We do not give up the big inning in this house

A coworker called it, "a game you can tell your grandkids about." We're more apt to describe it as something we survived, barely, something we're still recovering from all these days later. A day so crazy we're still half-convinced Mikey Lowell successfully executed a double steal. We've tried a couple of times to piece together a narrative, to tell you all about Wally (not that one) and his stories and the 2004 World Series cup he brings with him to every game. We're pretty sure the sucker punch feeling of losing a 10-0 lead was the same whether you were at Fenway or sitting on your couch or at a bar, and we're just as sure that the sharp joy of Youk being Manny was just as universal. But Wally is one of a kind.

Tomorrow we're heading up to Portland to see Lars and Josh and all the little Sea Dogs. We're mostly hoping for a nice day: a good game and a chance to see all the Baby Sox before they're rookies of the year and pitching no-hitters up at Fenway, maybe even a win. We'll settle for no storms.*

*We may like pina coladas, but we're not quite as fond of getting caught in the rain.

We do not know how to catch a fly with a chopstick in this house

"This is everything I have ever dreamed of. It has come true now and I'm going to the major leagues. It's ridiculous. I'm at a loss for words. I really don't know what to say about it. I'll be smiling forever now. This is just awesome. Awesome."

Wow, our button-making campaign, while still in its infancy,* was a complete and utter success. Charlie Zink toes the rubber on Tuesday, and we are just thrilled to death for him.


*Often referred to as the "my term paper's due in about fifteen minutes and all I've got is my name, the course number, and a haiku about cheese" stage.

We do not go back to the future in this house

No photo credit, Jennifer took this one all by herself.

While the big team struggles to sort out its business in Chicago*, and our current president is interrupting perfectly entertaining Olympic gymnastics to talk about--well, we're not sure what he's talking about, but the wildly incoherent closed captioning suggests it's a message he's sending to the Cheese People**--we bring you some notes from a day in the Future.

Futures at Fenway, naturally.

All the Lowell Spinners looked so tiny in their vest-y uniforms, none tinier than the pitcher Stolmy Pimentel. Stolmy Pimentel, besides having a name that's really fun to say, is a small Dominican pitcher who wears #45 and who pitched 5 effective innings while we revelled in the requisite Pedro Martinez flashbacks.

That picture at the top of this entry is Stolmy with his catcher, the baby-est of the baby catchers we saw on Saturday, one Tim "FedEx" Federowicz, late of UNC. We got to know FedEx thanks to a UNC fan friend of ours, during the College World Series, and what we hear is that he doesn't like to talk to pitchers, or be touched. What we saw with our own eyes was a couple of excellent throws to second to cut down basestealers, which may have kept the Spinners in the game.

Because it was a long game. We're talking 12 innings in total, with the Hudson Valley Renegades vacuuming up everything that flew into the outfield, capped with a walkoff single (while Fedex was on base, no less!). It was a long enough game that cries of "Come on, Deshaun" and "Get 'er done, Mitch!" rang out in our section, because we'd had time to learn everyone's name. It was a long enough game that the Spinners pitchers were seen out in the pirate pen, forming a baby bullpen band. Manny Delcarmen, watch your back: these kids have got soul.

In addition to the baby band's performance, we were happy to enjoy the minor-league entertainments between innings, like guys in sumo costumes, frisbee dogs, the giant toothbrush that ran the bases for undisclosed reasons***. A little girl seated in the row behind us summed it up perfectly, after a small child raced the Spinners mascot: "So when that kid raced the alligator, that was a commercial? No commercial's better than that."

As for the PawSox, it seems like the cream of that particular crop has either been called up to the big club or traded to the Pirates. And it cannot possibly surprise anyone who's been reading this blog at all that we're a little catcher-centric. So we were especially thrilled that while Dusty Brown was starting, George Kottaras was first-base coaching. Two wee catchers for the price of one! Actually, not so wee. We've always thought George was skinny, because we've always seen him standing near Brown or Varitek or Mirabelli. Turns out, he's a pretty good-sized guy, just not built like a brick house or a Mack truck. Or a brick house riding in a Mack truck.

Brown had a hard day behind the plate; he overthrew second base twice, but his game plan was definitely effective. David Pauley went a sassy seven innings--four hits, two runs, two walks, four strikeouts--and he had the Charlotte Knights guessing. Think the big club's putting the coffee on for him, in light of recent tragic events****? Because he was fun to watch, but we were sad not to see knuckleball fraternity member Charlie Zink on the mound. Is it time for us to start a campaign to get Zink called up? Should we get buttons made?

It was a really nice way to spend the day (and, okay, way too much of your money) at Fenway, not least because nobody at all stayed in their assigned seat and we ended up with a bettter view than we paid for. We also got to see our prospects gaze in awe at the Green Monster, and cut loose in the dugout to do the Chicken Dance. But the best part? Both home teams won. Our farm system, in fact, is undefeated in Futures play.

Now if only the young guns could teach their big brother team a thing or two. If they can't make the Red Sox win, maybe they can get them to do the Electric Slide.


*Is now an appropriate time for us to say that we're worried about our man Claybelline "Why Can'tcha Be True" Buchholz? Because, um, whatever he was doing last year, when he was the shiniest of the shiny, this ain't it. Maybe we need to run him through the dishwasher with some Electrasol.

**Actually, now that the words "Balco" and "Barry" and "Baball" have appeared, we're pretty sure they're discussing steroids. Which might be an interesting interview if, you know, it involved someone other than the President, who really ought to be more concerned about anything in the world more important than baball.

***It seems like some kind of clean base=clean teeth analogy was at play, but really, who are we to try and understand the mind of the Great Toothbrush?

****Okay, maybe Wakefield's sore shoulder does not quite rise to the Aristotelian standard for tragedy, but we're definitely crying in our official terrible lite beer of Major League Baseball. Come back soon, Wake, and come back strong.

We do not know why you say goodbye, we say hello in this house

And that happened. *

We're still processing. We still can't believe we'll never see Manny in the Monster, never see him in his oversized Red Sox home whites, never see him play the wall like he was born to it again. We're sad that it came to this, upset that the Manny who wanted to retire a Red Sox and bought Pedroia suits morphed into the Manny who tells anyone who'll listen about how the team doesn't deserve him. The Manny who shoved a man whose entire job is to make his life easier. The Manny who doesn't run out grounders and sits out games against the younger flamethrowers. Who, more than that, thinks that all of those things are perfectly okay. Manny being Manny always was a double-edged sword.

Still. We'd rather remember him as the guy who high-fived a fan in the middle of turning a double play. The man whose moon shot off K-Rod in last year's ALDS still hasn't landed. The man who beat up on Yankees pitching and always seemed to love playing baseball, who never seemed to forget that he was getting paid to play a game. Weird to think that he won't be patrolling left field the next time we go to Fenway.

We're just as sure this was the right move as we are that it was the wrong move, and that's all we have to say about that until we see it shake out.


GBMU (the last): Traded to Pittsburgh, where he'll hopefully get regular playing time with the big club and show the world why we love him so much.


*Here's the part where we wish Manny, Mossy, and Hansen all the best with their new teams. Good luck, guys, we'll miss you. **

**And here's the part where we say, "Welcome to Boston, Jason Bay," and brush up on our Canadian anthem skills.

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 blog about losers in this house

This blog is currently on strike until the Red Sox win a fucking game on the road.*

*We're actually just really stupidly busy in the real life sense, but the point remains. We'll be back next week, and we're looking forward to seeing Papi's smile (and swing) on our televisions when we return.

We do not sleep in this zzzzzz

So Papi's taking BP (seriously, repeat it with us: we want our Papi back!), and they're pulling an anti-Joba with Masterson, sending him back down to the farm to pitch out of the bullpen. In the meantime, Bailey's coming up to give us a better pinch-hitting option than Tek,* Dougie visited the Fens and announced that he's coaching his girls' coach-pitch team,** Lugo's still our starting shortstop, and someone needs to hold Manny accountable for some of the crap he's been pulling lately. That about sum things up?

But, look, for all the frustration of yet another road trip gone horribly wrong, for all the times we banged our heads against a wall when Tek came up in the ninth/the bullpen blew a lead/Manny watched a pitch straight down the middle/someone grounded into a double play/another man was left on base, at least our team hasn't resorted to having a catcher pitch. Yet. So it really could be much worse.

And, hey, the Devil Rays have to lose a game or two sometime, right? So all the Red Sox need to do is take care of their own business, try to combine some killer pitching and offense on the same night once in a while, and maybe invest in a few Scott Kazmir voodoo dolls. Just in case.

So repeat after us: it's only (almost) the ASB,*** it's only (almost) the ASB, it's only (almost) the ASB. And, as the great Kevin Millar once said, it's not time to jump off the Tobin Bridge just yet. Or at all. Ever.

Now let's get out there--or, rather, the guys who are actually on the team should get out there--and beat up on the Twins. Sure, they're good. Sure, their catcher can hit. Sure, they've got outfielders who can actually throw and a Canadian first baseman and a whole bunch of wonderful things we're really not all that educated about (mostly because, well, we don't particularly care). That's not the point. The point is this: this is Fenway, not the Metrodome, and it's time to win some games. For the good of our sanity, and the sanity of the greater New England, etc., area.****

*Look, we obviously love the guy, but we're not delusional: the dude couldn't hit a knuckleball-that-didn't-knuckle these days, and no way should he be hitting with the game on the line in the ninth. Not in Tampa Bay, not in New York, not in Boston.

**And to give Tek some tips on how to become a stud who hits bombs.

***It's entirely possible that we're actually excited about the All-Star Game this year. We're pretty sure it's because of those crazy Statues of Liberty and the insanity of the whole "Last Year of This Particular Yankee Stadium" thing.

****We refuse to call it "The Nation." For reasons.

We do not miss June in this house

Earlier this season, walking home from our regular Sunday Dunkin Donuts* run, an older gentleman--perhaps noting Caroline's Ramirez t-shirt, or maybe spotting Jennifer's ubiquitous cap--called out, "Hey, what's going on with your team?"**

We said, as one does, that we didn't know. That we hoped they'd figureout how to do what they were doing at Fenway in the Metrodome, at Comerica, in the Trop. We talked about our pitchers, and Manny'sswing, and the persistent awesomeness of Tim Wakefield. We talked about Tampa Bay.

He said, "Do you think they're for real?"

He said, "Because I think they are."

He said, "They remind me of my '67 Sox. The Impossible Dream, you know? Young, talented, fun to watch. They play to win. I think they're for real."

He told us that 1967 was his favorite summer of his life, not becausehis son was born that year but because of the Red Sox. Because of Yaz. Because of Dick Williams' managerial stylings. He still remembered who was on a strict diet, and whose ass got kicked on the way to glory. When he talked about the summer of '67, he sounded the way we young whippersnappers feel when we come across, say, VH1's "I Love The New Millennium: 2004" and freeze in our tracks, hoping for a glimpse of Bronson Arroyo.

It was still fresh. It was still present.

We said our farewells and started toward our apartment. The season was young, barely beginning, and anything was possible. Maybe for us, but maybe for the Rays; maybe for Toronto or Baltimore or, god forbid, even New York. Our coffees were getting lukewarm. We turned the corner onto our street.


*Tangentially, this Dunkin Donuts is currently papered with Papelbons, from the lifesize cutout in the corner to the poster on the wall where he looks like he's about to throw an iced coffee fastball. We're not sure whether we're supposed to be amused or intimidated. Probably we're supposed to buy stuff.

**Timestamp: one of the hellish road trips. Pick a road trip, any road trip.

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.

We do not know the name of the NBA championship trophy in this house*

Look, we are not huge Celtics fans (by which we mean this: we are not NBA fans, though since reading Let Me Tell You a Story we've maintained that the one team we'd root for would be Red's team). We're more college hoops people, to be perfectly honest, and women's college hoops at that (Big East represent), so it'd be a lie to say we've watched more than a few** regular season C's games this season. And it's not like we watched every post-season game, either.*** But, still, we--like so many others before us--have been sucked in by the drama and the "Beat LA!" chants at Fenway and the happiness on our Actual Celtics Fan friends' faces, and we were thrilled that the Celtics finally decided that, you know what, this historical comeback and trading off leads stuff was all fine and dandy, but it was time to stomp all over Not Jordan and his band of not-so-merry men.

So, yes, we too found ourselves giggling for joy when KG started screaming incoherently, and we're still not over the moment when he hugged Russell and said, "I hope we made you proud." Sports can be really amazing sometimes, you know? Congrats to the Celtics on number 17.

Moving on to the actual subject of the blog, we're heading down to Fenway on Friday, and while we're bummed that we won't get to see Albert Pujols in action, there's a part of us that's more than a little relieved that we won't get to see him go deep off our favorite knuckleballer north of Pawtucket, one Mr. Timothy Wakefield. We'd also been assuming our favorite Cardinal, Yadier Molina, won't be playing after sustaining a concussion--and holding onto the ball!--in that collision at the plate a few days ago, but we're really not sure of his status at the moment. Anyway, needless to say, we're excited. It'll be our first Wake start of the season, so here's hoping the knuckler will be all knuckley and Manny and Youk will be back in the lineup.

Coming soon: we talk stolen bases, ESPN, Jon Lester, and the direct statistical correlation between weddings and an increased workload with a decided lack of blogging. "This has been Sports Night on CSC"-- oh, wait, never mind.

*Naismith is something else, right?

**Translation: more than one. We watched part of a game when down in Florida for spring training, and a few minutes here and there, mostly while flipping channels or when we knew it was late enough in the game to actually matter. We're pretty sure that all adds up to one total game. Like we said: not big NBA people.

***Once the weather turned, however, Jennifer could follow the action by the shouting of her neighbors. It was kind of awesome.