Six for our Sox:
1. Let the record show that on Sunday, October 3, 2010, we ran into the following people wandering the concourse at Fenway before the game: Derek Jeter, Jorge Posada, Josh Reddick, Kevin Youkilis, Robert Coello, AJ Burnett, Larry Lucchino, Rich Hill, Mark Teixeira, Lance Berkman. Let the record also show that we neither committed physical harm on the Yankees nor embarrassed ourselves unduly around the Red Sox. Let the record further show that Derek Jeter wearing a sports jacket and rolling a small suitcase behind him looks exactly like Derek Jeter wearing a sports jacket and rolling a small suitcase behind him would look like.
2. Sunday's game was the best season-ender we could've hoped for in a non-playoff season (non-perfect game &/or no-hitter &/or hitting for the cycle division). First, the home nine won--and, in doing so, thwarted the Yankees' division hopes. Playing spoiler! Good times! Second, we got to watch Jennifer's brother-in-law look slack-jawed and incredulous over Jorge Posada's insane decision to throw to second with a runner on third--thus allowing the runner to score when he, inevitably,* failed to catch the baserunner stealing--a move we haven't seen work outside short season ball. Third, Jedediah Jethro Lowrie, y'all. We even got to watch John Lackey be mostly quite good at that pitching thing the Red Sox pay him so much to do, and we got to standing O our blogsake multiple times. There were no tears, except for the ones we were forced to cry because it was so frickin' cold.
3. If JD Drew decides to retire once his contract expires next year--hey, he did bring up the possibility--and he actually makes the decision before the end of the season,** the Red Sox probably won't hold a "Thanks, JD" night. Therefore, we propose that those of us chilling in the Mom's-basement-o-sphere hold our own such event. T-shirts, posters, people who appreciate what a great ballplayer JD is, all getting together to say thanks while drinking overpriced beers and nachos. Because JD Drew is several kinds of awesome, no matter what Bill Simmons says, and he deserves a goofy video montage as much as anyone.
4. We wish Adrian Beltre and his family the best--we're singing "Happy Birthday, young Beltre child" right now--but we wish we could've watched him play just one more time with the Red Sox. Which obviously means that Theo needs to get started on re-signing him yesterday.
5. We're rooting for the San Francisco Giants*** this postseason. Consider this our official apology to any lifelong SF Giants fans whose team we've just jinxed. (We have an entire hierarchy of rooting interests after this one, but the Giants are the cart we're hitching our metaphorical horses to. You can probably guess who happens to be at the very bottom of the hierarchy, in a big box marked "DANGER: CONTAINS EXTREMELY LARGE PLAQUE.")
5. We kept saying (and saying, and saying) that we weren't going to be too upset if/when the Red Sox were officially eliminated from postseason contention. "The injuries," we'd remind ourselves. "We're going to honestly be thrilled with a winning season, given that our team this year was comprised of Papi, Beltre, and shrubbery." But under all that swagger, we had a niggling fear that we'd become that which we've long disdained: the fan who Expects the Postseason and Considers Anything Less Than That Abject Failure and a Reason To Fire &/or Trade Everyone. Finally, it happened. The Red Sox were eliminated. And the world didn't end. We were sad, yes, and disappointed that we're not getting bonus baseball this year. But we're not angry, or irrationally upset, or any of that. We're proud--in that weird way fans can be proud of professional athletes--of this crazy, injured, random team of ours.
Although, we're a little sad that we'll never get a job with WEEI.
*We mock because the Red Sox had Victor Martinez and Jason Varitek catching this year, if you know what we mean.
**Because, c'mon, the only reason Jason Varitek and Tim Wakefield aren't getting "Thanks for Gloving A-Rod in the Face" and "Thanks for Getting Us Out Of a Pickle When Hideki Matsui Meandered Over to Third Base That Time" nights, respectively, is that both want to play next season. We're not getting into whether or not they actually will--there are emotions involved, damn it, and emotions cloud objectivity--but there's obviously a chance neither will be dressing for the Sox come April.
***We actually fell for this team and their Tim Lincecum and their Buster Posey way back at the beginning of the season. (Hell, the fall started last season, if we're going to be honest, with Jonathan Sanchez's no-no and Pablo Sandoval's Kung Fu Panda action and, yes, Tim Lincecum's nasty, beautiful change-up.) Now, of course, we're stuck pinning our hopes to Pat Burrell.
Showing posts with label fenway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fenway. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Limping off the DL.
SCOREBOARD: "Last year, JD Drew ranked fourth out of all AL outfielders with a .911 OPS"
GUY BEHIND US: "Does anyone even know what OPS is?"
HIS FRIEND: "I do."
GUY: "RIght, so what is it?"
FRIEND: "OBS?"
GUY: "OPS, dude, it says OPS."
FRIEND: "Well, it's OBS."
GUY: "Fine, OBS, OPS, whatever. But what does it mean? You claim you know, so tell me."
FRIEND: "OBS means...on-base percentage."
GUY: "Is 900 good?"
US, REFRAINING FROM TURNING AROUND AND SAYING THIS TO THESE FINE GENTLEMEN, AND INSTEAD JUST LAUGHING BETWEEN OURSELVES: "Nah, man, a 900 OBS is just walking and clogging up the basepaths. Everyone knows JD Drew's a baseclogging jerk who doesn't care about baseball. Now, 900 RBI and a dirty cap, on the other hand..."
Last night, we went to a baseball game. It'd been a while--Futures at Fenway was our last attempt, and the skies opened and poured down on us and, lo, we were soaked to the bone and the poor kids from Salem had to take a long busride back home without playing a single inning on the hallowed grounds--and we were getting antsy. But things worked out in our favor, and by 5:00 we were pre-gaming at McGreevey's.* A couple of really weak drinks and an inning or two of the LLWS, and we were on our way.
And, while we're profoundly not thrilled about the injury parade,** how cool is it to see kids we know from Sea Dogs and Spinners teams past playing for the big team? How awesome is it to look up and see Ryan Kalish on second base or Yamaico Navarro fielding a grounder? We admit it. We cheered for those guys harder than we cheered for almost anyone else. The kids, y'all. They're kind of all right.
Even Daisuke Matsusaka impressed us. Maybe we were still slightly tipsy, but he seems to be working faster and more authoritatively. Sure, he had that one inning where it seemed like everything was hit hard, but for most of the game he kept a really good hitting team off balance and off the basepaths. We approve of this guy. This guy didn't drive us back to the bar once.
Of course, this being our 2010 Red Sox, things weren't easy. As we all know, the game ended up tied through nine, and we had ourselves a little bonus baseball. We dashed to the ladies' after the home nine failed to score in the tenth, then set up in standing room behind home plate for the eleventh. (Papelbon works slowly enough that we really only missed one batter. True story.) A nearby usher started talking about the fact that he really thought Bard should've stayed in for another inning. Another guy looked like he was about to throw up. Someone in another section started the wave.
The wave. Top of the eleventh. Heart of the order up and a closer who had imploded the last time he faced this very opponent on the mound. What better time to stand up and down and lift your hands in the air like you just don't care? Not like there's anything happening in the game or--
--Jed Lowrie drops a routine pop-up in foul territory, and everyone in our section moans and grabs their hearts--
anything.
As we stood there, pounding our chests and hoping we'd remember to breathe at some point, Papelbon struck John Buck out. And suddenly the air seemed more oxygenated. We were going to be okay.
Plus: "now that Lowrie kid can redeem himself," someone said. "He has to."
8th INNING, SAME GUYS. RYAN KALISH HAS JUST JOGGED BACK TO SECOND AFTER AN ATTEMPTED STOLEN BASE.
GUY: "But I thought he stole third."
FRIEND: "Nah, man, he had to go back because the batter swung. You can't steal a base if the batter swings the bat."
If there's one thing we enjoy, it's the film Overboard, starring Goldie Hawn and--
Okay, strike that, if there's one thing we enjoy, it's watching Red Sox players embrace each other at home plate. If there's two things we enjoy, it's walking out of Fenway Park singing.
Overboard would make the top five, though.
*Look, we'd seen Friday's game. We figured hard liquor might be key to our enjoyment of Saturday's game.
**We blame Gary Bettman. As every hockey fan out there knows, there's pretty much nothing out there that you can't blame him for. In this case, though, we even have a reason. Bettman brought us the Winter Classic, the Winter Classic brought the Bruins to Fenway, the Bruins brought their broken-itis to Fenway, and the Red Sox all fell down.
GUY BEHIND US: "Does anyone even know what OPS is?"
HIS FRIEND: "I do."
GUY: "RIght, so what is it?"
FRIEND: "OBS?"
GUY: "OPS, dude, it says OPS."
FRIEND: "Well, it's OBS."
GUY: "Fine, OBS, OPS, whatever. But what does it mean? You claim you know, so tell me."
FRIEND: "OBS means...on-base percentage."
GUY: "Is 900 good?"
US, REFRAINING FROM TURNING AROUND AND SAYING THIS TO THESE FINE GENTLEMEN, AND INSTEAD JUST LAUGHING BETWEEN OURSELVES: "Nah, man, a 900 OBS is just walking and clogging up the basepaths. Everyone knows JD Drew's a baseclogging jerk who doesn't care about baseball. Now, 900 RBI and a dirty cap, on the other hand..."
Last night, we went to a baseball game. It'd been a while--Futures at Fenway was our last attempt, and the skies opened and poured down on us and, lo, we were soaked to the bone and the poor kids from Salem had to take a long busride back home without playing a single inning on the hallowed grounds--and we were getting antsy. But things worked out in our favor, and by 5:00 we were pre-gaming at McGreevey's.* A couple of really weak drinks and an inning or two of the LLWS, and we were on our way.
We're not going to get into an intensive play-by-play here--either you watched the game, or you didn't, and there are plenty of places on the internet to get that kind of information--but we figured, hey, what better way to get off the DL and into the game than by talking about a game we actually attended? Much better than bitching about Sullivan's Tire commercials.
And, while we're profoundly not thrilled about the injury parade,** how cool is it to see kids we know from Sea Dogs and Spinners teams past playing for the big team? How awesome is it to look up and see Ryan Kalish on second base or Yamaico Navarro fielding a grounder? We admit it. We cheered for those guys harder than we cheered for almost anyone else. The kids, y'all. They're kind of all right.
Even Daisuke Matsusaka impressed us. Maybe we were still slightly tipsy, but he seems to be working faster and more authoritatively. Sure, he had that one inning where it seemed like everything was hit hard, but for most of the game he kept a really good hitting team off balance and off the basepaths. We approve of this guy. This guy didn't drive us back to the bar once.
Of course, this being our 2010 Red Sox, things weren't easy. As we all know, the game ended up tied through nine, and we had ourselves a little bonus baseball. We dashed to the ladies' after the home nine failed to score in the tenth, then set up in standing room behind home plate for the eleventh. (Papelbon works slowly enough that we really only missed one batter. True story.) A nearby usher started talking about the fact that he really thought Bard should've stayed in for another inning. Another guy looked like he was about to throw up. Someone in another section started the wave.
The wave. Top of the eleventh. Heart of the order up and a closer who had imploded the last time he faced this very opponent on the mound. What better time to stand up and down and lift your hands in the air like you just don't care? Not like there's anything happening in the game or--
--Jed Lowrie drops a routine pop-up in foul territory, and everyone in our section moans and grabs their hearts--
anything.
As we stood there, pounding our chests and hoping we'd remember to breathe at some point, Papelbon struck John Buck out. And suddenly the air seemed more oxygenated. We were going to be okay.
Plus: "now that Lowrie kid can redeem himself," someone said. "He has to."
8th INNING, SAME GUYS. RYAN KALISH HAS JUST JOGGED BACK TO SECOND AFTER AN ATTEMPTED STOLEN BASE.
GUY: "But I thought he stole third."
FRIEND: "Nah, man, he had to go back because the batter swung. You can't steal a base if the batter swings the bat."
If there's one thing we enjoy, it's the film Overboard, starring Goldie Hawn and--
Okay, strike that, if there's one thing we enjoy, it's watching Red Sox players embrace each other at home plate. If there's two things we enjoy, it's walking out of Fenway Park singing.
Overboard would make the top five, though.
*Look, we'd seen Friday's game. We figured hard liquor might be key to our enjoyment of Saturday's game.
**We blame Gary Bettman. As every hockey fan out there knows, there's pretty much nothing out there that you can't blame him for. In this case, though, we even have a reason. Bettman brought us the Winter Classic, the Winter Classic brought the Bruins to Fenway, the Bruins brought their broken-itis to Fenway, and the Red Sox all fell down.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pessimism: it's what's for dinner!
In the grand tradition of the MLB Post-Season on Fox, we have compiled Seven Keys to the Game for the Bruins going into the pivotal game 7 that should've never come to pass:
1. Shoot the puck
2. Score goals
3. Don't let the Flyers score goals
4. Stop taking stupid penalties
5. Hit Mike Richards
6. Score even more goals
7. Don't let it go back to Fenway
Look, we may not always have had faith that the Bruins would make it to the playoffs, but now that they're here we want them to win this series.* And then we want them to beat the Habs. And the Sharkhawks. And we want that shiny, shiny Cup. We really don't think that's too much to ask.
Especially since the Red Sox are currently doing their upmost to make us cling to hockey season for as long as humanly possible, what with their losing and their getting hurt and their letting outfielders pitch because their pitchers can't and did we mention their getting swept by the Orioles. Sure, there have been bright moments: the midget's taken to wearing tall socks more frequently, which make him look even more like a member of the Lollipop Guild than he normally does, and Jonny Lester remembered how that whole pitching thing works. Tek's OPSing 1.287, which is just a crazy video game number. JD Drew still thinks his strike zone is superior to any umpire's. Oh, and we've decided to call Marco Scutaro Scoots McGoots. It's fun to say! You should try it!
We've also been busy coming up with our own advanced pitching metrics. There's the standard quality start, of course, but even better is the wicked quality (WQ) start: 7IP, 2 or fewer ER, less than 4 wild pitches and two hit batsmen. And the WTF start, which is what Dice-K did last night.** We're still working on the math part, but we're sure these are going to be a hit with the BP crowd!
We're hoping to get back into the whole blogging groove now that we're done with this season's mandatory period of going to ballgames with our mothers (no, really, that's what we've been doing since Blogapalooza***), but we're over making promises of that sort. We'll blog when we remember to, and then we'll forget for a while, and then we'll think that blogging is jinxy before we remember that it's not blogging that's a jinx. It'll be a long, crazy, 162-game ride.
Unless the Stanley Cup Playoffs kill us first.
*Jennifer's other NHL team, the Devils, already lost to this particular Flyers squad. She really does not want last year's "both my teams lost to the Hurricanes" fiasco to repeat itself this year. Especially since the Flyers, unlike the Hurricanes, are actually Evil.
**No, really, WTF? We were there, and we're still not sure that happened.
***Hello to those of you we met! We liked quite a few of your t-shirts and would like to subscribe to your newsletters!
1. Shoot the puck
2. Score goals
3. Don't let the Flyers score goals
4. Stop taking stupid penalties
5. Hit Mike Richards
6. Score even more goals
7. Don't let it go back to Fenway
Look, we may not always have had faith that the Bruins would make it to the playoffs, but now that they're here we want them to win this series.* And then we want them to beat the Habs. And the Sharkhawks. And we want that shiny, shiny Cup. We really don't think that's too much to ask.
Especially since the Red Sox are currently doing their upmost to make us cling to hockey season for as long as humanly possible, what with their losing and their getting hurt and their letting outfielders pitch because their pitchers can't and did we mention their getting swept by the Orioles. Sure, there have been bright moments: the midget's taken to wearing tall socks more frequently, which make him look even more like a member of the Lollipop Guild than he normally does, and Jonny Lester remembered how that whole pitching thing works. Tek's OPSing 1.287, which is just a crazy video game number. JD Drew still thinks his strike zone is superior to any umpire's. Oh, and we've decided to call Marco Scutaro Scoots McGoots. It's fun to say! You should try it!
We've also been busy coming up with our own advanced pitching metrics. There's the standard quality start, of course, but even better is the wicked quality (WQ) start: 7IP, 2 or fewer ER, less than 4 wild pitches and two hit batsmen. And the WTF start, which is what Dice-K did last night.** We're still working on the math part, but we're sure these are going to be a hit with the BP crowd!
We're hoping to get back into the whole blogging groove now that we're done with this season's mandatory period of going to ballgames with our mothers (no, really, that's what we've been doing since Blogapalooza***), but we're over making promises of that sort. We'll blog when we remember to, and then we'll forget for a while, and then we'll think that blogging is jinxy before we remember that it's not blogging that's a jinx. It'll be a long, crazy, 162-game ride.
Unless the Stanley Cup Playoffs kill us first.
*Jennifer's other NHL team, the Devils, already lost to this particular Flyers squad. She really does not want last year's "both my teams lost to the Hurricanes" fiasco to repeat itself this year. Especially since the Flyers, unlike the Hurricanes, are actually Evil.
**No, really, WTF? We were there, and we're still not sure that happened.
***Hello to those of you we met! We liked quite a few of your t-shirts and would like to subscribe to your newsletters!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Three Nights in Septober: A Week in Boston Sports
Loss #1: Toronto 8, Red Sox 7
At least the Red Sox made it interesting. Down 8-2 as we finished the last fist-pumping chorus of "Sweet Caroline," the Red Sox fought and clawed and clambered aboard a JD Drew home run to reach a respectable 8-7 score heading into the ninth. But that's getting ahead of ourselves a bit.
This game started with a bang of the wrong kind: a first pitch lead-off home run and the realization that we were sitting in front of the dude who felt the need to prove his mad baseball knowledge by commenting on every. freaking. pitch. Seriously. "Well, they should've gone inside there." "That changeup was too high." "He's teeing off on pitches away." And on and on and motherfucking on. Yeah, he's one of Those People You Meet at Fenway. No, we didn't test the efficiency of the security hotline on him.
We were in Lawyer Larry's seats for the first time since Tim Wakefield's magical start against the Rockies back in 2007, and we were at a possible clinching game for the second year in a row. We possibly got our hopes up a little, is what we're saying. Not enough to jinx things, we don't think, but a bit. We laughed over the fact that, for the first time in our shared game-attending history, the singers did a worse job with the Canadian anthem than the American one. We rolled our eyes when people near us said stupid things. We were ready. This was going to be The Game.
And then the game started, and little old Claybee couldn't keep the ball in the yard.
Before the game, during most of the game, and for a few hours afterward, we were pretty down on our Red Sox. They'd been losing to the Royals and were in the process of losing to the Jays, and they hadn't managed to clinch their division on their own turf. Not quite the 2007 Mets, that's true, but it didn't exactly fuel excitement. But then...they turned it on. They found their offense in one burst, and for a few minutes, even if it wasn't The Game, it was definitely The Team. The team that couldn't be eliminated in 2004 or 2007; the team that pushed their luck all the way to the breaking point in 2008, the team that will not quit until they've got a reason to hug and cheer and pour booze on the bullpen cop.
The park shook.
Called strike three. And we all went home.*
Loss #2: Toronto 12, Red Sox 0
We weren't no-hit!
Yeah, this one was a laugher from the moment they posted the lineup. Hell, from the time the Rangers lost to the Angels, thus clinching a playoff berth for the Red Sox and allowing our actual MLB players to have a closed-doors bacchanal that left everyone with a hangover the size of Big Papi's smile. To say we weren't expecting much would be an understatement. We figured we'd head out to the park, catch what might be Timmy Wakefield's very last start, and enjoy ourselves out in the bleachers with the rest of the crazies. No expectations. No stress. Just baseball.
Baseball against Roy Halladay. Right.
This loss was totally different than the Tuesday loss. For one thing, there was never so much as an inkling of false hope. For another thing, with our ALDS spot assured, all that energy that went to crossing fingers and knocking wood could be diverted to creative yelling. We told Joey Gathright he was our hero (this was after he broke up the no-hitter--before that we were loudly reminiscing about how we used to babysit him), and we reminded the Blue Jays that they're losers because they loooove artificial turf. We even got the guy in front of us to heckle Jose Bautista with lyrics by the Police. Of course, the highlight of the game was obviously Dusty Brown's major league pitching debut; sure, Mr. Autographed Brian Daubach Jersey couldn't believe we even knew who Brown is--never mind that we were the only people in the vicinity who could tell our Josh Reddicks from our Brian Andersons--but that didn't quell our enthusiasm. Dusty Brown, y'all. We've loved that kid since Sea Dogs times.
All that was worth the price of admission, and the price of the huge coffees we needed to stay warm, and even the complete-game shutout the Doc twirled at the PawSox. We don't think we've ever had a better time watching a game that was lost before it began.
Loss #3: Capitals 4, Bruins 1
Hockey.
Hockey’s back.
Yes, we are a Red Sox blog, but we are also Bruins fans and we decided that, you know what, we would never forgive ourselves for missing out on Opening Night at the TD Banknorth Fleet Center Garden. So we donned the Black and Gold and wandered out into the autumn night once more.
We were ready. Our fellow fans in the cheap seats were ready. Unfortunately, the Caps fan in the row in front of us and the guy whose shirt she was wearing--some dude named Ovechkin? Yeah, we don’t know either--were also ready. More ready, in fact, than the Bruins. Who looked like they were playing on your dad’s beer league team for most of the game.
Your dad’s over-50 beer league team.
So, yes, the game happened. We cheered, we yelled “Shoot the fucking puck already!”, we cheered some more. And while it would’ve been nice to actually win the home opener—or, hell, to at least make it a game—it’s so early in the season that we just can’t stress about it quite yet. The aforementioned Caps fan turned around as the second intermission drew to a close to tell us that our row was full of good fans. We're not sure if she meant it in a condescending manner or not, but she pointed out that we never gave up cheering for our team and actually seemed to know things. Like players' names. And what was going on. She was nice enough when she said it, but we can't help but think it was a touch condescending in the "aww, look at the little fans watching my team crush their team" sense.
Of course, she was sitting next to Tuukka Rask's boyfriend the entire game, so maybe she really did mean it.
Because, yes, we met Tuukka Rask's boyfriend. Or maybe he was the guy Tuukka Rask has a restraining order against. But his love for Tuukka is true, and strong, and obsessed with the butterfly style. Even when the game was still technically close--in score, if not in feel--he was calling for Julien to play Tuukka. "He's calm in net," he told everyone in the section, "Not like Thomas. Tall and calm and he doesn't flail around." At one point, we're pretty sure he broke into haiku:
Tuukka Rask always
Looks good when he makes a save.
I've seen him naked.
As confirmed Tim Thomas fans, we didn't share his passion. But three periods of watching our guys mishandle the puck while Alex Ovechkin did triple salchows around them was two point five periods too many. That's okay, though--the Bruins have plenty of time to get Big and Bad and figure out their problem, and we'll check back in with them as soon as we get out of playoff mode.
About playoff mode: Hell, yes! Playoff mode! We're ready to roll. We have our lucky shirts, and a selection of lucky socks, and a bottle of Absolut Boston (yes, we're that cheesy) to help us either celebrate or cope. We also have a Twitter, which you can see at left, and which we used to "liveblog," as the kids used to call it, the Twins/Tigers one-game playoff. We'll be posting a lot of things there that are shorter than this thing you're still reading. Follow us and we'll promise not to use the word 'tweet' as a noun.
*Except for Jason Bay. He went out for drinks with his agent. His agent! C'mon, Jay Bay, kick it up!
At least the Red Sox made it interesting. Down 8-2 as we finished the last fist-pumping chorus of "Sweet Caroline," the Red Sox fought and clawed and clambered aboard a JD Drew home run to reach a respectable 8-7 score heading into the ninth. But that's getting ahead of ourselves a bit.
This game started with a bang of the wrong kind: a first pitch lead-off home run and the realization that we were sitting in front of the dude who felt the need to prove his mad baseball knowledge by commenting on every. freaking. pitch. Seriously. "Well, they should've gone inside there." "That changeup was too high." "He's teeing off on pitches away." And on and on and motherfucking on. Yeah, he's one of Those People You Meet at Fenway. No, we didn't test the efficiency of the security hotline on him.
We were in Lawyer Larry's seats for the first time since Tim Wakefield's magical start against the Rockies back in 2007, and we were at a possible clinching game for the second year in a row. We possibly got our hopes up a little, is what we're saying. Not enough to jinx things, we don't think, but a bit. We laughed over the fact that, for the first time in our shared game-attending history, the singers did a worse job with the Canadian anthem than the American one. We rolled our eyes when people near us said stupid things. We were ready. This was going to be The Game.
And then the game started, and little old Claybee couldn't keep the ball in the yard.
Before the game, during most of the game, and for a few hours afterward, we were pretty down on our Red Sox. They'd been losing to the Royals and were in the process of losing to the Jays, and they hadn't managed to clinch their division on their own turf. Not quite the 2007 Mets, that's true, but it didn't exactly fuel excitement. But then...they turned it on. They found their offense in one burst, and for a few minutes, even if it wasn't The Game, it was definitely The Team. The team that couldn't be eliminated in 2004 or 2007; the team that pushed their luck all the way to the breaking point in 2008, the team that will not quit until they've got a reason to hug and cheer and pour booze on the bullpen cop.
The park shook.
Called strike three. And we all went home.*
Loss #2: Toronto 12, Red Sox 0
We weren't no-hit!
Yeah, this one was a laugher from the moment they posted the lineup. Hell, from the time the Rangers lost to the Angels, thus clinching a playoff berth for the Red Sox and allowing our actual MLB players to have a closed-doors bacchanal that left everyone with a hangover the size of Big Papi's smile. To say we weren't expecting much would be an understatement. We figured we'd head out to the park, catch what might be Timmy Wakefield's very last start, and enjoy ourselves out in the bleachers with the rest of the crazies. No expectations. No stress. Just baseball.
Baseball against Roy Halladay. Right.
This loss was totally different than the Tuesday loss. For one thing, there was never so much as an inkling of false hope. For another thing, with our ALDS spot assured, all that energy that went to crossing fingers and knocking wood could be diverted to creative yelling. We told Joey Gathright he was our hero (this was after he broke up the no-hitter--before that we were loudly reminiscing about how we used to babysit him), and we reminded the Blue Jays that they're losers because they loooove artificial turf. We even got the guy in front of us to heckle Jose Bautista with lyrics by the Police. Of course, the highlight of the game was obviously Dusty Brown's major league pitching debut; sure, Mr. Autographed Brian Daubach Jersey couldn't believe we even knew who Brown is--never mind that we were the only people in the vicinity who could tell our Josh Reddicks from our Brian Andersons--but that didn't quell our enthusiasm. Dusty Brown, y'all. We've loved that kid since Sea Dogs times.
All that was worth the price of admission, and the price of the huge coffees we needed to stay warm, and even the complete-game shutout the Doc twirled at the PawSox. We don't think we've ever had a better time watching a game that was lost before it began.
Loss #3: Capitals 4, Bruins 1
Hockey.
Hockey’s back.
Yes, we are a Red Sox blog, but we are also Bruins fans and we decided that, you know what, we would never forgive ourselves for missing out on Opening Night at the TD Banknorth Fleet Center Garden. So we donned the Black and Gold and wandered out into the autumn night once more.
We were ready. Our fellow fans in the cheap seats were ready. Unfortunately, the Caps fan in the row in front of us and the guy whose shirt she was wearing--some dude named Ovechkin? Yeah, we don’t know either--were also ready. More ready, in fact, than the Bruins. Who looked like they were playing on your dad’s beer league team for most of the game.
Your dad’s over-50 beer league team.
So, yes, the game happened. We cheered, we yelled “Shoot the fucking puck already!”, we cheered some more. And while it would’ve been nice to actually win the home opener—or, hell, to at least make it a game—it’s so early in the season that we just can’t stress about it quite yet. The aforementioned Caps fan turned around as the second intermission drew to a close to tell us that our row was full of good fans. We're not sure if she meant it in a condescending manner or not, but she pointed out that we never gave up cheering for our team and actually seemed to know things. Like players' names. And what was going on. She was nice enough when she said it, but we can't help but think it was a touch condescending in the "aww, look at the little fans watching my team crush their team" sense.
Of course, she was sitting next to Tuukka Rask's boyfriend the entire game, so maybe she really did mean it.
Because, yes, we met Tuukka Rask's boyfriend. Or maybe he was the guy Tuukka Rask has a restraining order against. But his love for Tuukka is true, and strong, and obsessed with the butterfly style. Even when the game was still technically close--in score, if not in feel--he was calling for Julien to play Tuukka. "He's calm in net," he told everyone in the section, "Not like Thomas. Tall and calm and he doesn't flail around." At one point, we're pretty sure he broke into haiku:
Tuukka Rask always
Looks good when he makes a save.
I've seen him naked.
As confirmed Tim Thomas fans, we didn't share his passion. But three periods of watching our guys mishandle the puck while Alex Ovechkin did triple salchows around them was two point five periods too many. That's okay, though--the Bruins have plenty of time to get Big and Bad and figure out their problem, and we'll check back in with them as soon as we get out of playoff mode.
About playoff mode: Hell, yes! Playoff mode! We're ready to roll. We have our lucky shirts, and a selection of lucky socks, and a bottle of Absolut Boston (yes, we're that cheesy) to help us either celebrate or cope. We also have a Twitter, which you can see at left, and which we used to "liveblog," as the kids used to call it, the Twins/Tigers one-game playoff. We'll be posting a lot of things there that are shorter than this thing you're still reading. Follow us and we'll promise not to use the word 'tweet' as a noun.
*Except for Jason Bay. He went out for drinks with his agent. His agent! C'mon, Jay Bay, kick it up!
Friday, August 14, 2009
It's Beckett's world and we're living in it. Until he aces us.
Wednesday night, we met perhaps the rarest of the People You Meet at Fenway, the nice guy who, when noticing that he may be blocking the short chick who is kind of diagonally behind him in standing room says, "You tell me if I'm blocking your view at all, okay, and I'll move." (During the same game, we also spotted Dude in an Unadulterated Damon Jersey, multiple Kotsay shirts(?!?!), Guy in Babe Ruth Jersey, a custom Dom DiMaggio road jersey, and so much more. Definitely a successful outing to Fenway, people-watching style. And don't get us started on the security guys in our section--hi-lar-i-ous, people, and pretty much made of win.) Props to you, nice guy! We will always remember you and your nice guy ways!
Mostly, though, the night was memorable for Beckett Being Beckett. Which is to say: hot. Filthy. Nasty. Totally jinxed by those two yahoos--one of whom read Jennifer's twitter feed over her shoulder and wanted us to call Texas Gal over so he could tell her all about the superiority of the Sooners*--who kept saying, "Oh, hey, doesn't Beckett have a NO-HITTER going? Wonder if he's going to keep NO-HITTING them."
Sure, Mikey Lowell's third home run in two games was fun, as was the whole offense clicking on all cylinders (okay, fine, so the Tigers were featuring a bullpen guy because their actual starter went down with strep or whatever, but still; you have your delusions, we have ours), but Beckett's Beckettocity was the true star of the game. Yeah, he made those two mistakes, and the Tigers didn't miss them, but he was slicing and dicing through that lineup like they were the San Diego Padres.** It never felt like this was anything but his game. His field. His mound. And it took roughly four minutes for him to walk from that mound to the dugout. Now that is swagger.
This morning Jennifer's off to the land of Orioles, where she'll celebrate her birthday, Dustin Pedroia's, by watching Matt Wieters face off against Mike Napoli. Caroline's off to the land of, well, Red Sox and Yankees, true battlefield territory. We'll be back next week. Here's hoping the Red Sox grab some of the Fenway dirt and bring it with them to the Kingdom of Nolan Ryan.
*We didn't invite you, Texy, because we didn't want to deal with their crying and sniveling when you masterfully destroyed their wills to live. Sorry!
**Or whoever the most inept lineup in baseball is this week. Is it the Royals again? It's probably the Royals, isn't it?
Mostly, though, the night was memorable for Beckett Being Beckett. Which is to say: hot. Filthy. Nasty. Totally jinxed by those two yahoos--one of whom read Jennifer's twitter feed over her shoulder and wanted us to call Texas Gal over so he could tell her all about the superiority of the Sooners*--who kept saying, "Oh, hey, doesn't Beckett have a NO-HITTER going? Wonder if he's going to keep NO-HITTING them."
Sure, Mikey Lowell's third home run in two games was fun, as was the whole offense clicking on all cylinders (okay, fine, so the Tigers were featuring a bullpen guy because their actual starter went down with strep or whatever, but still; you have your delusions, we have ours), but Beckett's Beckettocity was the true star of the game. Yeah, he made those two mistakes, and the Tigers didn't miss them, but he was slicing and dicing through that lineup like they were the San Diego Padres.** It never felt like this was anything but his game. His field. His mound. And it took roughly four minutes for him to walk from that mound to the dugout. Now that is swagger.
This morning Jennifer's off to the land of Orioles, where she'll celebrate her birthday, Dustin Pedroia's, by watching Matt Wieters face off against Mike Napoli. Caroline's off to the land of, well, Red Sox and Yankees, true battlefield territory. We'll be back next week. Here's hoping the Red Sox grab some of the Fenway dirt and bring it with them to the Kingdom of Nolan Ryan.
*We didn't invite you, Texy, because we didn't want to deal with their crying and sniveling when you masterfully destroyed their wills to live. Sorry!
**Or whoever the most inept lineup in baseball is this week. Is it the Royals again? It's probably the Royals, isn't it?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Newsflash: we won tonight's game. It's a miracle! Wake up your children!
The plan was simple: go to Fenway, watch some Red Sox prospects and a few major league retreads duke it out with the Orioles' prospects and organizational filler, and steadfastly ignore the major league scoreboard. And, hey, were it not for our perverse preoccupation with the outcome of the epic Barry Zito-Bronson Arroyo duel going down in the NL, we would've very probably succeeded. Still, Futures at Fenway is, bar none, one of our favorite baseball experiences every year, and even though we think it works better when the Lowell Spinners get the invite (no offense to the Paw Sox, but both they and the Norfolk Tides are littered with guys who were playing in the bigs only a few weeks ago), it was an awesome time yet again.
We sat in what we lovingly call the "rich people's seats," up close and personal with the visitors' on deck circle. We cheered for our favorites--no, they weren't all catchers, though we obviously shouted extra loud for Expo and Brownie--and avoided sunstroke due to a fortuitous combination of SPF 75 and some timely shadows. We decided that Ryan Kalish and Ryan Khoury should be best friends forever based on nothing more than their names. We ate ballpark food. We tried to keep score (an unfortunately timed bathroom run killed that plan), and we took a few pictures.
And we needed those simple pleasures, to remind us that baseball games aren't always the terrifying experiences that have happened to certain parent clubs in recent times.* Sometimes you can even sit through nine whole innings and still have enamel left on your teeth at the end.
Futures helped us to remember that, though baseball is famous for for its yesterdays--its segregated, dead-balled, spike-sharpened, mob-rigged, amphetamined and roid-raged yesterdays--there are always tomorrows. There are 21-year-old kids who get to hit a home run over the Green Monster, and keep that story forever. There's Josh Reddick making the most of things (and sacrificing his Mohawk in the process, oh, woe). There's tomorrow, and Junichi Tazawa's second chance to make a first impression.
And then there's the day after tomorrow, when we'll be back in the standing room saddle, resisting the siren song of frozen lemonade and cheering for the guys in the biggest, reddest socks of them all.** And reminding Dustin Pedroia that we expect to see a laser show. We may grow weary, but we never turn our backs on our boys.
Because we're afraid of getting hit with a line drive foul. That would hurt!
*Hey, as long as no one gets diagnosed with cancer, we're counting this season as better than 2006. Knock on wood!
**This means you, Tek.
We sat in what we lovingly call the "rich people's seats," up close and personal with the visitors' on deck circle. We cheered for our favorites--no, they weren't all catchers, though we obviously shouted extra loud for Expo and Brownie--and avoided sunstroke due to a fortuitous combination of SPF 75 and some timely shadows. We decided that Ryan Kalish and Ryan Khoury should be best friends forever based on nothing more than their names. We ate ballpark food. We tried to keep score (an unfortunately timed bathroom run killed that plan), and we took a few pictures.
And we needed those simple pleasures, to remind us that baseball games aren't always the terrifying experiences that have happened to certain parent clubs in recent times.* Sometimes you can even sit through nine whole innings and still have enamel left on your teeth at the end.
Futures helped us to remember that, though baseball is famous for for its yesterdays--its segregated, dead-balled, spike-sharpened, mob-rigged, amphetamined and roid-raged yesterdays--there are always tomorrows. There are 21-year-old kids who get to hit a home run over the Green Monster, and keep that story forever. There's Josh Reddick making the most of things (and sacrificing his Mohawk in the process, oh, woe). There's tomorrow, and Junichi Tazawa's second chance to make a first impression.
And then there's the day after tomorrow, when we'll be back in the standing room saddle, resisting the siren song of frozen lemonade and cheering for the guys in the biggest, reddest socks of them all.** And reminding Dustin Pedroia that we expect to see a laser show. We may grow weary, but we never turn our backs on our boys.
Because we're afraid of getting hit with a line drive foul. That would hurt!
*Hey, as long as no one gets diagnosed with cancer, we're counting this season as better than 2006. Knock on wood!
**This means you, Tek.
Friday, July 10, 2009
We've seen the lights go out on Broadway.
We were going to call Joe Posnanski out for lying to us about his Kansas City Royals and their ability to score runs, but, in all honesty, we're a little scared of him. Dude's bigger than us, tougher than us, meaner than us: he's the Big Red Machine* to our 1962 Mets. So even though he told us this is a team that struggles to score runs--patently a lie, based on our highly scientific one-game study, and possibly intended to lure us into a false sense of security--we are willing to accept that maybe, just maybe, he merely failed to recognize the awesome power of Ryan Freel and leave it at that. Because Joe Posnanski? So much better than us.** He's written a book! He's written more than one book! We've written a blog, and a half-assed one at that! So, no, we will not be calling Joe Posnanski out tonight.
Instead, we're going to call out Dude In The Pedroia T-Shirt With The Schilling Jersey Over It Sitting Two Rows In Front Of Us In Infield Grandstand Section 16, Who Came to Fenway Already Completely Drunk Out Of His Mind And Proceeded To Try To Get Everyone To Do The Wave In The Third Inning (And Was Completely Annoying And Loud In Other Ways, Too). Dude--can we call you Dude, for short?--even your buddy was trying to get you to chill out a little. Look, we appreciate your enthusiasm. After the Red Sox coughed up the lead, you were one of the people leading the "Let's Go Red Sox" and "Let's Go Kotsay" chants in our section. However, screaming "I'm leading this!" at other fans when they tried to start new chants was not cool. Not to mention the fact that you shouted every. single. thing. you. said. and there was a kid a few seats over from us who probably didn' t need to hear all of that.
We're also going to call out the fellow behind us who took the initiative, after just about every pitch of every at-bat, to announce the on-field situation to everyone in the greater Back Bay area. "Oh, man, it's THREE AND TWO!" Buddy, baseball is not a play, and you are not the narrator. And if it was a play, Red Sox baseball would not need you--it would need, instead, a show-stopping musical number with a full ensemble cast.
Ahem.
What?
Oh, fine. It goes something like this:
Tek: One play more,
Another ball, another baserunner,
This never-ending road to October.
If A-Rod fouls off this pitch,
I'm gonna have to choke a bitch--
One play more!
Tito: The bullpen barely got through eight,
How will they pitch with bases loaded?
Tek: One play more!
Tito: The winning run is at the plate,
Someone check if my head's exploded.
Tek: One play more!
Pap: One more strike I got to throw,
[Fenway Faithful: Will he ever throw a fastball?]
Pap: Then I get to do my fistpumps!
[Fenway Faithful: His last slider didn't slide!]
Pap: Can't believe he called that low!
[Fenway Faithful: How the hell was that outside?]
Pap: I am gonna plonk the ump!
Infielders: One more play to win the game,
Drive the enemy from Fenway
Or else hide our heads in shame
Is it ball four or strike three?
[Fenway Faithful: The count is full! The end is near!]
Tek: One play more!
A-Rod: One more pitch to end the ballgame,
I will hit it with my bat,
It will land out in the bleachers--
Do these pants make me look fat?
Tek: One play more!
Orsillo: Bottom of the ninth, Fenway going mad,
Isn't this a good time for an Aflac ad?
Eckersley: That was easy cheese, that was lousy luck
If I was that pitcher, I'd be yelling--[BLEEP.]
Fielders: One more run means extra innings!
[Fenway Faithful: Live to fight another day]
Fielders: We have got to beat this team!
[Fenway Faithful: Did we mention, Jeter's gay?]
Fielders: There's the AL East for winning!
[Fenway Faithful: Do we curse or do we pray?]
Fielders: Do you hear the people scream?
Pap: I got my sign--here comes the ball!
Tek: One play more!
Tito: The bullpen barely got through eight--
Pap: One more strike I got to throw!
Orsillo: Bottom of the ninth, right here this is it--
Eckersley: If I was that pitcher, I'd be shouting--[BLEEP!]
Tek: This game has got to end someday, tomorrow we're at Tampa Bay--
All: This pitch is going to tell us who the playoff berth is for--
One more pitch,
One more play,
One play more!
*09/09/09
**That being said, we did not steal the asterisk thing from him. We were into asterisks when they were still underground.
Instead, we're going to call out Dude In The Pedroia T-Shirt With The Schilling Jersey Over It Sitting Two Rows In Front Of Us In Infield Grandstand Section 16, Who Came to Fenway Already Completely Drunk Out Of His Mind And Proceeded To Try To Get Everyone To Do The Wave In The Third Inning (And Was Completely Annoying And Loud In Other Ways, Too). Dude--can we call you Dude, for short?--even your buddy was trying to get you to chill out a little. Look, we appreciate your enthusiasm. After the Red Sox coughed up the lead, you were one of the people leading the "Let's Go Red Sox" and "Let's Go Kotsay" chants in our section. However, screaming "I'm leading this!" at other fans when they tried to start new chants was not cool. Not to mention the fact that you shouted every. single. thing. you. said. and there was a kid a few seats over from us who probably didn' t need to hear all of that.
We're also going to call out the fellow behind us who took the initiative, after just about every pitch of every at-bat, to announce the on-field situation to everyone in the greater Back Bay area. "Oh, man, it's THREE AND TWO!" Buddy, baseball is not a play, and you are not the narrator. And if it was a play, Red Sox baseball would not need you--it would need, instead, a show-stopping musical number with a full ensemble cast.
Ahem.
What?
Oh, fine. It goes something like this:
Tek: One play more,
Another ball, another baserunner,
This never-ending road to October.
If A-Rod fouls off this pitch,
I'm gonna have to choke a bitch--
One play more!
Tito: The bullpen barely got through eight,
How will they pitch with bases loaded?
Tek: One play more!
Tito: The winning run is at the plate,
Someone check if my head's exploded.
Tek: One play more!
Pap: One more strike I got to throw,
[Fenway Faithful: Will he ever throw a fastball?]
Pap: Then I get to do my fistpumps!
[Fenway Faithful: His last slider didn't slide!]
Pap: Can't believe he called that low!
[Fenway Faithful: How the hell was that outside?]
Pap: I am gonna plonk the ump!
Infielders: One more play to win the game,
Drive the enemy from Fenway
Or else hide our heads in shame
Is it ball four or strike three?
[Fenway Faithful: The count is full! The end is near!]
Tek: One play more!
A-Rod: One more pitch to end the ballgame,
I will hit it with my bat,
It will land out in the bleachers--
Do these pants make me look fat?
Tek: One play more!
Orsillo: Bottom of the ninth, Fenway going mad,
Isn't this a good time for an Aflac ad?
Eckersley: That was easy cheese, that was lousy luck
If I was that pitcher, I'd be yelling--[BLEEP.]
Fielders: One more run means extra innings!
[Fenway Faithful: Live to fight another day]
Fielders: We have got to beat this team!
[Fenway Faithful: Did we mention, Jeter's gay?]
Fielders: There's the AL East for winning!
[Fenway Faithful: Do we curse or do we pray?]
Fielders: Do you hear the people scream?
Pap: I got my sign--here comes the ball!
Tek: One play more!
Tito: The bullpen barely got through eight--
Pap: One more strike I got to throw!
Orsillo: Bottom of the ninth, right here this is it--
Eckersley: If I was that pitcher, I'd be shouting--[BLEEP!]
Tek: This game has got to end someday, tomorrow we're at Tampa Bay--
All: This pitch is going to tell us who the playoff berth is for--
One more pitch,
One more play,
One play more!
*09/09/09
**That being said, we did not steal the asterisk thing from him. We were into asterisks when they were still underground.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Do be a beer drinker, don't be a beer spiller
The Respect the Tek Guide to Ballpark Etiquette, Fenway Edition
I. Before You Go: Pack Light, Pack Early, Pack Often
A. Bring a hoodie. Bring an unopened bottle of water. Bring ID if you're going to purchase alcohol. Bring a hat, and remove it during the national anthem. Bring your kids if you're prepared to cover their ears a lot. Bring your mom. Bring snacks (if you work for Fenway security and you're reading this, we personally never bring snacks). Bring a camera, just in case Jon Lester throws a perfect game or goes squirrel-hunting or something.
B. If you're not one of the poor fools who have to work until after five, head out to the park early. Watch some BP; if the Blue Jays are in town, yell, "Millar!" at random intervals. Take advantage of Fenway's Family Hour to eat twice as many Fenway Franks as you'd normally be able to afford.
II. To Sit or Not to Sit, and What to Do Once You Find Out Your Seat's Behind a Pole
A. If you are lucky enough to be chilling in standing room, cultivate a wide stance. Don't interpret your neighbor's foot touching yours as an invitation. This is not the men's room at Logan Airport.
B. Believe it or not, you can hold out until an inning's end or a pitching change before you get up and get another beer. You can. Really. Baseball has all these breaks built in. There is never an excuse to be getting out of seat 11 of 23 and getting in everyone's way in the middle of a full count. Unless you're having a medical emergency, in which case, the Beth Israel Deaconess medical center is behind Fenway Section Twelve. We know, for Remy told us so.
C. Sometimes it can be polite to climb up or down over one seat into an empty row in order to make your way to the aisle. But only if nobody is actually sitting in that seat. In related news, please keep your feet off other people's hats.
D. Ballgames are social experiences, and of course you should chat with the folks you're with, but remember there are things that the strangers five rows ahead of you don't need to hear. Like, say, the results of your paternity test. Save it for Maury, or at least keep your voice down. That goes for you, too, girl on cell phone for ninety percent of the evening.
E. If you're holding up a sign that says "Hit it Here," make sure your seats are in fair territory.
III. Fun and Games and Dance-Offs
A. Fans over the age of ten years are invited not to participate in The Wave.*
B. Sitting near season ticket holders? Ask if any of them have ever caught a foul ball. Chances are you'll hear some funny stories from the 70s.
C. This being New England, there's always a risk of long rain delays. Sure, you can just drink yourself silly until the game is resumed or called off--we're sure Larry Lucchino gets starry-eyed at the very thought of all those concession sales. But the poor man's rainy ballpark pastime? Jersey bingo! Find a good people-watching vantage point and see if you can spot T-shirts for every member of that day's starting lineup, for the twenty-five man roster or the entire 2004 Legion of Superheroes. Obscure players, of course, are worth bonus points. If you see a Gagne T-shirt, that's an automatic bingo. If you see an unmodified Johnny Damon jersey, you are actually at Yankee Stadium, and that's a whole different guide.
D. Try and applaud spectacular plays made by the visiting team; it's the classy thing to do. Please note that every play a shortstop makes is not "spectacular"--just unfamiliar.
IV. Thank You For Being A Friend: The People Of Fenway
A. There is an official scorer who attends Red Sox games and monitors the umpires' calls very closely. He's in the back of grandstand section 15, and while he may appear to be a very drunk guy with his hat on sideways, don't be fooled: he has a superior view of the game, and pinpoint accuracy, and that, dammit, was a strike!
B. Fenway is home to some of the most knowledgable fans in the whole wide baseball world. It's also home to some of those people who call WEEI shows and talk the crazy talk.** When someone sitting near you starts in on an illogical rant about how he'll never forgive Pedro Martinez for giving up that home run to Bucky Dent, don't bother trying to correct him. Instead, turn to his wife and roll your eyes. Chances are she's rolling her eyes too, and you'll make a new ballpark friend.
V. "Yankees Suck" Is Not As Cunning as You Think It Is
A. Heckling is an art. Or a science. Or maybe one of those artsy-sciency things, like baking pie or being A-Rod's agent. At any rate, heckling definitely has its own set of rules:
1. Know who is actually in the opposing team's lineup. Bellowing insults at Josh Hamilton is less than effective when he's on the disabled list. He probably can't hear you from the comfy couch, and everyone who can thinks you're dumb.
a. Okay, so it's always tempting to heckle A-Rod, but try to restrain yourself. The thing is, when you heckle A-Rod, even the opposing fans probably agree with you.*** Heckling should rile the enemy up, not create battlefield camaraderie! This is not a World War I movie!
2. Don't bring other sports into your insults. It's a mistake to assume that everyone roots for every team a city has. Miguel Cabrera probably isn't gonna cry into his (purely decorative) glove when you point out how bad the Lions suck.
3. Once you've picked your victim, try and come up with something to say other than his name. The whole "Daaaa-rryl," "Rawwww-ger," "Bar-toooooo-lo" thing is only cool if 37,000 people decide to join in. Alone, you're just an annoying sing-songy voice, and a good target for flying beer paraphernalia.
4. Here's when it's okay to boo or heckle your own team's players: Never. Period. After all, you want them to win. However, if you really want to tell certain guys how much they suck--we can't say his name, so we'll call him Lugio Julo--at least hold off until he's actually done something that costs the team a run. Unfortunately, you won't have to wait forever.
Print these guidelines out and follow them for a wonderful experience at Fenway Park. Or, if you prefer, make a paper airplane, write a threatening note, and try and fly it into C.C. Sabathia's eye. That way, you'll have a wonderful night in a holding cell, and we'll steal your seats.
*Especially not when it's the fifth inning and your team is down by several runs.
**Curt Schilling.
***We have seen a Yankees fan outside Fenway Park hold an A-Roid syringe, and snicker. And in short, we were afraid.
I. Before You Go: Pack Light, Pack Early, Pack Often
A. Bring a hoodie. Bring an unopened bottle of water. Bring ID if you're going to purchase alcohol. Bring a hat, and remove it during the national anthem. Bring your kids if you're prepared to cover their ears a lot. Bring your mom. Bring snacks (if you work for Fenway security and you're reading this, we personally never bring snacks). Bring a camera, just in case Jon Lester throws a perfect game or goes squirrel-hunting or something.
B. If you're not one of the poor fools who have to work until after five, head out to the park early. Watch some BP; if the Blue Jays are in town, yell, "Millar!" at random intervals. Take advantage of Fenway's Family Hour to eat twice as many Fenway Franks as you'd normally be able to afford.
II. To Sit or Not to Sit, and What to Do Once You Find Out Your Seat's Behind a Pole
A. If you are lucky enough to be chilling in standing room, cultivate a wide stance. Don't interpret your neighbor's foot touching yours as an invitation. This is not the men's room at Logan Airport.
B. Believe it or not, you can hold out until an inning's end or a pitching change before you get up and get another beer. You can. Really. Baseball has all these breaks built in. There is never an excuse to be getting out of seat 11 of 23 and getting in everyone's way in the middle of a full count. Unless you're having a medical emergency, in which case, the Beth Israel Deaconess medical center is behind Fenway Section Twelve. We know, for Remy told us so.
C. Sometimes it can be polite to climb up or down over one seat into an empty row in order to make your way to the aisle. But only if nobody is actually sitting in that seat. In related news, please keep your feet off other people's hats.
D. Ballgames are social experiences, and of course you should chat with the folks you're with, but remember there are things that the strangers five rows ahead of you don't need to hear. Like, say, the results of your paternity test. Save it for Maury, or at least keep your voice down. That goes for you, too, girl on cell phone for ninety percent of the evening.
E. If you're holding up a sign that says "Hit it Here," make sure your seats are in fair territory.
III. Fun and Games and Dance-Offs
A. Fans over the age of ten years are invited not to participate in The Wave.*
B. Sitting near season ticket holders? Ask if any of them have ever caught a foul ball. Chances are you'll hear some funny stories from the 70s.
C. This being New England, there's always a risk of long rain delays. Sure, you can just drink yourself silly until the game is resumed or called off--we're sure Larry Lucchino gets starry-eyed at the very thought of all those concession sales. But the poor man's rainy ballpark pastime? Jersey bingo! Find a good people-watching vantage point and see if you can spot T-shirts for every member of that day's starting lineup, for the twenty-five man roster or the entire 2004 Legion of Superheroes. Obscure players, of course, are worth bonus points. If you see a Gagne T-shirt, that's an automatic bingo. If you see an unmodified Johnny Damon jersey, you are actually at Yankee Stadium, and that's a whole different guide.
D. Try and applaud spectacular plays made by the visiting team; it's the classy thing to do. Please note that every play a shortstop makes is not "spectacular"--just unfamiliar.
IV. Thank You For Being A Friend: The People Of Fenway
A. There is an official scorer who attends Red Sox games and monitors the umpires' calls very closely. He's in the back of grandstand section 15, and while he may appear to be a very drunk guy with his hat on sideways, don't be fooled: he has a superior view of the game, and pinpoint accuracy, and that, dammit, was a strike!
B. Fenway is home to some of the most knowledgable fans in the whole wide baseball world. It's also home to some of those people who call WEEI shows and talk the crazy talk.** When someone sitting near you starts in on an illogical rant about how he'll never forgive Pedro Martinez for giving up that home run to Bucky Dent, don't bother trying to correct him. Instead, turn to his wife and roll your eyes. Chances are she's rolling her eyes too, and you'll make a new ballpark friend.
V. "Yankees Suck" Is Not As Cunning as You Think It Is
A. Heckling is an art. Or a science. Or maybe one of those artsy-sciency things, like baking pie or being A-Rod's agent. At any rate, heckling definitely has its own set of rules:
1. Know who is actually in the opposing team's lineup. Bellowing insults at Josh Hamilton is less than effective when he's on the disabled list. He probably can't hear you from the comfy couch, and everyone who can thinks you're dumb.
a. Okay, so it's always tempting to heckle A-Rod, but try to restrain yourself. The thing is, when you heckle A-Rod, even the opposing fans probably agree with you.*** Heckling should rile the enemy up, not create battlefield camaraderie! This is not a World War I movie!
2. Don't bring other sports into your insults. It's a mistake to assume that everyone roots for every team a city has. Miguel Cabrera probably isn't gonna cry into his (purely decorative) glove when you point out how bad the Lions suck.
3. Once you've picked your victim, try and come up with something to say other than his name. The whole "Daaaa-rryl," "Rawwww-ger," "Bar-toooooo-lo" thing is only cool if 37,000 people decide to join in. Alone, you're just an annoying sing-songy voice, and a good target for flying beer paraphernalia.
4. Here's when it's okay to boo or heckle your own team's players: Never. Period. After all, you want them to win. However, if you really want to tell certain guys how much they suck--we can't say his name, so we'll call him Lugio Julo--at least hold off until he's actually done something that costs the team a run. Unfortunately, you won't have to wait forever.
Print these guidelines out and follow them for a wonderful experience at Fenway Park. Or, if you prefer, make a paper airplane, write a threatening note, and try and fly it into C.C. Sabathia's eye. That way, you'll have a wonderful night in a holding cell, and we'll steal your seats.
*Especially not when it's the fifth inning and your team is down by several runs.
**Curt Schilling.
***We have seen a Yankees fan outside Fenway Park hold an A-Roid syringe, and snicker. And in short, we were afraid.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Giving away free stuff is a good way to make friends.
Now that the Stanley Cup Playoffs are over*, we can finally return to our semi-quasi-almost-regular coverage of our favorite baseball team and yours, those crazy LOB machines known as the Boston Red Sox. And what better way to get back into the swing of things than with a contest? That's right, folks, you heard it here first (and last, and all the times in between): we've got two spare standing room tickets to May 24's game versus the New York Mets, and we're going to give them to one of you! All you need to do is answer one silly little question (one that is answered within the annals of Respect the Tek), and we will send them right out to you.
The Question: What part of Josh Beckett's body is Jason Varitek?
The Prize: 2 Standing Room tickets to May 24's game against the New York Mets
Just answer the question in the comments, and if you're right** we'll contact you and figure out how to get the tickets to you.
*Crazy how they just canceled them like that, huh? All out of the blue and stuff? Weird.
**Or the only entrant, in which case you win by default. Awesome, huh?
The Question: What part of Josh Beckett's body is Jason Varitek?
The Prize: 2 Standing Room tickets to May 24's game against the New York Mets
Just answer the question in the comments, and if you're right** we'll contact you and figure out how to get the tickets to you.
*Crazy how they just canceled them like that, huh? All out of the blue and stuff? Weird.
**Or the only entrant, in which case you win by default. Awesome, huh?
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, August 16, 2008
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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 28, 2007
We do not learn our lesson well in this house
9/27/07: Twins 5, Red Sox 4
One of us was at the game last night and one of us was at home watching (or, at least, watching as soon as it became clear that "The Office" is no longer must-see TV). The following conversation is reconstructed from post-game text messages and kitchen table analysis, minus a whole lot of "oh my God" and "why?"
Caroline: /gently thwaps Beckett upside his head.
Caroline [half an hour later]: /violently thwaps Beckett upside his head.
Jennifer: At least I got to see a Tek homer? Also, I apologize to all other fans for daring to go to another Beckett start. I get it, he hates me, I'll never go to one of his starts again.
Caroline: Yeah, I'm sure you could see Tek moving arond behind the plate from where you were sitting, 'cause Becky was not throwing the ball anywhere in the vicinity of where Tek was setting up. Almost like he was intentionally avoiding the glove, and why would you do that? I mean, apart from A) being A-Rod, or B) hating us, since you'd think he likes his teammates more than he hates us.
Jennifer: What he apparently likes is throwing BP fastballs. In hitter's counts. Over and over. And over. Again.
Caroline: And that throwing error? Like to have killed me, or at least driven me into the arms of Michael Scott.
Jennifer: Oh, God. That was when I knew I was being punished for returning to Fenway after Papi gave us such a great send-off. Message received, okay, baseball gods and mean girls?
Caroline: I guess at least it was a close game where we got beat by a good closer. We know that other teams don't inherently suck because they can't get hits off Papelbon, right? (Of course, Paps says, "Hell, yeah, they suck!" and fist-pumps, but then, he's not exactly a member of Mensa.)
Jennifer: Still, there were Twins fans on the T. A whole family of them, even. Ew. I pay too much for a Charlie Card to ride next to Twins fans.
Caroline: Ew. That sucks. Does not suck: Jason Varitek. Okay, he's not Papi and you can't put the whole team on his back, but a monster home run and the strike 'em out, throw 'em out DP?
Jennifer: Yes! That was pretty great to see! Of course, then he assisted in the suicide of the ninth-inning rally. For which he is obviously beating himself up plenty. Five bucks says he tells NESN he "got himself out."*
Caroline: At least he didn't make two outs on that, Mike Lowell. I was actually sitting in front of the TV thinking, "Captain, if you really, really need to strike out, just do that, babe." Because it could have been more painful.
Jennifer: I just had to explain to a Yankee-rooting coworker who thinks all the Red Sox are ugly and horrible that Mike Lowell may be last night's GIDP king but he is still, as officially sanctioned by People Magazine, muy sexy.
Caroline: It's nice to educate people on baseball fundamentals. You make a good ambassador.
Jennifer: Great, where are my free tickets?
Caroline: Not so fast. For an actual Red Sox Nation government position, you'll have to wait until after the election. And the recount.** But then maybe Remy will consider your resume and assign you a diplomatic post somewhere.
Jennifer: Please, not Philadelphia. I'm allergic to Phanatics.
*He didn't actually say that, but "Personally, I didn't--wasn't able to get the job done" is close enough that one of us owes the other one a fiver. If that man stubbed his toe he would probably apologize for not seeing the floor well.
**It's a funny feeling, but this whole "Tim Russert moderates the presidential debate" thing has us understanding, with deep shame, what makes other baseball fans hate us. Yet, at the same time, we're still extremely amused by Remdawg's attempts to use a history of Dodgers fandom to Swift-Boat Doris Kearns Goodwin.
One of us was at the game last night and one of us was at home watching (or, at least, watching as soon as it became clear that "The Office" is no longer must-see TV). The following conversation is reconstructed from post-game text messages and kitchen table analysis, minus a whole lot of "oh my God" and "why?"
Caroline: /gently thwaps Beckett upside his head.
Caroline [half an hour later]: /violently thwaps Beckett upside his head.
Jennifer: At least I got to see a Tek homer? Also, I apologize to all other fans for daring to go to another Beckett start. I get it, he hates me, I'll never go to one of his starts again.
Caroline: Yeah, I'm sure you could see Tek moving arond behind the plate from where you were sitting, 'cause Becky was not throwing the ball anywhere in the vicinity of where Tek was setting up. Almost like he was intentionally avoiding the glove, and why would you do that? I mean, apart from A) being A-Rod, or B) hating us, since you'd think he likes his teammates more than he hates us.
Jennifer: What he apparently likes is throwing BP fastballs. In hitter's counts. Over and over. And over. Again.
Caroline: And that throwing error? Like to have killed me, or at least driven me into the arms of Michael Scott.
Jennifer: Oh, God. That was when I knew I was being punished for returning to Fenway after Papi gave us such a great send-off. Message received, okay, baseball gods and mean girls?
Caroline: I guess at least it was a close game where we got beat by a good closer. We know that other teams don't inherently suck because they can't get hits off Papelbon, right? (Of course, Paps says, "Hell, yeah, they suck!" and fist-pumps, but then, he's not exactly a member of Mensa.)
Jennifer: Still, there were Twins fans on the T. A whole family of them, even. Ew. I pay too much for a Charlie Card to ride next to Twins fans.
Caroline: Ew. That sucks. Does not suck: Jason Varitek. Okay, he's not Papi and you can't put the whole team on his back, but a monster home run and the strike 'em out, throw 'em out DP?
Jennifer: Yes! That was pretty great to see! Of course, then he assisted in the suicide of the ninth-inning rally. For which he is obviously beating himself up plenty. Five bucks says he tells NESN he "got himself out."*
Caroline: At least he didn't make two outs on that, Mike Lowell. I was actually sitting in front of the TV thinking, "Captain, if you really, really need to strike out, just do that, babe." Because it could have been more painful.
Jennifer: I just had to explain to a Yankee-rooting coworker who thinks all the Red Sox are ugly and horrible that Mike Lowell may be last night's GIDP king but he is still, as officially sanctioned by People Magazine, muy sexy.
Caroline: It's nice to educate people on baseball fundamentals. You make a good ambassador.
Jennifer: Great, where are my free tickets?
Caroline: Not so fast. For an actual Red Sox Nation government position, you'll have to wait until after the election. And the recount.** But then maybe Remy will consider your resume and assign you a diplomatic post somewhere.
Jennifer: Please, not Philadelphia. I'm allergic to Phanatics.
*He didn't actually say that, but "Personally, I didn't--wasn't able to get the job done" is close enough that one of us owes the other one a fiver. If that man stubbed his toe he would probably apologize for not seeing the floor well.
**It's a funny feeling, but this whole "Tim Russert moderates the presidential debate" thing has us understanding, with deep shame, what makes other baseball fans hate us. Yet, at the same time, we're still extremely amused by Remdawg's attempts to use a history of Dodgers fandom to Swift-Boat Doris Kearns Goodwin.
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.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
We do not sing "Happy Birthday" in this house*
08/17/07: Angels 7, Red Sox 5
Dear Dustin Pedroia,
People born on August 17 are totally the best kind of people.** Rock on with your home run hitting self, and congratulations on making the varsity squad!
Love,
Jennifer, Respect the Tek
Dear Eric Gagné,
Why did you ruin Jennifer's and Dustin's birthdays?***
Okay, look, intellectually we realize that you did not lose last night's game all on your own. Plenty of people contributed. Julio Lugo gave up a run through the power of his seventy-gazillionth error**** of the season. The offense, with the obvious exception of that beautiful eighth inning rally, was anemic at best. Manny in the Dell gave up two runs in his inning of relief; without those runs, the three runs you handed out send us into extra innings rather than bitching our way out of the ballpark and planning ways to get you deported back to Canada. But, see, you're an easy scapegoat. You came into the game with a lead, and left with a loss, and we're sorry if it makes you want to cry over a nice helping of poutine, but we blame you.
We're not going to boo you (it reflects badly on all of us, the fans, not to mention the fact that we personally find it... tacky? rude to the other players on the field? annoying? all of the above?), and we're certainly not going to throw things at you, but we're not exactly going to feel comfortable seeing you trudge out to the mound with anything less than a 20-run cushion and three guys warming up behind you. Three guys minimum.
In conclusion, no, really, why did you ruin the Jimmy Fund's day? Did you not get the Lowell-Lester fuck cancer memo?
No Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Terry Francona,
Mike Timlin, Kyle Snyder, Julian "Batshit" Tavarez: three people we would've felt more comfortable seeing in the top of the ninth with a one-run lead. Hell, three people we would've preferred to see after Gagné gave up his first run and very obviously did not have his A (or B, or C, or even F) game. Send Beckett back out there, he'll close out his own fucking game. Send Wake, he'll do it. Hell, send Jim Flippin' Belushi out there with some water balloons, a pair of night-vision goggles, and a pack of Big League Chew. Just do not, we repeat, do not send out Eric Gagné.
Look, we know you like to give your players a chance. It's your thing. We get that. But there is a difference between giving a guy a shot and sending in someone who has, in his short time with the Red Sox going into last night's game, given up seven runs in three innings***** when the team has a one-run lead. It just does not make sense. There's trust, and then there's whatever this was, and whatever this was loses us ballgames. We hate to say it, but facts are facts, and Eric Gagné is a free agent at the end of the season and there is no excuse for you coddling him like this. And we get it: this was just the sort of situation for which Gagné was originally acquired, blah blah blah, adjustment period, rah rah he can do it. However--and, again, we don't mean to be crass here--he's floundering. He's not getting it done. It's mid-August, not spring training, and this is not the time to be campaigning for Happy Good Time Feel Good Camp counselor of the year.
The ejection was fun, though. Next time, try swinging a base over your head and then seeing how far you can toss it.
No Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
P.S. The answer last night, by the way, was Mike Timlin. We're, like, 102.4% sure about that one.******
Dear Kevin Youkilis,
Thank you for adding a little bit of extra pizazz to that devastating ninth inning, but, please, we beg of you, do not actually kill the umpires. And, yes, it was totally a foul tip.
Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Wily Mo Pena,
We wish you all the best with the Washington Nationals. May you get tons of playing time and learn to recognize breaking balls and develop into the kick-ass player Papi tells us you have the potential to be. It's not like the Nationals have a whole lot to lose by giving you a fair shake. Watch out for Dmitri Young!
Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Doug Mirabelli,
Get well soon.
Love,
Tim Wakefield and the Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Captain Varitek,
You, sir, are our hero.
Semper fidelis,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
*Because we do not have the money to pay those pesky royalty fees.
**Jorge Posada would be the exception that proves the rule. Caroline, on the other hand, shares her birthday with Mary Lou Retton and Neil Diamond, and Respect the Tek greatly regrets this.
***Followed by seventy-gazillion and one.
****Slight exaggeration. We do not allow Eric Gagné to dictate our fates in such a manner. Plus, there was still ice cream. And a win in the day game. And we may have acquired, under false-ish pretenses, Jonathan Papelbon lunchboxes.
*****Yes, yes, if you look at his record (and how we hate having to look at his record), he also pitched two scoreless innings during this period, but that is not the point.
******We had a feeling.
Dear Dustin Pedroia,
People born on August 17 are totally the best kind of people.** Rock on with your home run hitting self, and congratulations on making the varsity squad!
Love,
Jennifer, Respect the Tek
Dear Eric Gagné,
Why did you ruin Jennifer's and Dustin's birthdays?***
Okay, look, intellectually we realize that you did not lose last night's game all on your own. Plenty of people contributed. Julio Lugo gave up a run through the power of his seventy-gazillionth error**** of the season. The offense, with the obvious exception of that beautiful eighth inning rally, was anemic at best. Manny in the Dell gave up two runs in his inning of relief; without those runs, the three runs you handed out send us into extra innings rather than bitching our way out of the ballpark and planning ways to get you deported back to Canada. But, see, you're an easy scapegoat. You came into the game with a lead, and left with a loss, and we're sorry if it makes you want to cry over a nice helping of poutine, but we blame you.
We're not going to boo you (it reflects badly on all of us, the fans, not to mention the fact that we personally find it... tacky? rude to the other players on the field? annoying? all of the above?), and we're certainly not going to throw things at you, but we're not exactly going to feel comfortable seeing you trudge out to the mound with anything less than a 20-run cushion and three guys warming up behind you. Three guys minimum.
In conclusion, no, really, why did you ruin the Jimmy Fund's day? Did you not get the Lowell-Lester fuck cancer memo?
No Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Terry Francona,
Mike Timlin, Kyle Snyder, Julian "Batshit" Tavarez: three people we would've felt more comfortable seeing in the top of the ninth with a one-run lead. Hell, three people we would've preferred to see after Gagné gave up his first run and very obviously did not have his A (or B, or C, or even F) game. Send Beckett back out there, he'll close out his own fucking game. Send Wake, he'll do it. Hell, send Jim Flippin' Belushi out there with some water balloons, a pair of night-vision goggles, and a pack of Big League Chew. Just do not, we repeat, do not send out Eric Gagné.
Look, we know you like to give your players a chance. It's your thing. We get that. But there is a difference between giving a guy a shot and sending in someone who has, in his short time with the Red Sox going into last night's game, given up seven runs in three innings***** when the team has a one-run lead. It just does not make sense. There's trust, and then there's whatever this was, and whatever this was loses us ballgames. We hate to say it, but facts are facts, and Eric Gagné is a free agent at the end of the season and there is no excuse for you coddling him like this. And we get it: this was just the sort of situation for which Gagné was originally acquired, blah blah blah, adjustment period, rah rah he can do it. However--and, again, we don't mean to be crass here--he's floundering. He's not getting it done. It's mid-August, not spring training, and this is not the time to be campaigning for Happy Good Time Feel Good Camp counselor of the year.
The ejection was fun, though. Next time, try swinging a base over your head and then seeing how far you can toss it.
No Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
P.S. The answer last night, by the way, was Mike Timlin. We're, like, 102.4% sure about that one.******
Dear Kevin Youkilis,
Thank you for adding a little bit of extra pizazz to that devastating ninth inning, but, please, we beg of you, do not actually kill the umpires. And, yes, it was totally a foul tip.
Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Wily Mo Pena,
We wish you all the best with the Washington Nationals. May you get tons of playing time and learn to recognize breaking balls and develop into the kick-ass player Papi tells us you have the potential to be. It's not like the Nationals have a whole lot to lose by giving you a fair shake. Watch out for Dmitri Young!
Love,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Doug Mirabelli,
Get well soon.
Love,
Tim Wakefield and the Girls of Respect the Tek
Dear Captain Varitek,
You, sir, are our hero.
Semper fidelis,
The Girls of Respect the Tek
*Because we do not have the money to pay those pesky royalty fees.
**Jorge Posada would be the exception that proves the rule. Caroline, on the other hand, shares her birthday with Mary Lou Retton and Neil Diamond, and Respect the Tek greatly regrets this.
***Followed by seventy-gazillion and one.
****Slight exaggeration. We do not allow Eric Gagné to dictate our fates in such a manner. Plus, there was still ice cream. And a win in the day game. And we may have acquired, under false-ish pretenses, Jonathan Papelbon lunchboxes.
*****Yes, yes, if you look at his record (and how we hate having to look at his record), he also pitched two scoreless innings during this period, but that is not the point.
******We had a feeling.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
We do not have enough alcohol in this house
06/29/07: Rangers 1, Red Sox 2
06/30/07: Rangers 5, Red Sox 4
07/01/07: Rangers 2, Red Sox 1
After the Safeco slump, winning the first game of this homestand was a pleasant and enlightening experience. We learned that Manny Delcarmen is a cool customer (delightful!), that Mike Lowell is more soothing a presence than Doug Mirabelli (shocking!), and that Dustin Pedroia does not fear the reaper (just plain awesome!).
Thanks to NESN, we also learned that Tek has a signal which causes Papelbon to pretend to shake him off. A fake-out signal! We just know they spent a whole lot of time working that one out, with Paps never able to keep a straight face. This calls into question the certainty of our blog tagline and pretty much all reality as we know it--and we love that.
As for the last two losses, well, we're trying to salvage something upbeat out of the pain, and here's what we got:
1. We went at Fenway on Saturday night, and we turned standing room into dancing room when Mike Timlin was warming up and "Black Betty" was playing in his honor. We thought it was just a catchy song, but he proceeded to pitch a beautiful top of the ninth. We hereby declare ourselves the Official Mike Timlin Solid Gold Dancers. Bam-a-lam!
2. No appearance by El Coco Salon And Day Spa at center, so we got a look at Jacoby Ellsbury both nights. He doesn't quite seem ready for primetime, but he's easy on the eyes. And speedy. And probably still gets carded every time he tries to buy cigarettes.
3. Julian Tavarez made fewer nervewracking mistakes in his start today than Josh Beckett did yesterday. Somehow, we knew that crazy old Jim Leyland would fail to recognize the Genius of Guano and leave Tavarez out of his All-Star bullpen. There is no justice!* Gang, let's meet up in San Francisco for a protest rally! Donna Martin graduates!**
Our pitching was not the problem in these games. Pitching, especially from the bullpen, was shiny and sweet, like an apple. Like an appletini. But the offense? A flat Miller Lite.
We've had five chances in seven days to watch this team struggle, inning after inning, and fail to come up with a single run, leaving the population of Rhode Island stranded on base. Sure, it's consoling that the rest of the AL East has been equally miserable this week. But it's hard to relax when our games seem destined to conclude with Papi or Manny striking out in a dramatic style that feels like the world's coming to an end.***
Inquiring minds want to know: Is this something we can fix, or is this the sign of a pox on our entire season? Is the era of our power hitters over or will they heat up again after the All-Star Break?
Inquiring minds really want your answer to that question if it's something hopeful and reassuring. Or if you are Dave Magadan and have the power to stage an intervention.
The first step is to recognize that you are powerless over Julio Lugo, and that he has become unmanageable.
*Speaking of not fair, it's really sad that Youkilis didn't make the team. Sure, he'll enjoy the time off--his blog indicates that he's debating between Cape Cod and Vegas for his vacation, and one shudders to imagine what Youk wouldn't get up to in Vegas--but it just feels wrong that he isn't getting the recognition. We're definitely excited for Mikey Lowell, even though he'd probably also prefer to join the crowd at Manny's Annual Tailgate Extravaganza And Slip'N'Slide Baserunning Clinic.
Don't forget to cast your Final Vote for Hideki Okajima.
**Anybody who's willing to do a point-by-point comparison of the 90210 cast to the 2007 Red Sox bullpen, with special attention to the profound Josh Beckett-Shannen Doherty parallels, please let us know so we can submit our marriage proposals to you in a timely fashion.
***Though a big chunk of the blame for Saturday's loss should land on Lugey's head, for taking a charity pinch-run and promptly, inexplicably converting it into an idiotic inning-ending out. It appears to have strained even the spanielesque loyalty of Francona. You know, he's almost inspiring, in a way. Somehow he became a professional baseball player and multimillionaire even though he lacks virtually every skill necessary to play the game, up to and including the common sense God gave a plate of coleslaw. Anything he can do, we can do better. So can our neighbor's cat. So can a shoe.
06/30/07: Rangers 5, Red Sox 4
07/01/07: Rangers 2, Red Sox 1
After the Safeco slump, winning the first game of this homestand was a pleasant and enlightening experience. We learned that Manny Delcarmen is a cool customer (delightful!), that Mike Lowell is more soothing a presence than Doug Mirabelli (shocking!), and that Dustin Pedroia does not fear the reaper (just plain awesome!).
Thanks to NESN, we also learned that Tek has a signal which causes Papelbon to pretend to shake him off. A fake-out signal! We just know they spent a whole lot of time working that one out, with Paps never able to keep a straight face. This calls into question the certainty of our blog tagline and pretty much all reality as we know it--and we love that.
As for the last two losses, well, we're trying to salvage something upbeat out of the pain, and here's what we got:
1. We went at Fenway on Saturday night, and we turned standing room into dancing room when Mike Timlin was warming up and "Black Betty" was playing in his honor. We thought it was just a catchy song, but he proceeded to pitch a beautiful top of the ninth. We hereby declare ourselves the Official Mike Timlin Solid Gold Dancers. Bam-a-lam!
2. No appearance by El Coco Salon And Day Spa at center, so we got a look at Jacoby Ellsbury both nights. He doesn't quite seem ready for primetime, but he's easy on the eyes. And speedy. And probably still gets carded every time he tries to buy cigarettes.
3. Julian Tavarez made fewer nervewracking mistakes in his start today than Josh Beckett did yesterday. Somehow, we knew that crazy old Jim Leyland would fail to recognize the Genius of Guano and leave Tavarez out of his All-Star bullpen. There is no justice!* Gang, let's meet up in San Francisco for a protest rally! Donna Martin graduates!**
Our pitching was not the problem in these games. Pitching, especially from the bullpen, was shiny and sweet, like an apple. Like an appletini. But the offense? A flat Miller Lite.
We've had five chances in seven days to watch this team struggle, inning after inning, and fail to come up with a single run, leaving the population of Rhode Island stranded on base. Sure, it's consoling that the rest of the AL East has been equally miserable this week. But it's hard to relax when our games seem destined to conclude with Papi or Manny striking out in a dramatic style that feels like the world's coming to an end.***
Inquiring minds want to know: Is this something we can fix, or is this the sign of a pox on our entire season? Is the era of our power hitters over or will they heat up again after the All-Star Break?
Inquiring minds really want your answer to that question if it's something hopeful and reassuring. Or if you are Dave Magadan and have the power to stage an intervention.
The first step is to recognize that you are powerless over Julio Lugo, and that he has become unmanageable.
*Speaking of not fair, it's really sad that Youkilis didn't make the team. Sure, he'll enjoy the time off--his blog indicates that he's debating between Cape Cod and Vegas for his vacation, and one shudders to imagine what Youk wouldn't get up to in Vegas--but it just feels wrong that he isn't getting the recognition. We're definitely excited for Mikey Lowell, even though he'd probably also prefer to join the crowd at Manny's Annual Tailgate Extravaganza And Slip'N'Slide Baserunning Clinic.
Don't forget to cast your Final Vote for Hideki Okajima.
**Anybody who's willing to do a point-by-point comparison of the 90210 cast to the 2007 Red Sox bullpen, with special attention to the profound Josh Beckett-Shannen Doherty parallels, please let us know so we can submit our marriage proposals to you in a timely fashion.
***Though a big chunk of the blame for Saturday's loss should land on Lugey's head, for taking a charity pinch-run and promptly, inexplicably converting it into an idiotic inning-ending out. It appears to have strained even the spanielesque loyalty of Francona. You know, he's almost inspiring, in a way. Somehow he became a professional baseball player and multimillionaire even though he lacks virtually every skill necessary to play the game, up to and including the common sense God gave a plate of coleslaw. Anything he can do, we can do better. So can our neighbor's cat. So can a shoe.
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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