathan Papelbon would have to be in on the plan, and we all know he's got the memory of a non-memory-having thing. Like a goldfish. Or a cactus. A scene, if you'll indulge us:
PAP: He's always going on about his friend, Tiger Woods. 'My friend Tiger woods did this, my friend Tiger Woods did that.' You don't see me always bragging on 'my friend Eli Manning,' do you?
TEK: No, but that'd be dumb.
PAP: Ex--heeey, wait a--
TEK: Eli. I was insulting Eli.
PAP: Okay then. Wait, what were we talking about again?
...and end scene.
3. Picture it: Baltimore, 2009. A solitary figure stands atop a lonely light tower, peering into a long-range telescope. Every so often, he flickers a flashlight. Or one of those red laser pointer things. Back on the field, the Orioles batter reads the sign being transitted from on high and swings. He does not miss.
4. It was the power of The Wieters. He is Baseball Jesus, after all.
5. Perhaps you noticed, as we did, that when play resumed after the rain delay, Tek was no longer wearing the tall socks. It was jarring. It was strange. It was wrong. Of course, Tito pulled him not long after we made that observation, and it quickly slipped our minds. How could we overlook such an important wardrobe issue? Could Tek without tall socks be the hosiery version of Failhat? Let's hope this hypothesis is never again tested!
Luckily, it looks like the intrepid crew we call the Red Sox recognized all of the above signs and portents and took appropriate action late last night. A phone call was placed to one Kevin Millar, and he talked his former teammates and his ex-Marlin friends (and even Julio Lugo) through the appropriate curse-breaking rituals. Sure, Beckett's pitching was possibly affected by the copious amounts of Jack Daniels he was forced to drink--against his will, we're sure--to complete the ritual, but luckily the curse lifted just as the ninth inning rolled around.
So, yes, yesterday hurt. There's no sugarcoating it. But, hey, if the Red Sox win in extra innings and no one's there to see it because we're all stuck in our stupid offices cursing the IT gods in vain, it still kicks ass. And that's a fact.
*We've filled our obligatory Michael Jackson reference quota, so the world blog police can't come after us.
**PAP: All's I know is, you never see me doin' my fist-pumps before the third strike. That's three. Count 'em. Uno, dos, tres, quatorze.
***What a horrible word. We vote that we rename it "Goretopia," for the founder, inventer, and colonial conquerer of these here interwebs.
Showing posts with label papelbon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label papelbon. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
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:
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
We do not need to buy seats from Fenway to keep in this house
So, a few weeks ago we decided we wanted tickets to this game, and we ended up with these lovely seats.* As it turned out, the Red Sox had a magic number of one that night, but they were going to have to get through the man whose name has been engraved on the Cy Young since April to clinch their postseason berth. And, while Wakefield's been money for us** all season, we were understandably less than confident about the offense. The Red Sox have had their problems scoring runs against good pitching all season, and visions of a heartbreaking 1-0 loss danced in our heads.
Tense game. Terribly tense game. Wonderfully tense game. The Sox got two runs while we were waiting in line for food, then Wake--with the help of some uncharacteristically sloppy defense--surrendered four runs in one inning, the fourth crossing the plate just as we returned to our seats. We ate, drank, explained the scoreboard to the guy from New Zealand behind us. The bullpen band played. We knocked on our chairs, danced to Coco's at-bat music, and watched as they managed to score three more runs, way more than we expected off Lee. They took that one run lead, and they clung to it. Cleveland kept putting runners on; the Red Sox kept squeaking out of it. The crowd spent more time on its feet than in their seats.
Top of the eight, bases loaded, two outs. Cue Wild Thing. Cue I'm Shipping up to Boston. Cue a first pitch ground-out, another Houdini moment. The game continued; the thin lead held into the ninth. Papelbon got the final batter to pop the ball up, and started jumping up and down while it was still in the air.
Then there was a big shouting, hugging dogpile on the field, which never gets even one bit old.
We rushed to get down close to the field while the team was partying in the dugout, and ended up right behind the home plate net. Bullpen pitchers emerged carrying tiny babies and champagne to spray. There was Kevin Youkilis with his cherubic blond child*** jogging around the bases. There were players being interviewed, all drunk and happy and grabbing each other. There was Papelbon hugging himself and gesturing to the crowd, strutting about in a belly shirt, and actually digging the bases up and giving them away to random fans.
And then Jason Varitek decided to greet every fan left in the park. Personally. He is the Captain, after all.
He made his way around starting at the dugout by first base, down to the area back of home plate, where he gave us the world's most gentle high fives. His eyes were crinkly. His hands were big and warm and surprisingly soft. He went all the way down to the left field corner before he rejoined his teammates for more back-slapping and lite-beer drinking in the middle of the diamond. We didn't manage to take pictures in our glee. He looks amazing in person. In real life.
We went to ten Sox games this year, and we sat through rain delays and heat waves, come-from-behind wins and inexplicable losses to the Orioles, Julio Lugo forgetting how to catch a batted ball as if the knowledge was surgically excised from his brain****, and Jed Lowrie learning to hit at Fenway. We sat through the lows and the highs of a very long season. And we know that as long as it was for us, it was longer, more arduous and stressful and punishing, for the guys on the field. There's been a lot of baseball.
So it's astounding, and wonderful, that the greatest moment***** we shared with them in person was the moment that confirmed we will see more baseball. The season won't end in September. We have another chance at the brass ring. And this isn't cause for exhaustion, it's cause for a champagne celebration. Big strong men cheered and hugged their teammates and danced with their children and, at Fenway Park on a suddenly warm autumn night, they reached out to us to share the joy.
Red Sox Win, the scoreboard said.
And we sang and danced all the way home.
*Sometimes, you buy tickets from the official site and end up standing on your head behind a pole somewhere in Medford. Sometimes, you end up with pretty awesome seats.
**By which we do, in fact, mean us, personally. If Wake only pitched while we were in attendance, he'd be 800-3 or something crazy like that.
***Is it weird or wrong to think they're extra cute because it's his fiancee's kid and not, biologically, his?
****Sigh. But it's mean to pick on a dude who's down with a nasty calf injury, so this is a mercy footnote.
*****We missed being at Jon Lester's no-hitter by one day! But we were at the crazy game with the 19-17 score. Definitely got several Broadway shows' worth of drama.
Top of the eight, bases loaded, two outs. Cue Wild Thing. Cue I'm Shipping up to Boston. Cue a first pitch ground-out, another Houdini moment. The game continued; the thin lead held into the ninth. Papelbon got the final batter to pop the ball up, and started jumping up and down while it was still in the air.
Then there was a big shouting, hugging dogpile on the field, which never gets even one bit old.
We rushed to get down close to the field while the team was partying in the dugout, and ended up right behind the home plate net. Bullpen pitchers emerged carrying tiny babies and champagne to spray. There was Kevin Youkilis with his cherubic blond child*** jogging around the bases. There were players being interviewed, all drunk and happy and grabbing each other. There was Papelbon hugging himself and gesturing to the crowd, strutting about in a belly shirt, and actually digging the bases up and giving them away to random fans.
And then Jason Varitek decided to greet every fan left in the park. Personally. He is the Captain, after all.
He made his way around starting at the dugout by first base, down to the area back of home plate, where he gave us the world's most gentle high fives. His eyes were crinkly. His hands were big and warm and surprisingly soft. He went all the way down to the left field corner before he rejoined his teammates for more back-slapping and lite-beer drinking in the middle of the diamond. We didn't manage to take pictures in our glee. He looks amazing in person. In real life.
We went to ten Sox games this year, and we sat through rain delays and heat waves, come-from-behind wins and inexplicable losses to the Orioles, Julio Lugo forgetting how to catch a batted ball as if the knowledge was surgically excised from his brain****, and Jed Lowrie learning to hit at Fenway. We sat through the lows and the highs of a very long season. And we know that as long as it was for us, it was longer, more arduous and stressful and punishing, for the guys on the field. There's been a lot of baseball.
So it's astounding, and wonderful, that the greatest moment***** we shared with them in person was the moment that confirmed we will see more baseball. The season won't end in September. We have another chance at the brass ring. And this isn't cause for exhaustion, it's cause for a champagne celebration. Big strong men cheered and hugged their teammates and danced with their children and, at Fenway Park on a suddenly warm autumn night, they reached out to us to share the joy.
Red Sox Win, the scoreboard said.
And we sang and danced all the way home.
*Sometimes, you buy tickets from the official site and end up standing on your head behind a pole somewhere in Medford. Sometimes, you end up with pretty awesome seats.
**By which we do, in fact, mean us, personally. If Wake only pitched while we were in attendance, he'd be 800-3 or something crazy like that.
***Is it weird or wrong to think they're extra cute because it's his fiancee's kid and not, biologically, his?
****Sigh. But it's mean to pick on a dude who's down with a nasty calf injury, so this is a mercy footnote.
*****We missed being at Jon Lester's no-hitter by one day! But we were at the crazy game with the 19-17 score. Definitely got several Broadway shows' worth of drama.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
We do not seduce and destroy in this house
Apparently, the Red Sox are not in the business of distracting the New England masses from their "Matt Cassel is our quarterback" woes.* Unless, of course--and bear with us while we spin the crazy here--their cunning plan involves making September baseball so stressful and panic-inducing that we're all left far too cotton-brained and bleary to remember that there's a football team 'round these parts. In which case: mission accomplished, guys, thanks for playing the LOB and Relief Corps Failure Parade game (safe for all ages, available at K-Mart, comes with a special John Madden voiceover track)!
We'll be at Fenway on Friday, and we're hoping to relocate the mojo that allowed the home team to win in our presence on Monday night.** Jennifer's switching out her pretty Fenway desktop wallpaper as we speak; she took the picture herself, so it really pains her to admit that it is obviously a jinxy jinxer that jinxes, but facts must be faced. She put up the wallpaper Tuesday morning, and the Red Sox haven't won since.
And it's not just that they haven't won. It's that Papelbon blew a save; yes, yes, dude's human, blah de blah, nobody's perfect, but every time he blows a save it feels like the kitten you were playing with turned into a pissy mountain lion, slashed right through your arm, and destroyed your whole house while you called 911. It's that Beckett pitched a good game, the bullpen held it together for an insane number of innings, and the offense managed to do jack shit.
Of course, you could also look at it like this: Lester was awesome, Beckett was pretty fucking good for a guy in his second start after seeing the dreaded Dr. James Andrews, and most of the bullpen was lights out. We all expect Pap to bounce back, and, well, can anyone honestly say they didn't call Wednesday night's game once Timlin took the mound? We love the Admiral, don't get us wrong, but we do sometimes wish he was only around in some sort of coaching and/or hawk hunting capacity.
So, no, we're not freaking out (too much), because even in this demoralizing series, there are still positive signs indicating the potential for October kickassery. The postseason is the goal, and we all know that everything changes once you get there. Hell, the Sox had their problems with The The Angels Angels of Anaheim last season, but you wouldn't know it from the ALDS. So: get there. And anything's possible.
Plus, maybe you haven't heard, but Tampa Bay? Actually good at baseball these days.
Although we really wish Tom Seaver would show up and kick their asses for referring to themselves as amazin'.
*Full disclaimer: we aren't really Patriots fans, but we've reached a point in our sports fan development where we will say, without any irony, "hey, let's watch a football game today." This is a huge step for us. Y'all should be proud.
**Now, here's a question: should we wear the same jerseys we wore on Monday, even though they're completely not relevant to Friday's game (Lester and Varitek, neither of whom will be starting), or is that just crossing the line from serious sleep deprivation into full-on crazytown?***
***We tarried too long in writing up that experience. Here are the important highlights: Caroline got to shake hands with Johnny Pesky (!), our nearest neighbors were plotting to steal Coco Crisp from his wife, and a uniformed member of Boston's finest threatened to kick us out and relieve our benefactor of her season tickets if we refused to participate in the wave.
We'll be at Fenway on Friday, and we're hoping to relocate the mojo that allowed the home team to win in our presence on Monday night.** Jennifer's switching out her pretty Fenway desktop wallpaper as we speak; she took the picture herself, so it really pains her to admit that it is obviously a jinxy jinxer that jinxes, but facts must be faced. She put up the wallpaper Tuesday morning, and the Red Sox haven't won since.
And it's not just that they haven't won. It's that Papelbon blew a save; yes, yes, dude's human, blah de blah, nobody's perfect, but every time he blows a save it feels like the kitten you were playing with turned into a pissy mountain lion, slashed right through your arm, and destroyed your whole house while you called 911. It's that Beckett pitched a good game, the bullpen held it together for an insane number of innings, and the offense managed to do jack shit.
Of course, you could also look at it like this: Lester was awesome, Beckett was pretty fucking good for a guy in his second start after seeing the dreaded Dr. James Andrews, and most of the bullpen was lights out. We all expect Pap to bounce back, and, well, can anyone honestly say they didn't call Wednesday night's game once Timlin took the mound? We love the Admiral, don't get us wrong, but we do sometimes wish he was only around in some sort of coaching and/or hawk hunting capacity.
So, no, we're not freaking out (too much), because even in this demoralizing series, there are still positive signs indicating the potential for October kickassery. The postseason is the goal, and we all know that everything changes once you get there. Hell, the Sox had their problems with The The Angels Angels of Anaheim last season, but you wouldn't know it from the ALDS. So: get there. And anything's possible.
Plus, maybe you haven't heard, but Tampa Bay? Actually good at baseball these days.
Although we really wish Tom Seaver would show up and kick their asses for referring to themselves as amazin'.
*Full disclaimer: we aren't really Patriots fans, but we've reached a point in our sports fan development where we will say, without any irony, "hey, let's watch a football game today." This is a huge step for us. Y'all should be proud.
**Now, here's a question: should we wear the same jerseys we wore on Monday, even though they're completely not relevant to Friday's game (Lester and Varitek, neither of whom will be starting), or is that just crossing the line from serious sleep deprivation into full-on crazytown?***
***We tarried too long in writing up that experience. Here are the important highlights: Caroline got to shake hands with Johnny Pesky (!), our nearest neighbors were plotting to steal Coco Crisp from his wife, and a uniformed member of Boston's finest threatened to kick us out and relieve our benefactor of her season tickets if we refused to participate in the wave.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
We do not put the blame on you in this house
06/20/08: Cardinals 5, Red Sox 4
Yeah, we were there.
We were there before and after the rain, there to watch the Celtics' duck boats get soaked and still there, a little damper, when they returned for the ceremonial first pitch. The Truth threw some high heat, but Jason Varitek couldn't handle the ball and had to chase it all they way to the backstop He managed to find the ball, though, and walked it back to the mound, where he shared a Captain to Captain handshake and a few hugs with his taller, lankier brethren.
That was pretty much the highlight of the evening. Well, that and Pap & Manny's music video debut. We seriously spent the entire time it was playing alternately staring, laughing, and turning to each other and saying, "That's so special, it's like riding the bus with Rosie O'Donnell's sister." If that video's not up for a MTV Music Video Award* next year, we're going to pitch a fit.
The game itself was mostly forgettable, if exciting enough in a give-and-take way. There was a bit of confusion in our section when loud cheers could be heard after a Cardinal home run; turns out there was a relatively large crowd of Cards fans in attendance, which just isn't something we're used to at Fenway. We've been spoiled, we know, but it was still a strange experience.
So, yes, there was a game. Wake was serviceable, if not great, and Oki continued to alternate moments of brilliance with moments of BP pitching. And then there was Aardsma. He's been frustrating this season, combining that fastball of his with an inability to throw strikes, but last night he was perfect. One-two-three strikeouts, beautiful strikeouts, and the baseball highlight of the evening by far. By that time, much of our section had cleared out (there were lots of families with small kids, and it was getting late), and we turned to each other and said, "We're glad we stayed, not just because it's right. Because we got to see that."
Let's not even mention today's game, okay? The PawSox are winning! Watch the PawSox hit home runs! Thrill as Jed Lowrie turns yet another double play! Do not think about Julio Lugo. Ignore him and he'll go away.
*Do those still even exist? The last time we saw a Video Music Award, it was being stolen from its rightful winner by a Beastie Boy.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
We do not control the vertical in this house
04/29/08: Blue Jays 0, Red Sox 1
RCN and NESN conspired to keep us away from baseball-induced ulcers by refusing to broadcast last night's game until it was well underway. Therefore, we spent a good portion of last night watching an exhibition softball game between Team USA and the Oklahoma Sooners and imagining Jonathan Papelbon's rapture over watching Jennie Finch in the circle for Team USA. She's blonde, she's an amazing pitcher, and she wears short shorts with thigh high socks as her uniform. Obviously Pap is in love with her. And he won't hear you talking any smack about her, okay? Okay.
So, thanks, RCN, we missed most of last night's game. In fact, when the softball game ended, our NESN feed still wasn't working. We were forced to watch basketball. And not women's college basketball, a sport that we (like Manny Ramirez) respect and love. Oh, no, this was professional basketball. NBA basketball. Where's the fun in that?*
But luckily the blue screen of doom finally went away, and we were dropped head-first into a crazy pitchers' duel. And how proud are we of Little Jonny Lester**, who finally started throwing some first-pitch strikes and showing that will to win we all know he has? How awesome is our Second Base Midget***? What about that Youk fellow? And how thrilled are we that our Captain seems to have survived the flu, minus a few pounds that he hardly had to spare, and he's back behind the dish where he belongs? And did we mention Little Jonny Lester? And Pap, of course. It would've been nice for Lester to get a complete game, but we were starting to worry Pap would explode if he didn't get to throw.
Yeah, what a game. We assume. The last couple of innings were good baseball, at any rate. M-may we have some more, please?
GBMU for last night: one infield single against the Doc. Which is more than anyone not named Youkilis, Ramirez, or Varitek managed.
*Please do tell us where the fun is in that, if you happen to have its coordinates. As far as we can tell it retired around about the time Michael Jordan switched numbers. We like Kevin Garnett and everything, he seems like a good dude, but the actual games are just shy of NASCAR levels of boring.
**Who would likely kick our asses for continuing to refer to him as Little Jonny Lester, but we just can't help it. It's not his size or his talent level or even his age that causes it, necessarily; we don't think of Jose Reyes as a kid in the same way. Maybe we could convince him to take it as a compliment. We'll just tell him it's his blues musician name. Like Little Walter, or Blind Willie Fill-In-The-Blank.
***In the immortal words of one Vernon Wells, he is "Superman at second base." Our Infield Midget can totally beat up Toronto's Infield Midget.
RCN and NESN conspired to keep us away from baseball-induced ulcers by refusing to broadcast last night's game until it was well underway. Therefore, we spent a good portion of last night watching an exhibition softball game between Team USA and the Oklahoma Sooners and imagining Jonathan Papelbon's rapture over watching Jennie Finch in the circle for Team USA. She's blonde, she's an amazing pitcher, and she wears short shorts with thigh high socks as her uniform. Obviously Pap is in love with her. And he won't hear you talking any smack about her, okay? Okay.
So, thanks, RCN, we missed most of last night's game. In fact, when the softball game ended, our NESN feed still wasn't working. We were forced to watch basketball. And not women's college basketball, a sport that we (like Manny Ramirez) respect and love. Oh, no, this was professional basketball. NBA basketball. Where's the fun in that?*
But luckily the blue screen of doom finally went away, and we were dropped head-first into a crazy pitchers' duel. And how proud are we of Little Jonny Lester**, who finally started throwing some first-pitch strikes and showing that will to win we all know he has? How awesome is our Second Base Midget***? What about that Youk fellow? And how thrilled are we that our Captain seems to have survived the flu, minus a few pounds that he hardly had to spare, and he's back behind the dish where he belongs? And did we mention Little Jonny Lester? And Pap, of course. It would've been nice for Lester to get a complete game, but we were starting to worry Pap would explode if he didn't get to throw.
Yeah, what a game. We assume. The last couple of innings were good baseball, at any rate. M-may we have some more, please?
GBMU for last night: one infield single against the Doc. Which is more than anyone not named Youkilis, Ramirez, or Varitek managed.
*Please do tell us where the fun is in that, if you happen to have its coordinates. As far as we can tell it retired around about the time Michael Jordan switched numbers. We like Kevin Garnett and everything, he seems like a good dude, but the actual games are just shy of NASCAR levels of boring.
**Who would likely kick our asses for continuing to refer to him as Little Jonny Lester, but we just can't help it. It's not his size or his talent level or even his age that causes it, necessarily; we don't think of Jose Reyes as a kid in the same way. Maybe we could convince him to take it as a compliment. We'll just tell him it's his blues musician name. Like Little Walter, or Blind Willie Fill-In-The-Blank.
***In the immortal words of one Vernon Wells, he is "Superman at second base." Our Infield Midget can totally beat up Toronto's Infield Midget.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
We do not believe that Grandma got run over by a reindeer in this house
Were we the kind of people who actually send out holiday cards, rather than the kind of people who just talk about it on the internet and never manage to get cards printed (let alone mailed) before Opening Day, these are the holiday cards we'd send:
Watch what you say, now,
'cause Jonathan Papelbon
believes in Santa.
As the voices in Pap's head would say, dance when the spirit moves you, always keep the eggnog flowing, and Happy Holidays to those who celebrate 'em. Hopefully we'll get back into posting semi-regularly once the insanity of the season passes.
'cause Jonathan Papelbon
believes in Santa.
As the voices in Pap's head would say, dance when the spirit moves you, always keep the eggnog flowing, and Happy Holidays to those who celebrate 'em. Hopefully we'll get back into posting semi-regularly once the insanity of the season passes.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
We do not leave games early in this house
9/7/07: Devil Rays 4, Red Sox 5
This is going to be hard for us to blog about in any coherent way, because how do you reduce the ecstasy of a perfect Fenway Park experience to words on a screen? (Unless you are Beth, who channeled it perfectly.)
I. Pre-Game
For once in our sweet, short lives, we made it to Fenway in time for batting practice, a fun ritual elevated by two sightings: 1) Manny's first live BP since the oblique strain, and 2) Save: J. Papelbon filming the latest Friendly's Scoop. Naturally, the latter drew us down close to the field* and we got to hear him rant about how Tito is a cheatin' manager who better watch his back (we admit to being paralyzed with fear for a moment before realizing he was talking about fantasy football).
Plus, we can now provide a tantalizing sneak peek of future Scoops: Paps inaudibly interviewed Manny Delcarmen and then audibly botched saying his own name three times in a row while taping the intro. So our new favorite saying is, "This is Jonathan Papa-blah-blah." Okay, it's not that handy as favorite sayings go, not as easy to drop into conversation as a Seinfeld reference, but love will find a way.
Jonathan Papelbon: oh, he's real, and he's spectacular.
II. Unsung Heroes
Jon Lester's first-inning peccadilloes definitely gave us chills. And nausea. You know, vague symptoms like Mike Lowell's.** Credit where it's due--once he got out of the inning, even though he continued to terrify us and rack up the pitch count like a pinball score, he didn't allow another run. But this is not a story about starting pitching and its desertion of the greater Boston area. This is not a story about shame.
This is the story of Julian Tavarez and his Moste Merrie Pirate Companie. When Lester departed in the 4th, a tourist standing near us asked, "Are we clapping because he did a good job, or clapping because they're taking him out?" We patiently explained that it was a little of both, and a little bit because we were scared of what might happen once Tavvy had the ball. But he got a quick out to end the inning and followed it with a pair of 1-2-3 innings at lightning speed. The tone of conversation in our little bit of grandstand changed from, "Oh dear, Tavvy time" to "Julian Tavarez, bitches and gentlemen!" He got a standing O for his trouble, and there was no mistaking the intent; that was love.
Daddy Delcarmen and Okajima-Okey-Dokey were both reassuringly effective, and we expected Okajima back to begin the ninth, but then the opening chords of "Wild Thing"*** blared out, and that's when the game really turned around. Papelbon jogged in and paused, prayerfully, on the edge of the infield, and the feeling began to spread through the stands that Francona was doing the right thing**** by sending in Mr. C. Ocho, save or no save. As hapless as the Sox had seemed to that point, the game suddenly seemed to be ours for the taking.
III. Mr. Clutch Is Back
When Papi hit one over the bullpens in the fourth and made the score 4-3, we said to ourselves, "Well, if nothing comes out of this game but the scarring humiliation of losing a home series to a team that wears vests, at least we got to see a classic Ortiz home run." We had several innings to think about what a nice memory that would be, and how we'd hold onto it through the long dark teatime of the off-night. We were prepared. Maybe even resigned.
Then Lugo drew the walk to lead off the ninth, and we started to wonder.
Papi comes to the plate, one on, one out, and of course every one of our 37,000 friends is thinking it.***** But we're all hedging our bets, reminding ourselves that Papi's already blasted in the few runs we have, and we can't expect him to actually single-handedly carry the team. We're thinking that a double would be really nice; that even a long single that got Lugo to third would give us a solid shot at tying the thing up. We're remembering Coco knocking Tek around from second a month ago off the very pitcher we see before us, and we're on our feet hoping that at least it doesn't end here with a double play.
The count goes to 3-1 and we figure they'll just throw him another ball and try to make Youk ground into a double play. But this is not a story about double plays.
Papi hits the ball about a mile in the air, and it just stays up there, floating, doing some kind of crazy dance, with all of us craning our necks and holding our breath to see where it might come down. From our vantage point (and apparently Tito's) it looks like it'll make the seats, but possibly fall foul. (We didn't realize until we saw NESN's replay that the ball was so close to catchable.)
Finally the ball drops, and drops, and disappears. For a split second, nobody is sure where it landed, or maybe nobody's sure they can trust what their eyes tell them they just saw.
Nobody relaxes until we realize that Lugo and Papi are running the bases, and the rest of the Sox are leaping the dugout fence to meet them at home plate.
Pandemonium. "Dirty Water." Hugs. High-fives. Beer. Magic.
This is a story about baseball. In baseball, one swing of the bat can clear away three and a half hours of doubt and depression. In baseball, a bullpen that keeps a stuffed parrot as a mascot can pull together for what really should be credited as a combined win. In baseball, there's no such thing as running out of time.
The moral of the story is that we love our Papi and he loves us.
Sweet dreams.
*Here, have a crappy cell phone picture.
**"Activity from both ends." Ugh. Thanks for sharing, Tito.
***Which are also the opening chords of "Louie, Louie." They are actually the exact same song.
****And that's an unfamiliar feeling in any game which features Eric Hinske at first base.
*****Okay, maybe not every one. We did spot a grand total of two people wearing Devil Ray gear. But we can't say for sure that they weren't being ironic.
This is going to be hard for us to blog about in any coherent way, because how do you reduce the ecstasy of a perfect Fenway Park experience to words on a screen? (Unless you are Beth, who channeled it perfectly.)
I. Pre-Game
For once in our sweet, short lives, we made it to Fenway in time for batting practice, a fun ritual elevated by two sightings: 1) Manny's first live BP since the oblique strain, and 2) Save: J. Papelbon filming the latest Friendly's Scoop. Naturally, the latter drew us down close to the field* and we got to hear him rant about how Tito is a cheatin' manager who better watch his back (we admit to being paralyzed with fear for a moment before realizing he was talking about fantasy football).
Plus, we can now provide a tantalizing sneak peek of future Scoops: Paps inaudibly interviewed Manny Delcarmen and then audibly botched saying his own name three times in a row while taping the intro. So our new favorite saying is, "This is Jonathan Papa-blah-blah." Okay, it's not that handy as favorite sayings go, not as easy to drop into conversation as a Seinfeld reference, but love will find a way.
Jonathan Papelbon: oh, he's real, and he's spectacular.
II. Unsung Heroes
Jon Lester's first-inning peccadilloes definitely gave us chills. And nausea. You know, vague symptoms like Mike Lowell's.** Credit where it's due--once he got out of the inning, even though he continued to terrify us and rack up the pitch count like a pinball score, he didn't allow another run. But this is not a story about starting pitching and its desertion of the greater Boston area. This is not a story about shame.
This is the story of Julian Tavarez and his Moste Merrie Pirate Companie. When Lester departed in the 4th, a tourist standing near us asked, "Are we clapping because he did a good job, or clapping because they're taking him out?" We patiently explained that it was a little of both, and a little bit because we were scared of what might happen once Tavvy had the ball. But he got a quick out to end the inning and followed it with a pair of 1-2-3 innings at lightning speed. The tone of conversation in our little bit of grandstand changed from, "Oh dear, Tavvy time" to "Julian Tavarez, bitches and gentlemen!" He got a standing O for his trouble, and there was no mistaking the intent; that was love.
Daddy Delcarmen and Okajima-Okey-Dokey were both reassuringly effective, and we expected Okajima back to begin the ninth, but then the opening chords of "Wild Thing"*** blared out, and that's when the game really turned around. Papelbon jogged in and paused, prayerfully, on the edge of the infield, and the feeling began to spread through the stands that Francona was doing the right thing**** by sending in Mr. C. Ocho, save or no save. As hapless as the Sox had seemed to that point, the game suddenly seemed to be ours for the taking.
III. Mr. Clutch Is Back
When Papi hit one over the bullpens in the fourth and made the score 4-3, we said to ourselves, "Well, if nothing comes out of this game but the scarring humiliation of losing a home series to a team that wears vests, at least we got to see a classic Ortiz home run." We had several innings to think about what a nice memory that would be, and how we'd hold onto it through the long dark teatime of the off-night. We were prepared. Maybe even resigned.
Then Lugo drew the walk to lead off the ninth, and we started to wonder.
Papi comes to the plate, one on, one out, and of course every one of our 37,000 friends is thinking it.***** But we're all hedging our bets, reminding ourselves that Papi's already blasted in the few runs we have, and we can't expect him to actually single-handedly carry the team. We're thinking that a double would be really nice; that even a long single that got Lugo to third would give us a solid shot at tying the thing up. We're remembering Coco knocking Tek around from second a month ago off the very pitcher we see before us, and we're on our feet hoping that at least it doesn't end here with a double play.
The count goes to 3-1 and we figure they'll just throw him another ball and try to make Youk ground into a double play. But this is not a story about double plays.
Papi hits the ball about a mile in the air, and it just stays up there, floating, doing some kind of crazy dance, with all of us craning our necks and holding our breath to see where it might come down. From our vantage point (and apparently Tito's) it looks like it'll make the seats, but possibly fall foul. (We didn't realize until we saw NESN's replay that the ball was so close to catchable.)
Finally the ball drops, and drops, and disappears. For a split second, nobody is sure where it landed, or maybe nobody's sure they can trust what their eyes tell them they just saw.
Nobody relaxes until we realize that Lugo and Papi are running the bases, and the rest of the Sox are leaping the dugout fence to meet them at home plate.
Pandemonium. "Dirty Water." Hugs. High-fives. Beer. Magic.
This is a story about baseball. In baseball, one swing of the bat can clear away three and a half hours of doubt and depression. In baseball, a bullpen that keeps a stuffed parrot as a mascot can pull together for what really should be credited as a combined win. In baseball, there's no such thing as running out of time.
The moral of the story is that we love our Papi and he loves us.
Sweet dreams.
*Here, have a crappy cell phone picture.
**"Activity from both ends." Ugh. Thanks for sharing, Tito.
***Which are also the opening chords of "Louie, Louie." They are actually the exact same song.
****And that's an unfamiliar feeling in any game which features Eric Hinske at first base.
*****Okay, maybe not every one. We did spot a grand total of two people wearing Devil Ray gear. But we can't say for sure that they weren't being ironic.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
We do not hit the road, Jack, in this house
We are not in denial.
We're not denying that the Sox played some alarmingly bad baseball during this road trip, including abysmal pitching, embarrassing defense, and incomprehensible bullpen management (you know who you are). But we're pretty sure every other Red Sox site in the world will handle that discussion for us. Just picture us participating in the collective forehead-slap, waving our "Impeach Gagné" signs, and chanting along with everyone else in the Nation, "The sky is falling!"
Instead of making ourselves feel even worse about the narrowing division lead, we thought we'd try and get our focus away from losing and flailing and failing. The scoreboard and the standings don't tell the whole story. Here's a countdown of the things that, win or lose, make us happy about Red Sox baseball in 2007.
5. Jonathan Papelbon: how is he real? He throws like a mofo, scares opposing batters, but off the field, he's an overgrown puppy dog, clamoring for attention and correcting Josh Beckett's grammar. He is the guy who can't handle losing at cribbage on the team plane. He's the guy who calls his manager a father figure and calls himself Cinco Ocho. Just when we start to think we might have made him up in our heads, we turn around and there he is, pumping his fist and calling Beckett a "mulligan."* Oh, Jonathan, we applaud you--clap your hands if you believe in closers!--and we hope you never change.
4. This team may not be quite as balls-out silly as the '04 squad, but they're damned entertaining in some surprising ways. For starters, even without some of the pure power-hitting we've come to expect, it's fun to watch them terrorize opponents with sheer plate discipline. It's especially fun when a struggling pitcher intentionally walks Varitek only to be tagged by Coco Crisp, or, even better, when said pitcher goes from struggling to completely baffled and walks in a run. We don't have numbers handy**, but we've seen this enough over the course of the year to learn to love it. Plus, it's definitely fun to yell, "Good eye!" from the cheap seats.
That's just one example of the unconventional ways this team's found to kick ass. How about Coco being Ichiro in centerfield? How about Josh Beckett cheering for Coco being Ichiro, and alternately venting his unutterable rage on innocent coolers, benches, and reporters that cross his path? How about Mike Timlin coming back and bringing new weapons--only figurative, we hope--to the bullpen, along with surprising strength from Okajima and Delcarmen? How about Dougie going deep? This team has survived injuries to its starting aces, and sub-Mendoza performances in the first half by key players. They've survived moose attacks. They've survived the continuing, soul-sucking presence of Dan Shaughnessy. They've survived cancer.
In a season where Bonds, A-Rod and Glavine made history***, Kerry Wood and Rick Ankiel staged comebacks that nobody ever thought would happen, and there are approximately 27 teams in the wild card races, the Red Sox remain the least boring team in baseball.
3. Our first, second, and third basemen. 3-4-5. The hot corners plus one. It's sort of shocking and awesome to think about how much of our team's offense has come from Youkilis, Lowell and Pedroia. All three are batting above .300 as of this writing; the lowest OPS in the bunch is Petey's more-than-respectable .840. They've also been defensive rock stars.**** Few things are sexier than Mikey flicking a ground ball over to Youk's waiting glove like they've rigged up their own private zip-line. Except possibly Pedroia leaping around like a Californian jumping bean and magically transforming a single into a double play.
There's also the small issue of their completely terrific personalities. We've seen 'em in the field, at the plate, and chilling with Tina Cervasio and/or Jonathan Papelbon; we feel like we know them, and to paraphrase Margaret Cho's memorable routine: There's the sweet one, the smart one...and then there's the Youk.
Watching these guys play for the season to date has been a treat. Here's hoping Theo "Yoko" Epstein doesn't break up the band next year.
2. Stumbles and all, the season so far really hasn't been bad. Remember that the Yankees were supposed to be leading the division all along? Remember that time our boys hit four home runs, back to back to back to back? Remember that we sent six guys to the All Star Game and have spent a good part of the summer debating which of our three Rookie Of The Year candidates is having the best season? Last season the Red Sox limped to third place in the AL East. This season, despite injuries and illnesses and an oddly grueling schedule and Julian "Batshit But Beloved" Tavarez as a starter through the All-Star Break, the Red Sox maintained a division lead all season (knock frantically on wood until your knuckles are as bruised as ours), a lead which is still the biggest in baseball.
No matter what happens with the rest of the season, whether we end up in a division race or a wild card race or even if we never win another game, we've gotten a much better ride than we expected. Definitely a much better ride than, say, Oakland fans (sorry, you three) have gotten after their team won the division last year. And it's true that some guys haven't produced at the level we might like, especially considering their salaries, but nobody on our team is Barry Zito.
Regardless of the eventual outcome (knock on splinters), we'd still take the 2007 Red Sox over the 2007 anybody-elses.
Sure, the Bronx may be burning again these days, but ladies and gentlemen, the Fens are still en fuego.
1. The Captain. We have one. He fought back from injuries for us. Behind the plate, he's a rock. Harvey Keitel would say he has a gun. His bat still has some pop left in it. He wears ice that beeps. All his pitchers are madly in love with him.
Nobody works harder. Nobody prepares better. Nobody has more binders.
One day he and Gabe Kapler will co-manage the Red Sox. And we will say, "We told you so!" But for the time being, we'll just watch Tek give everything he has to each pitch, watch him get spitting mad at himself when he strikes out on one of those high fastballs he can't resist, and listen to him demur the credit for one of his own home runs by praising the opposing pitcher. He's so completely committed to his team that it makes us proud to be on his side. We fully realize how embarrassed he'd be to hear us say this, but Jason Varitek could pretty much make baseball worthwhile all by his lonesome.
Forty-four games are left, just about a quarter of the regular season. It's too late to jump off the crazy train. Play ball, guys. We'll be with you.
*Papelbon is really, really obsessed with Josh Beckett. This can only lead to good things, like competitive awesome pitching, and possibly a home run derby. Or a wizards' duel.
**If you're joining our show already in progress, you might not realize this, but we virtually never have numbers handy. And we're writing this on the Internet, which is where numbers come from! But we did go to the trouble to look this one up: we have the second highest OBP in baseball, and have taken the most walks. Sing it with us: not too shabby!
***We don't want to give ourselves too much credit for reversing their karma, but--we guess you're welcome, guys. Please send checks and/or money orders to the home office.
****We're not excusing Mike Lowell's inexplicably numerous errors, but the 95% of the time when he isn't playing double-A defense, he's lights out. Big points to whoever took away his Just For Men.
We're not denying that the Sox played some alarmingly bad baseball during this road trip, including abysmal pitching, embarrassing defense, and incomprehensible bullpen management (you know who you are). But we're pretty sure every other Red Sox site in the world will handle that discussion for us. Just picture us participating in the collective forehead-slap, waving our "Impeach Gagné" signs, and chanting along with everyone else in the Nation, "The sky is falling!"
Instead of making ourselves feel even worse about the narrowing division lead, we thought we'd try and get our focus away from losing and flailing and failing. The scoreboard and the standings don't tell the whole story. Here's a countdown of the things that, win or lose, make us happy about Red Sox baseball in 2007.
5. Jonathan Papelbon: how is he real? He throws like a mofo, scares opposing batters, but off the field, he's an overgrown puppy dog, clamoring for attention and correcting Josh Beckett's grammar. He is the guy who can't handle losing at cribbage on the team plane. He's the guy who calls his manager a father figure and calls himself Cinco Ocho. Just when we start to think we might have made him up in our heads, we turn around and there he is, pumping his fist and calling Beckett a "mulligan."* Oh, Jonathan, we applaud you--clap your hands if you believe in closers!--and we hope you never change.
4. This team may not be quite as balls-out silly as the '04 squad, but they're damned entertaining in some surprising ways. For starters, even without some of the pure power-hitting we've come to expect, it's fun to watch them terrorize opponents with sheer plate discipline. It's especially fun when a struggling pitcher intentionally walks Varitek only to be tagged by Coco Crisp, or, even better, when said pitcher goes from struggling to completely baffled and walks in a run. We don't have numbers handy**, but we've seen this enough over the course of the year to learn to love it. Plus, it's definitely fun to yell, "Good eye!" from the cheap seats.
That's just one example of the unconventional ways this team's found to kick ass. How about Coco being Ichiro in centerfield? How about Josh Beckett cheering for Coco being Ichiro, and alternately venting his unutterable rage on innocent coolers, benches, and reporters that cross his path? How about Mike Timlin coming back and bringing new weapons--only figurative, we hope--to the bullpen, along with surprising strength from Okajima and Delcarmen? How about Dougie going deep? This team has survived injuries to its starting aces, and sub-Mendoza performances in the first half by key players. They've survived moose attacks. They've survived the continuing, soul-sucking presence of Dan Shaughnessy. They've survived cancer.
In a season where Bonds, A-Rod and Glavine made history***, Kerry Wood and Rick Ankiel staged comebacks that nobody ever thought would happen, and there are approximately 27 teams in the wild card races, the Red Sox remain the least boring team in baseball.
3. Our first, second, and third basemen. 3-4-5. The hot corners plus one. It's sort of shocking and awesome to think about how much of our team's offense has come from Youkilis, Lowell and Pedroia. All three are batting above .300 as of this writing; the lowest OPS in the bunch is Petey's more-than-respectable .840. They've also been defensive rock stars.**** Few things are sexier than Mikey flicking a ground ball over to Youk's waiting glove like they've rigged up their own private zip-line. Except possibly Pedroia leaping around like a Californian jumping bean and magically transforming a single into a double play.
There's also the small issue of their completely terrific personalities. We've seen 'em in the field, at the plate, and chilling with Tina Cervasio and/or Jonathan Papelbon; we feel like we know them, and to paraphrase Margaret Cho's memorable routine: There's the sweet one, the smart one...and then there's the Youk.
Watching these guys play for the season to date has been a treat. Here's hoping Theo "Yoko" Epstein doesn't break up the band next year.
2. Stumbles and all, the season so far really hasn't been bad. Remember that the Yankees were supposed to be leading the division all along? Remember that time our boys hit four home runs, back to back to back to back? Remember that we sent six guys to the All Star Game and have spent a good part of the summer debating which of our three Rookie Of The Year candidates is having the best season? Last season the Red Sox limped to third place in the AL East. This season, despite injuries and illnesses and an oddly grueling schedule and Julian "Batshit But Beloved" Tavarez as a starter through the All-Star Break, the Red Sox maintained a division lead all season (knock frantically on wood until your knuckles are as bruised as ours), a lead which is still the biggest in baseball.
No matter what happens with the rest of the season, whether we end up in a division race or a wild card race or even if we never win another game, we've gotten a much better ride than we expected. Definitely a much better ride than, say, Oakland fans (sorry, you three) have gotten after their team won the division last year. And it's true that some guys haven't produced at the level we might like, especially considering their salaries, but nobody on our team is Barry Zito.
Regardless of the eventual outcome (knock on splinters), we'd still take the 2007 Red Sox over the 2007 anybody-elses.
Sure, the Bronx may be burning again these days, but ladies and gentlemen, the Fens are still en fuego.
1. The Captain. We have one. He fought back from injuries for us. Behind the plate, he's a rock. Harvey Keitel would say he has a gun. His bat still has some pop left in it. He wears ice that beeps. All his pitchers are madly in love with him.
Nobody works harder. Nobody prepares better. Nobody has more binders.
One day he and Gabe Kapler will co-manage the Red Sox. And we will say, "We told you so!" But for the time being, we'll just watch Tek give everything he has to each pitch, watch him get spitting mad at himself when he strikes out on one of those high fastballs he can't resist, and listen to him demur the credit for one of his own home runs by praising the opposing pitcher. He's so completely committed to his team that it makes us proud to be on his side. We fully realize how embarrassed he'd be to hear us say this, but Jason Varitek could pretty much make baseball worthwhile all by his lonesome.
Forty-four games are left, just about a quarter of the regular season. It's too late to jump off the crazy train. Play ball, guys. We'll be with you.
*Papelbon is really, really obsessed with Josh Beckett. This can only lead to good things, like competitive awesome pitching, and possibly a home run derby. Or a wizards' duel.
**If you're joining our show already in progress, you might not realize this, but we virtually never have numbers handy. And we're writing this on the Internet, which is where numbers come from! But we did go to the trouble to look this one up: we have the second highest OBP in baseball, and have taken the most walks. Sing it with us: not too shabby!
***We don't want to give ourselves too much credit for reversing their karma, but--we guess you're welcome, guys. Please send checks and/or money orders to the home office.
****We're not excusing Mike Lowell's inexplicably numerous errors, but the 95% of the time when he isn't playing double-A defense, he's lights out. Big points to whoever took away his Just For Men.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
We do not play with matches in this house
07/22/07: White Sox 5, Red Sox 8
We are not dead.
We felt it necessary to post and let everyone know this after the Sox bullpen did its damnedest to put the population of Boston into cardiac arrest. In fact, we really hope everyone else on ye olde blogroll sends up a survival flare, because that? Was some dangerous stuff.
Exactly what was going on in the bullpen today? Did Manny "The Cheese Stands Alone" Delcarmen and Cinco "Jonathan Papelbon" Ocho have a bet going on who could cause the most trauma without actually blowing a lead? Manny got out to a good head start, but Paps just said, "Pfft. Inherited runners? That's cheatin'. I can load the bases with no outs, just to get started!*"
Boys, it is all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.
(And thank heaven nobody translated the bet for Okajima.)
Please, let this not be a blood pressure practice drill for upcoming events. Like: what is up with them suddenly calling up Lester? Not that we want to watch Tavvy start again anytime soon, but it seems as though only yesterday we were singing another chorus of the "Lester isn't ready, he's struggling in the minors" song, and now...he's...ready? For Cleveland?** One of the four strongest teams in the league? Somebody explain this to us. Preferably more gently than they explained it to Joel Pineiro.
Of course, if Lester really can hold his ground in his first start, it'll be a thing of beauty to behold. Either way, there will be no relaxing. Start brewing Tuesday morning's coffee now.
Finally, in his post-game press conference, Tim Wakefield just called the young White Sox knuckleballer "another member of the fraternity." Why, exactly, don't we motor down to batting practice and give Wake hugs on a semi-weekly basis?
*The Thome strikeout and the death-defying double play were gorgeous, but we'll admit that right up until the final out we were arguing that they should at least put Tek in for Mirabelli, because it might have settled Jonathan down. We're pretty sure we should feel guilty for expressing doubt.
**While researching the pitching matchups for the Cleveland trip, we read C.C. Sabathia's Wikipedia page and discovered this factoid: He has his name tattooed uniform-style, across his back in large letters. This may be the finest tattoo we've ever heard about. Somebody tell us he also has a tramp stamp featuring his career stats as of 2003.
We are not dead.
We felt it necessary to post and let everyone know this after the Sox bullpen did its damnedest to put the population of Boston into cardiac arrest. In fact, we really hope everyone else on ye olde blogroll sends up a survival flare, because that? Was some dangerous stuff.
Exactly what was going on in the bullpen today? Did Manny "The Cheese Stands Alone" Delcarmen and Cinco "Jonathan Papelbon" Ocho have a bet going on who could cause the most trauma without actually blowing a lead? Manny got out to a good head start, but Paps just said, "Pfft. Inherited runners? That's cheatin'. I can load the bases with no outs, just to get started!*"
Boys, it is all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.
(And thank heaven nobody translated the bet for Okajima.)
Please, let this not be a blood pressure practice drill for upcoming events. Like: what is up with them suddenly calling up Lester? Not that we want to watch Tavvy start again anytime soon, but it seems as though only yesterday we were singing another chorus of the "Lester isn't ready, he's struggling in the minors" song, and now...he's...ready? For Cleveland?** One of the four strongest teams in the league? Somebody explain this to us. Preferably more gently than they explained it to Joel Pineiro.
Of course, if Lester really can hold his ground in his first start, it'll be a thing of beauty to behold. Either way, there will be no relaxing. Start brewing Tuesday morning's coffee now.
Finally, in his post-game press conference, Tim Wakefield just called the young White Sox knuckleballer "another member of the fraternity." Why, exactly, don't we motor down to batting practice and give Wake hugs on a semi-weekly basis?
*The Thome strikeout and the death-defying double play were gorgeous, but we'll admit that right up until the final out we were arguing that they should at least put Tek in for Mirabelli, because it might have settled Jonathan down. We're pretty sure we should feel guilty for expressing doubt.
**While researching the pitching matchups for the Cleveland trip, we read C.C. Sabathia's Wikipedia page and discovered this factoid: He has his name tattooed uniform-style, across his back in large letters. This may be the finest tattoo we've ever heard about. Somebody tell us he also has a tramp stamp featuring his career stats as of 2003.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
We do not scream for ice cream in this house
Dear Boston Red Sox,
Look, we know you used up your offense for the week against...some phantom team allegedly from Tampa. Clearly you weren't interested in winning last night* (c.f. Mike Lowell skying the ball over Not Youk at first, and also, Julian Tavarez). Tonight, despite a decent start by Little Suzy Gabbard, you (once again) couldn't move one extra run across the plate in twelve straight innings**. You guys need a break. Our hearts need less breaking. Is there any reason you didn't just forfeit the Detroit series and let everybody do something else fun for the weekend?
Big love,
The girls of Respect The Tek.
That said, we have a couple of non-game related items worthy of discussion:
+ Jason Varitek's Golf Mailbag. Oh, Captain our Captain. There's plenty to love here (Tek's baby Japanese! "Kevin can't steal my beard, his chin is too big!") but our favorite bit is his resistance to the implied suggestion that he might use a computer to collate his data on opposing players. Theo Epstein has probably tried to push this on him in the past--"See, you choose a name from this drop-down list, and the pivot table will break out the numbers for you like so!" Tek took one glance at the nice Excel fields and the tidy SQL backend and replied, "Theo, I got this binder here, it's my Central Division binder and it's organized by team and then by depth-chart position, and I went through with a highlighter so the lefties are yellow, the righties are blue--guess what color I used for switch hitters?"
And Theo probably didn't give up completely, he still sends out notes about corporate discounts on the Palm Pilot, but Tek just hugs his binder tight, secure in the knowledge that he'll still be able to look at hitter profiles when the peak oil crisis comes and the lights go out on Broadway.
Oh, and he has secret pregame rituals about which nobody must know. 'Fess up, Cap'n, said rituals involve staking vampires in the name of the Light, don't they?
+Friendly's Scoop with Jonathan Papelbon. He's serious, he's comical, he's sweet, he's surly, he surveys his teammates as to who's the sexiest pitcher*** and hitter, and he refers to himself as Cinco Ocho. After watching El Papelbon walk sadly away from the mound tonight, this is just what we needed. Well, that and a win later today to stop the sweep.
*Granted, Doug Mirabelli is a stud who hits bombs.
**Can anyone explain why they even put Papelbon in at that point? Sure, we were running low on arms, but we felt like it was a bad omen to see him come in when we hadn't taken a lead in the top of the inning.
***You can actually see him thinking, Come on, say Jonathan Papelbon, say it! Aww, shucks, no one ever says I'm sexy. Of course, if anyone ever did, he would probably blush so hard he'd fall down from the head-rush. And Josh Beckett would owe him ten bucks. Come to think of it, that would be the funniest Scoop ever. Make it so, Friendly's! And hey, I ordered a sundae, like, an hour ago!
Look, we know you used up your offense for the week against...some phantom team allegedly from Tampa. Clearly you weren't interested in winning last night* (c.f. Mike Lowell skying the ball over Not Youk at first, and also, Julian Tavarez). Tonight, despite a decent start by Little Suzy Gabbard, you (once again) couldn't move one extra run across the plate in twelve straight innings**. You guys need a break. Our hearts need less breaking. Is there any reason you didn't just forfeit the Detroit series and let everybody do something else fun for the weekend?
Big love,
The girls of Respect The Tek.
That said, we have a couple of non-game related items worthy of discussion:
+ Jason Varitek's Golf Mailbag. Oh, Captain our Captain. There's plenty to love here (Tek's baby Japanese! "Kevin can't steal my beard, his chin is too big!") but our favorite bit is his resistance to the implied suggestion that he might use a computer to collate his data on opposing players. Theo Epstein has probably tried to push this on him in the past--"See, you choose a name from this drop-down list, and the pivot table will break out the numbers for you like so!" Tek took one glance at the nice Excel fields and the tidy SQL backend and replied, "Theo, I got this binder here, it's my Central Division binder and it's organized by team and then by depth-chart position, and I went through with a highlighter so the lefties are yellow, the righties are blue--guess what color I used for switch hitters?"
And Theo probably didn't give up completely, he still sends out notes about corporate discounts on the Palm Pilot, but Tek just hugs his binder tight, secure in the knowledge that he'll still be able to look at hitter profiles when the peak oil crisis comes and the lights go out on Broadway.
Oh, and he has secret pregame rituals about which nobody must know. 'Fess up, Cap'n, said rituals involve staking vampires in the name of the Light, don't they?
+Friendly's Scoop with Jonathan Papelbon. He's serious, he's comical, he's sweet, he's surly, he surveys his teammates as to who's the sexiest pitcher*** and hitter, and he refers to himself as Cinco Ocho. After watching El Papelbon walk sadly away from the mound tonight, this is just what we needed. Well, that and a win later today to stop the sweep.
*Granted, Doug Mirabelli is a stud who hits bombs.
**Can anyone explain why they even put Papelbon in at that point? Sure, we were running low on arms, but we felt like it was a bad omen to see him come in when we hadn't taken a lead in the top of the inning.
***You can actually see him thinking, Come on, say Jonathan Papelbon, say it! Aww, shucks, no one ever says I'm sexy. Of course, if anyone ever did, he would probably blush so hard he'd fall down from the head-rush. And Josh Beckett would owe him ten bucks. Come to think of it, that would be the funniest Scoop ever. Make it so, Friendly's! And hey, I ordered a sundae, like, an hour ago!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
We do not flash Doug Mirabelli in this house
It seems right to start a new blog out on a positive note, so let's talk about last night's game rather than tonight's (so far).
(Please note that there is an implicit 'knock on wood' following any sentence ever posted here.)
06/12/07: Rockies 1, Red Sox 2
Lawyer Larry: "Do you like baseball?"
Jennifer: [flashing Papelbon bracelet] "Yes?"
Lawyer Larry: "Do you want tic--"
Jennifer: "Okay!"
Lawyer Larry: "--kets to tonight's game?"
Yes, yes we did. Bless you, Lawyer Larry, and your thirty-year-old season tickets. These are by far the best seats we've ever had at Fenway. In fact, they're the best seats either of us has ever had to a baseball game, and one of us used to weekend at the Kingdome, back in what the kids no longer call "the day."
Fast-forward a few hours. We've purchased our Pedroia* and Youkilis T-shirts, changed into them in the middle of Yawkey Way, and elbowed our way to seats twenty freakin' rows behind home plate, looking straight down the third base line. This is so unbelievably lucky that we spent much of the game pinching ourselves, and are still braced for the inevitable karmic ass-kicking to come (see also: tonight's game).
We sat down just in time for Tim Wakefield's first pitch. From our truly, truly, truly outrageous vantage point, we had a better view of the famous knuckleball than Jason Varitek ever wants to have.** You know how you always read that it dances? Yeah, it does that.
Caroline: "It is the Shakira of pitches."
Jennifer: "It's sexy, curvy, and it knows how to move."
Caroline: "It makes a man want to speak Spanish."
Jennifer: "..."
Caroline: "Too far with that metaphor?"
Though the score does not indicate as much, the Red Sox actually did have at-bats in the game along with the pitching. You know what's even more fun to watch than a knuckleball? Kevin Youkilis. Youk and his batting stance that makes him look like a maniacal lumberjack. A maniacal lumberjack with an equally maniacal ferret attached to his face. As with the knuckleball, Youk's stance looks cool on NESN but is even more entertaining in three dimensions. Like it or not, it's been the offensive highlight of recent games.
Things we didn't yell at batters, even though we wanted to:
"Yoouuuk, update your bloooog!"
"Dustin isn't slow, he just has tiny little legs!"
"Dougie's going deep tonight!" (Okay, we said it, but we didn't yell it.)
Things we did yell:
At Mike Lowell: "We like you better than Todd Helton!"
At Todd Helton: "We like Mike Lowell better than you!"
At Manny, during an intentional walk: "You don't have to swing at bad pitches, you should only swing at good pitches!"
And then Papelbon happened.
We say "happened" because the boy came on like a force of nature, with the aura of confidence and the thousand-yard, kid-from-Firestarter stare. It's funny how it can be totally apparent that a pitcher has full command--J.Pap's fastballs were like the Concorde to Tim Wakefield's Dodge Dart--and yet that didn't stop us and 37,000 of our newest best friends from holding our breath for all three beautiful, beautiful outs.
Caroline consented to sing along with her namesake song for once***, and Jennifer defeated the jinx her Yankee-fan mother placed upon her by witnessing her first Fenway victory.
In a word (and this is a pretty long post for us to be all "in-a-word" at the end, but welcome to the monkey house): blogworthy.
*We're pretty sure the people at the souvenir store had not even heard of Dustin Pedroia. Caroline hereby claims her T-shirt as the first of its kind, unless someone produces photographic evidence to the contrary, and probably even then.
**Though Jason "O Captain Our Captain" Varitek did come out and play catch with Wakefield between innings while Doug "E. Fresh" Mirabelli suited back up, and, lo, there was much rejoicing. And much of it was Not Safe For Work.
***Curse you, Neil Diamond. One day we will meet in battle. Neither can live while the other survives!
(Please note that there is an implicit 'knock on wood' following any sentence ever posted here.)
06/12/07: Rockies 1, Red Sox 2
Lawyer Larry: "Do you like baseball?"
Jennifer: [flashing Papelbon bracelet] "Yes?"
Lawyer Larry: "Do you want tic--"
Jennifer: "Okay!"
Lawyer Larry: "--kets to tonight's game?"
Yes, yes we did. Bless you, Lawyer Larry, and your thirty-year-old season tickets. These are by far the best seats we've ever had at Fenway. In fact, they're the best seats either of us has ever had to a baseball game, and one of us used to weekend at the Kingdome, back in what the kids no longer call "the day."
Fast-forward a few hours. We've purchased our Pedroia* and Youkilis T-shirts, changed into them in the middle of Yawkey Way, and elbowed our way to seats twenty freakin' rows behind home plate, looking straight down the third base line. This is so unbelievably lucky that we spent much of the game pinching ourselves, and are still braced for the inevitable karmic ass-kicking to come (see also: tonight's game).
We sat down just in time for Tim Wakefield's first pitch. From our truly, truly, truly outrageous vantage point, we had a better view of the famous knuckleball than Jason Varitek ever wants to have.** You know how you always read that it dances? Yeah, it does that.
Caroline: "It is the Shakira of pitches."
Jennifer: "It's sexy, curvy, and it knows how to move."
Caroline: "It makes a man want to speak Spanish."
Jennifer: "..."
Caroline: "Too far with that metaphor?"
Though the score does not indicate as much, the Red Sox actually did have at-bats in the game along with the pitching. You know what's even more fun to watch than a knuckleball? Kevin Youkilis. Youk and his batting stance that makes him look like a maniacal lumberjack. A maniacal lumberjack with an equally maniacal ferret attached to his face. As with the knuckleball, Youk's stance looks cool on NESN but is even more entertaining in three dimensions. Like it or not, it's been the offensive highlight of recent games.
Things we didn't yell at batters, even though we wanted to:
"Yoouuuk, update your bloooog!"
"Dustin isn't slow, he just has tiny little legs!"
"Dougie's going deep tonight!" (Okay, we said it, but we didn't yell it.)
Things we did yell:
At Mike Lowell: "We like you better than Todd Helton!"
At Todd Helton: "We like Mike Lowell better than you!"
At Manny, during an intentional walk: "You don't have to swing at bad pitches, you should only swing at good pitches!"
And then Papelbon happened.
We say "happened" because the boy came on like a force of nature, with the aura of confidence and the thousand-yard, kid-from-Firestarter stare. It's funny how it can be totally apparent that a pitcher has full command--J.Pap's fastballs were like the Concorde to Tim Wakefield's Dodge Dart--and yet that didn't stop us and 37,000 of our newest best friends from holding our breath for all three beautiful, beautiful outs.
Caroline consented to sing along with her namesake song for once***, and Jennifer defeated the jinx her Yankee-fan mother placed upon her by witnessing her first Fenway victory.
In a word (and this is a pretty long post for us to be all "in-a-word" at the end, but welcome to the monkey house): blogworthy.
*We're pretty sure the people at the souvenir store had not even heard of Dustin Pedroia. Caroline hereby claims her T-shirt as the first of its kind, unless someone produces photographic evidence to the contrary, and probably even then.
**Though Jason "O Captain Our Captain" Varitek did come out and play catch with Wakefield between innings while Doug "E. Fresh" Mirabelli suited back up, and, lo, there was much rejoicing. And much of it was Not Safe For Work.
***Curse you, Neil Diamond. One day we will meet in battle. Neither can live while the other survives!
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