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!"
Showing posts with label tavarez. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tavarez. Show all posts
Sunday, November 4, 2007
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.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
We do not intentionally walk the Captain in this house.
06/20/07: Red Sox 11, Braves 0
Today, Julian Tavarez pitched seven confusingly awesome shut-out innings (though he didn't bowl any balls to first or beanball any hecklers, more's the pity), five different guys (Drew, Crisp, Ortiz, Ramirez, Hinske) hit home runs, 11 total runs were scored, so of course we're going to talk about Jason Varitek. (What, are you surprised? Please, take a moment, visit with the title of the blog.)
First of all, he's been intentionally walked more times this season than David Ortiz. True fact. Twice in this series alone. Which, don't get us wrong, we love our Captain, but if you were the Braves, judging by what you've seen in this series from Coco Crisp and Jason Varitek, who would you intentionally walk and to whom would you pitch?
Let's look at the numbers for this series as of the start of tonight's game:
Jason Varitek: 2 SO, 1 BB, 2 H, 1 R, 0 RBI, 0 HR,
Coco Crisp: 1 SO, 0 BB, 5 H, 2 R, 2 RBI, 2 HR.
Right, so if you picked pitching to Tek and hoping to get that last out before Coco "I've already hit 2 homers so far this series, but, hey, I'm sure those were just flukes, man, trust me" Crisp gets up to bat...Congratulations! You are not the Braves. You probably didn't just have a pile of runs scored against you.
(Unless you're the Yankees.)
But we said we were going to talk about the Captain, and, gosh darn it, let's talk about the Captain. He was intentionally walked, struck out twice (and didn't look too happy with some of the ump's calls in the process*), and hit a single tonight. He also managed to look mighty fine doing so (and maybe one day we'll give up all semblance of serious blogging and just rhapsodize about our love of his old school socks, his uniform, his thighs, his face, his eyes, his [censored]). We have a magnet of him on our fridge, which has nothing at all to do with tonight's game but everything to do with our complete and utter lack of objectivity when it comes to this man.
It's entirely possible that we cheered when he got his hit tonight. It's also possible that we clapped. And when he was forced out at third on a Julio Lugo single, and he took off his batting helmet and looked so disappointed in himself, it is entirely possible that we wanted to...give him a hug? Bake him cookies? Make sure he knows Boston loves him unconditionally? All of the above?
Tek back in the dugout after getting forced out at third, a dramatic reenactment:
FRANCONA: It's okay, Jason.
VARITEK: How was I supposed to know that Lugey was going to actually get a hit?
FRANCONA: ...
VARITEK: I was sure he was going to pop out.
VARITEK looks sad and sits down. Various members of the team come up to him to console him. Nobody goes to console JULIO LUGO.
THE END.
In conclusion, a great game, and not just because we won. It's also because we're back to a two digit lead in the AL East, at least for one night, and we're enjoying that while we can.
*Hey, what was with Brian McCann twice calling time-out after Beckett was already winding up in Game 2? Is that allowed? Is there a word for "opposite of balk"? Or an appropriate penalty, like an automatic strike or maybe the pitcher gets to spit his gum out in your hair?
Today, Julian Tavarez pitched seven confusingly awesome shut-out innings (though he didn't bowl any balls to first or beanball any hecklers, more's the pity), five different guys (Drew, Crisp, Ortiz, Ramirez, Hinske) hit home runs, 11 total runs were scored, so of course we're going to talk about Jason Varitek. (What, are you surprised? Please, take a moment, visit with the title of the blog.)
First of all, he's been intentionally walked more times this season than David Ortiz. True fact. Twice in this series alone. Which, don't get us wrong, we love our Captain, but if you were the Braves, judging by what you've seen in this series from Coco Crisp and Jason Varitek, who would you intentionally walk and to whom would you pitch?
Let's look at the numbers for this series as of the start of tonight's game:
Jason Varitek: 2 SO, 1 BB, 2 H, 1 R, 0 RBI, 0 HR,
Coco Crisp: 1 SO, 0 BB, 5 H, 2 R, 2 RBI, 2 HR.
Right, so if you picked pitching to Tek and hoping to get that last out before Coco "I've already hit 2 homers so far this series, but, hey, I'm sure those were just flukes, man, trust me" Crisp gets up to bat...Congratulations! You are not the Braves. You probably didn't just have a pile of runs scored against you.
(Unless you're the Yankees.)
But we said we were going to talk about the Captain, and, gosh darn it, let's talk about the Captain. He was intentionally walked, struck out twice (and didn't look too happy with some of the ump's calls in the process*), and hit a single tonight. He also managed to look mighty fine doing so (and maybe one day we'll give up all semblance of serious blogging and just rhapsodize about our love of his old school socks, his uniform, his thighs, his face, his eyes, his [censored]). We have a magnet of him on our fridge, which has nothing at all to do with tonight's game but everything to do with our complete and utter lack of objectivity when it comes to this man.
It's entirely possible that we cheered when he got his hit tonight. It's also possible that we clapped. And when he was forced out at third on a Julio Lugo single, and he took off his batting helmet and looked so disappointed in himself, it is entirely possible that we wanted to...give him a hug? Bake him cookies? Make sure he knows Boston loves him unconditionally? All of the above?
Tek back in the dugout after getting forced out at third, a dramatic reenactment:
FRANCONA: It's okay, Jason.
VARITEK: How was I supposed to know that Lugey was going to actually get a hit?
FRANCONA: ...
VARITEK: I was sure he was going to pop out.
VARITEK looks sad and sits down. Various members of the team come up to him to console him. Nobody goes to console JULIO LUGO.
THE END.
In conclusion, a great game, and not just because we won. It's also because we're back to a two digit lead in the AL East, at least for one night, and we're enjoying that while we can.
*Hey, what was with Brian McCann twice calling time-out after Beckett was already winding up in Game 2? Is that allowed? Is there a word for "opposite of balk"? Or an appropriate penalty, like an automatic strike or maybe the pitcher gets to spit his gum out in your hair?
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