61 ain't nothin' but a number

Are we supposed to be responding to the Mark McGwire steroid admission? We've heard that's all the rage these days. We're supposed to say, "Hey, he ruined the game." Or maybe, "Hey, he apologized, but we don't think he meant it." We're supposed to rend our garments and reconsider our nonexistent Hall of Fame ballot, and we're supposed to judge every twitch, every teary eyed moment, every word.

We don't care.* We just don't. We think that guys were doing greenies before they were doing roids, that guys were corking the bat and spitting on the ball and sharpening their spikes and doing whatever it took--whatever it took--to play baseball at the highest level possible since the game began. They'll continue to do so tomorrow, and next month, and next year, and on and on; the only question is what, exactly, that next big performance enhancer is going to be. Jonathan Papelbon, for one, votes for robot parts. In particular robot knees for certain catchers who have 900 year old knees. And robot elbows. And robot--

You get the picture.

Of course, our Lack of Caring is intensified by the news coming out of Haiti at the moment.** It makes McGwire's not-at-all surprising "revelation" seem about as crucial to our lives as Heidi Montag's new album. So instead of bitching and moaning about the integrity of the sport, instead of trying to figure out the physics that explain the alternate reality where Tony LaRussa is continuously living in 1994, we're going to pony up and donate to one of these here charities. If you've got a couple of bucks stored away in your Fenway beer money commemorative plastic cup, maybe you could send that their way too.

Look, we're a sports blog, yes, but some things are more important than sports. Even if it doesn't always feel that way when your closer's in the process of giving up the lead in an elimination game. Even if it doesn't feel like it when one of your favorite players gets traded to one of your most hated rivals. We're mostly here to tell jokes about A-Rod being a douche and to laugh at Papi plunking Jimmy Fallon with an egg, to question Tito's every managerial move*** and worry about Clay Buchholz's fastball command. Once in a while we may even bring up the Bruins and their complete and utter inability to put the biscuit in the basket. Just not today.

Today is for being preachy. And time travel.


*We are glad to see him confess--to the amazing Joe Posnanski, if not on air with The Costas--that, hey, staying on the field did pad his numbers somewhat. You know, even if he doesn't believe that steroids actually helped him hit those towering shots, at least he does seem to recognize that, wait a second, he couldn't hit them anything at all from the DL. Just as JD Drew--bah dum bum.

**"Ah ha!" you think, "So this is why they've come out of hiatus after so long." And, yes, you would be correct. Though we still fully intend to write our review of the Marco Scutaro signing based entirely on his performance in that modern cinematic masterpiece, A Player To Be Named Later. Spoiler: he's a better actor than we would've expected, though not quite as skilled as Kevin Costner at playing a ballplayer.

***Us: knock knock. You: Who's there? Us: TAKE SCHILL OUT IT'S THE SIXTH INNING. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be here all night.

Happy Truck Day!

It all started with the postseason. We'd write a couple of sentences, play around with them for a while, but in the end we'd erase every last word on the off chance it could in any way be construed as a jinx, a hex, bad luck. Healthy? No. Sane? Certainly not. But we couldn't help ourselves. What if our (admittedly brilliant) one-liner about grilled cheese sandwiches made Mikey Lowell's bad hip even worse? What if that comment about high fastballs made Pap blow a save? We couldn't risk it. Anyway, fast-forward to the off-season, which has featured a hot stove with a frightening similarity to our old electric stove at home: which is to say that it is cold, cold, cold, on fire, cold. And you know you should probably move your hand off that burner--hmm, that smells a little like burning flesh, doesn't it? wow, and it kind of hurts--but you just can't.

So we stopped posting. And kept not posting. And then we didn't post some more. And, as is the case with so many things in life, the longer you actively avoid doing something the easier it is to justify your decision.

But today we are back. We won't promise it's for good--it's entirely possible that tomorrow morning we will come up with a batshit crazy explanation for broken bats that involves the twenty-third sentence of this post that will drive us back into hibernation; hell, we put off posting this until after Tek passed his physical because we were afraid of, well, things we aren't going to mention because then they might happen--but hopefully for a little while. Maybe even until pitchers and catchers report.

Which brings us to our regularly scheduled programming on this fine Friday evening: catchers. As in: the Red Sox have pretty much failed to develop &/or trade for a catcher of the future (CoF), thus bringing us to this point in time when they had to overspend on a 37-year old in the hopes that Joe Mauer a) actually hits free agency (we're dubious, to say the least) and b) doesn't get scooped up by the Yankees. As in: look, we're not stupid. We know that Tek's bat speed has deteriorated to the point that he can't catch up to a Paul Byrd fastball, and he couldn't throw out Sean Casey stealing second most days. That said, we don't care. He's still our favorite. Maybe it's nostalgia, fond memories of the days when he'd glove A-Rod in the face in the morning and get a few hits in the evening. Maybe it's the thighs.* Maybe it's the fact that, to a man, the pitching staff went out of its way to casually mention that they wanted him back, and we always want Jonathan Papelbon to get what he wants.** But, no matter the reason, that's just the way it is. We all have our favorites: sometimes they make sense, sometimes they don't. Joe Posnanski once wrote a post on this very subject (or was it someone else?), and were we less lazy &/or down for the count with the TD Banknorth Flu, we would search it out and link to it.

So, yes, before we get any further, we confess: we are happy Tek will be back, all logic and statistical analysis be damned. We are those people. (Of course, we are also those people who like to imagine that Andy MacPhail will go even more loco and hand us the Wieters for Daniel Bard,*** a Johnny Pesky autographed baseball, Julio Lugo, and a pack of chewing gum. What? It could totally happen.) We want Tek back, and we want a CoF to magically appear without costing us Clay Buchholz.**** We want Ted Williams to come back to life, a million dollars, and a pony.

We want this exchange to happen during spring training:

Tek: Hey, Salty.*****

Salty: Teach me all you know, Yoda.

Tek: Okay!

Salty: YAYS.

Tek: Now, the first thing you gotta know is that all our pitchers are insane. Especially Pap...

And so on and so forth, etc.

Mick Jagger would tell us that we can't always get what we want. He would tell us that maybe we'll get what we need. To this we say, "Hey, Mick, stick to the tight pants and dancing! Tell Charlie we love him! And, hey, you guys should tour again. We'd buy overpriced tickets in a heartbeat."

So, Theo, now that you've arranged for the first part of our little fantasy to come true, it's time to get the rest of it done. Call Texas &/or Arizona and convince them that the Red Sox prospect they really want in exchange for one of their catchers is a little-known RHP named Craig Hansen and forget to mention that he's no longer with the organization. Explain, very carefully, that you'd be willing to throw in Julio Lugo as a sign of good faith--free of cost, of course, ain't no one dumb enough to pick up that salary--and sweeten the pot with a couple of Fenway Franks. Offer up a free Pearl Jam concert if you have to, just get it done.

*We like to think we're above such abject objectification, but. Well. We're not. Deal with it.

**Unless what he wants involves hookers, blow, or anything else favored by the 1986 Mets.

***Codename: Hamlet. Think about it.

****Look, when your team acquired not only your long-time catcher/captain but also the dude who won all three clinching games the year they won the World Series for the first time in a gazillion years by trading away that year's Eric Gagne, well, you develop unrealistic expectations about how trades are supposed to work.

All glibness aside, however, we really are curious: who would you be willing to part with for a CoF? Does it differ if they catcher on offer is Saltalamacchia or Teagarden? Montero or someone else entirely? Inquiring minds want to know!

*****Feel free to substitute Teagarden, Montero, or your own personal favorite CoF flavor for Saltalamacchia. We've just had a soft spot for Salty for a while, is all, so we went with him. Also his name is fun. We here at Respect the Tek like fun names (We'll miss you, Coco Crisp! Have fun in Kansas City!).

We do not have a Rocket in our pocket in this house

Y HALO THAR BASEBALL (AP photo)

Pitchers and catchers are reporting for duty, and so are we!

How did we spend this offseason? Um, toning up, of course. Hey, these carpals didn't tunnel themselves. Also, we invested some time in pretending to care about the Celtics.

Honestly, even the most baseball-avid among us must admit that the off-season has been rather stifling. Santanagate dragged on long past its best-by date.* And as important as the Mitchell Report revelations were, they've been scrutinized to death. We believe the PED debate needs to move past Roger Clemens' bloodstained pants and his nanny's bikini to actually deal with current and future policy before we'll care enough to analyze it--so, between day jobs and the colds from hell and a sort of general winter malaise**, we've completely and utterly failed to blog. At all. Consider us deeply shamed. If it's any consolation, any posts would've been along the lines of, "hey, look what Center Field or Surviving Grady or Basegirl just said," so if you've kept up with them (and you have, right?) you should be fine.

In the spirit of starting fresh, here are five things we're ready to enjoy about the 2008 baseball season:

1. With Erik Bedard moving away from Baltimore, the Sox will see him much less frequently. And he'll be on the Mariners, a team we think of with deep fondness. This is as close to a perfect trade as we can imagine. It would only be better if the entire lineup of Los Los Angeles Angeles of Anaheim decided to find their true calling in ballet.

2. Dustin Pedroia Year II: Midget's Revenge. If offseason reports are to believed, he is adding muscle and ego at an alarming rate. We can't wait to see the next round of great pitchers laid low by Mighty Mouse. Of course, we're also thrilled to see what Lester and Buchholz can do with a full and hopefully healthy*** season ahead of them, whether David Aardsma has the stuff to make it to the bullpen, how Sean Casey will fare, and what's left in our beloved Tim Wakefield's tank. But only one man on the 40-man roster has offered to take us to the gun show.

Petey, we're so ready for the ride.

3. We'll get to learn whether any of the young catchers in Tek's posse get a cup of coffee this year:

The sweetest dressing gang in pants.

Everyone in the Soxosphere has been running around all Henny-Penny about the fact that Tek doesn't have an heir apparent. But not us. We like George Kottaras and Ty Weeden; and we love Dusty Brown, who showed us a great arm at the Futures game last year, and looks like Rob Lowe's husky-but-still-hot brother. We'd love to see one of these guys get a chance on the big stage to prove the doubters wrong. And of course, if it's not to be, we will just have to send the posse above to challenge the Texas Rangers' catcher posse to a dance war for Saltalamacchia's soul.

4. Games. Like, every single day, new actual games. Scores. Standings. Goofy pictures of guys trying to slide into third or falling down underneath a pop-fly. Games we get to see at Fenway. Games on the radio. Games we sleep through 'cause they're in freakin' Japan. Games where Eric Gagne is facing us from the other team! Games where Papi will hit roundtrippers off which unfortunate Weaver brother dares to face him, and games where Papelbon will strike out Alex Rodriguez, or Kevin Millar, or a moose! Who could ask for anything more?

5. Live! In person! Spring training!

Yes, we are lucky. We're going to venture out of the pixelverse and into the really real world, for the very last week before the Red Sox fly east. We'll be attending three exhibition games, including one against the Yankees. We're both thrilled--it's a first time trip for both of us, so any Fort Myers or Tampa advice is welcomed. In return, we promise to do due diligence in our scouting. Any bloodstained pants will be reported post-haste.

We promise to actually do better keeping up with the blog, too. Because baseball, it left us in the winter, but today it came charging back, with chocolates and roses, with pitchers and catchers, with candy hearts reading "be mine" and T-shirts reading "do it now."

Welcome back.


*Though congrats are due to Omar Minaya and the Metsies for getting it done in the end (and for far less prospect-wise than anyone assumed possible). Now if only Pedro would step away from the cockfights...

**Not football-related. As a household, we are more interested in the recent revelation that Eli Manning and Jonathan Papelbon are duck-hunting buddies than in anything Manning might do in a game-type situation. Did...did they mean Nintendo Duck Hunt? Do we dare to hope?

***Touch wood. Toss salt. Cross your fingers. Contact your dead relatives. Rub Barack Obama's head. Whatever you do for luck, and hope, and gratitude, take a moment and do it for Jonny Lester.

We do not pirate media in this house*

Usually the awesome picture posts are the province of Out In Centerfield, and usually we don't, er, loot Boston Dirt Dogs for content, but this bears repeating:

Photo: Gene Duncan

Varitek going capitán al capitán against Hook.

Well, considering the bullpen is the Black Pearl, it was only a matter of time. Still, the Jack Sparrow hat/wig really puts this over the top.

We eagerly await spring training, when Tek will have to explain to the pitching staff that, no, this doesn't mean they're allowed to use swords and pistols against the Detroit Tigers this year, and, yes, his wife is still laughing at him.

*Please tell the RIAA we said so.

We do not go a-wassailing in this house

Oh, hi! We've been terribly lackadaisical about posting, obviously. Here, in a nutshell, are the riveting thoughts we've failed to write down:

1. Don't trade Ellsbury! No, wait, don't trade Lester! No, wait, don't trade anyone! Just screw the 25-man roster, issue all our pitchers the same uniform number, and convince everybody that Lester and Santana are the same guy.*

2. Maybe not this year, maybe not next year--since this blog's namesake will, as far as we are concerned, be forever young--but someday, the Texas Rangers will put the Saltalamacchia in the basket, or they will get the hose.

3. The Tigers are going to be scary this year, so much so that they might be able to stand it even if Jeremy Bonderman does keep wetting his pants on the mound. Our fond friends the Mets will also be scary, in a much less pleasant way. And is anyone else out there falling in love with the ragtag, felonious crew that is your 2008 Washington Nationals?

4. The Virtual Waiting Room: brilliant loyalty test/torture device, or brilliantest loyalty test/torture device?**

5. What can we give you, oh patient reader, for the holiday season?

Well, we have an answer for that last one. Finally!

The Bullpen Band T-Shirt is available!

Pick one up and show your pride in Manuelito, The Admiral, El Snyde Grande, and of course, This Year In Closers, Jonathan Papelbon. We're not making any money off 'em, but if you like them, or you have an idea for something else you'd like the logo slapped on, please leave a comment and make us feel pretty.

We'll be posting our holiday card images soon, as well, but in the meantime, don't forget to stop by Center Field and enjoy Texas Gal's highly awesome Advent calendar. Twenty-five days of Sox videos, links, and above all, pictures that are just crying out for lolcat captions.*** What is not to love?


*It's the mirrors.

**We're pretty sure we were able to get tickets, but the VWR claimed the package was sold out hours before it let us buy. So we may simply end up throwing ourselves bodily through Gate E some Friday night this spring.

***Curt Schilling: he's in ur dugout, writin ur emo lyrics.

We do not remain lucid within our food coma in this house

We hope you're all having a lovely Thanksgiving/Black Friday/Mikey Lowell Contract Week of Joy. Our own celebratory plans were foiled by the MLB's lawyers and the folks at CafePress. Do any of you fine folks know a sneaky alternative where we could possibly get Manny Delcarmen's Bullpen Band T-shirts printed? Because the design's ready to rock, but apparently the name is taboo. Check with us if you have suggestions or questions. We want to make the magic happen!

Anyway, in lieu of jersey-knit gifts or deep hot stove analysis (we're getting a little scared of the "The Angels" Angels of Anaheim; is that just us?), we give you an excerpt from Robert B. Parker's novel Hundred-Dollar Baby, page 182 in the mass-market paperback:

"Is there anything you believe in?" I said.

"My wife," Belson said.

I nodded.

"Anything else?" I said.

"Maybe Jason Varitek."

He ate a third of his donut and drank some coffee.

"That's probably enough," I said.

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

Old Business:

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

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

New Business:

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

We do not go gently into that good offseason in this house

All week we've been recovering, trying to catch up on sleep and our day jobs and all the things we've just straight up neglected since postseason baseball began, lo, a month ago. Doesn't it seem like it took forever in a temporal sense, but also like there wasn't nearly enough baseball? Shouldn't Josh Beckett be warming up for something right now, and wouldn't we all brave the newly chilly weather to watch him throw one more game? Shouldn't Jason Varitek be strategizing with his binders while Mike Timlin strategizes with his parrot? Can't we play three more games and keep the World Series sweep at the same time?

No? The laws of physics, baseball, and Suffolk County prevent it? Damn. It's going to be a long cold winter. But we've got our love to keep us warm.*

And you know who we love right now? Yeah. Him. And everyone else.

How about two guys not on the World Series roster: Tim Wakefield and Julian Tavarez? Polar opposites, right? The journeyman and the elder statesman. The Red Bull-chugging rubber arm and the reliable starter with the crazy knuckleball. The guy who lets Manny pet him on the head and the guy who keeps Doug Mirabelli as a pet. In spite of their shaky moments, we wouldn't have had much of a season if these guys hadn't been regularly reliable and occasionally spectacular--think of Wake's slick eight-inning outing against Rockies 1.0, or Tavvy's gorgeous relief innings on September 12th. We're delighted the club's picked up the options on these two. Imagining the team without Wake breaks our heart. And Tavvy may just be trade bait, but if not, well, our two baby starters could probably use the backup.**

Speaking of baby starters, we really love Jon Lester right now. We hope he's kickin' back on a couch somewhere, working on his fantasy football team, enjoying the first days of a pain-free, laid-back, regular-guy offseason. He'll have fun shooting deer with Bucky and Becky, and do some running and some weights and whatever it is pitchers do to hone their control. And that's it. And that makes us every bit as happy as knowing he'll come back to a ring ceremony.

How great is it gonna be, when spring rolls around, to see the eight 2004 veterans doubling their bling and their fun? It'll only be topped when Pedroia struts up from the dugout. We loved that boy back in April when he was barely hitting his weight, and only that much because he's a midget. We used to call him the best Little League 2B ever, then JV, and finally a varsity letter man. Now, having proven that he's more talented than he is cute and gritty, our Petey will get a shiny new band of gold to symbolize his triumph. He'll immediately pick a fight with Youk about whose is bigger.

We love Bobby Kielty, too. It'll be good to see him back for the party, and sad that he won't be in a Sox uniform.

Do we really even need to note that we've been breaking into spontaneous "RE-sign LOW-ell" chants*** all week long? We didn't think so.

When we look back in a year or two, this Series, and this season, will seem like they went pretty smoothly--a first-place team for more than five months rolled to a dominant and decisive World Series victory, stalwart veterans and shiny rookies and all. But we watched more closely, and know better. We had Eric Gagne ruin our birthdays. We watched a weakened lineup**** play down the stretch in September while the Yankees were mashing the ball all over the boroughs. We endured three miserable games in Detroit after the All-Star Break and three in Toronto in September, lost to Texas and Baltimore and Tampa Bay, suffered scoring droughts, costly injuries, and a fatigued bullpen tossing batting practice to Cleveland in the 13th inning of Game Two. We should remember all those things. Remember the headaches--our own and Papelbon's--and the ulcers we developed every time Daisuke Bat-suzaka walked the bases loaded. We should remember that the honorable Rockies fought to within one run in three of the four World Series games, making for a little bit of old-fashioned New England pearl-clutching before the town's best Irish dancer slammed the door.

Why hold on to the stress and pain along with the love and glory? Because it all goes to prove the point: our team could make all those mistakes, from the front office to Manny throwing his helmet, and still post dominant numbers across the board. Our team didn't quit until the last out, didn't fear momentum shifts, didn't panic, and David Ortiz made sure they never forgot their bad motherfucker-hood. Don't lose sight of how close they came to falling apart--that's how strong they were, to face that down and lock in and succeed.

This year, they were just that good.

Thank you, Red Sox. Don't stay away too long. What will we do without you?*****


*And T-shirts. T-shirts to keep us warm AND express our love. Thanks for letting us know you're interested--you guys rock, and they will be here very soon.

**Kind of hard to believe that six months ago we were freaking out about Josh Beckett's "avulsion", no? And did they ever define that made-up word to our satisfaction?

***We hope that by this point, Theo is hearing those chants in his head even when it's silent. "Sky Cries Lowell." "I Dream of Mikey with the Crooked Brown Goatee."

****Seriously, we'll miss Eric Hinske but we won't miss seeing him at first base. Maybe he and his awesome tattoos will turn up on a TLC reality show.

*****Next on Respect the Tek, a conversation between Todd Helton and Peyton Manning:
"GAHHH!"
"I know, right? Fuckin' Boston!"