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 varitek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label varitek. Show all posts
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The world shines as I cross the Macon County line
Okay, fine. We confess: we missed most of it. Jennifer had commuting problems* and was an hour late getting home; Caroline has to head out to Logan tomorrow morning and had to do some laundry, pack, and bake some delightful cookies to bring to the person she's staying with. And, of course, there was the College World Series** to watch. So, yes, we missed most of tonight's game. Over the course of a 162-game season, it's bound to happen from time to time. But we hear tell that Papi and Tek went yard, which thrills us, and that while Jonny Lester wasn't at his sharpest, he kept the team in the game. These are things that please us greatly.
Anyway, Caroline's heading down to Atlanta to do a little recon*** while Jennifer's stuck up here fighting the good fight against the rain and the MBTA, so if we don't manage to post anything over the next week, that'd be why. It has nothing at all to do with Jennifer's propensity to fall asleep in lieu of blogging or her complete inability to finish anything without another person to bounce ideas off of. We're going to try to write a post or two through a cunning use of Twitter, twine, and a stick of gum, but that may limit things to a one-liner or two rather than a fully thought out blog post of the quality you've come to expect from Respect the Tek.
We've got a couple of ideas percolating (or fermenting, if you'd prefer the alcohol metaphor, and we always prefer the alcohol metaphor), though, so once Caroline's safe and sound back in the land of socks that are crimson-ish in hue and quarterbacks with supermodel wives, we're totally going to do our best to bring you a quality blog-reading experience.
In the meantime, as always, go Red Sox!
*It's wet out, which means the buses are contractually obligated to run on their alternate super secret schedule of sucktitude.
**Congrats to the LSU Tigers! We were rooting for Pedroia's Sun Devils, but since they got knocked out before the final we were mostly rooting for a 3-game series.
***By which we mean that she's going to try to kidnap Brian McCann.
Anyway, Caroline's heading down to Atlanta to do a little recon*** while Jennifer's stuck up here fighting the good fight against the rain and the MBTA, so if we don't manage to post anything over the next week, that'd be why. It has nothing at all to do with Jennifer's propensity to fall asleep in lieu of blogging or her complete inability to finish anything without another person to bounce ideas off of. We're going to try to write a post or two through a cunning use of Twitter, twine, and a stick of gum, but that may limit things to a one-liner or two rather than a fully thought out blog post of the quality you've come to expect from Respect the Tek.
We've got a couple of ideas percolating (or fermenting, if you'd prefer the alcohol metaphor, and we always prefer the alcohol metaphor), though, so once Caroline's safe and sound back in the land of socks that are crimson-ish in hue and quarterbacks with supermodel wives, we're totally going to do our best to bring you a quality blog-reading experience.
In the meantime, as always, go Red Sox!
*It's wet out, which means the buses are contractually obligated to run on their alternate super secret schedule of sucktitude.
**Congrats to the LSU Tigers! We were rooting for Pedroia's Sun Devils, but since they got knocked out before the final we were mostly rooting for a 3-game series.
***By which we mean that she's going to try to kidnap Brian McCann.
Friday, February 13, 2009
It's A New Dawn, It's A New Day
Respect The Tek is a steroid-free zone. We are not writing under the influence of any blog-enhancing drugs. If you know where blog-enhancing drugs can be acquired, please kick some our way.
Honestly, though, we've reached our limit with steroid talk. We don't want to hear about it anymore, or care about it anymore. Oh, yes, we believe that roiding is cheating, and that there should be aggressive testing and harsh penalties in order to keep baseball safe for the likes of a certain Most Valuable Midget. We think that cracking down now is worthwhile, but trying to ferret out everyone who used during the long, sordid era when Major League Baseball was out having lunch and getting its nails done is pointless. At this point, it's sadly necessary to assume that more people did it than didn't, and that nobody is guaranteed clean*. And it's also true that there's always been cheating in baseball, Gaylord Perry, and that we've never been stat freaks**, so we can't get all worked up about 'purity of the numbers' arguments.
So, we humbly ask our fellow Red Sox fans to cool it with the A-Rod steroid heckling this season, because there are plenty of reasons to loathe the Yankees that are less likely to kick us in the karma.***
Moving to new business: Paps'n Cap'ns (and the rest of the pitchers and catchers) have reported to spring training as of yesterday--this is like Valentine's Day for those baseball fans among us who think that Cupid can totally suck it. We can't decide which is our favorite sign of the coming spring:
Ah, but who are we kidding? This right here is our favorite thing. Our favorite, damp, sinewy, glove-totin', oversized-shorts-wearin' thing.
Who needs truffles and diamonds? Our hearts are already full.
*We're divided on the subject of those who tested positive in 2003. We're dreading the spectre of all those names trickling out one by one and ruining a whole lot of days for a whole lot of people, but at the same time, it's not fair to compensate for one violation of confidentiality by doing it a hundred and three more times. Mainly, it all just makes us want to see Frank Thomas roll up on Bud Selig and the MLBPA and knock some heads.
**This is why Nate Silver will never hang out with us. (Yeah. This is why.)
***And no, making fun of Leigh Teixeira is not acceptable, either.
Honestly, though, we've reached our limit with steroid talk. We don't want to hear about it anymore, or care about it anymore. Oh, yes, we believe that roiding is cheating, and that there should be aggressive testing and harsh penalties in order to keep baseball safe for the likes of a certain Most Valuable Midget. We think that cracking down now is worthwhile, but trying to ferret out everyone who used during the long, sordid era when Major League Baseball was out having lunch and getting its nails done is pointless. At this point, it's sadly necessary to assume that more people did it than didn't, and that nobody is guaranteed clean*. And it's also true that there's always been cheating in baseball, Gaylord Perry, and that we've never been stat freaks**, so we can't get all worked up about 'purity of the numbers' arguments.
So, we humbly ask our fellow Red Sox fans to cool it with the A-Rod steroid heckling this season, because there are plenty of reasons to loathe the Yankees that are less likely to kick us in the karma.***
Moving to new business: Paps'n Cap'ns (and the rest of the pitchers and catchers) have reported to spring training as of yesterday--this is like Valentine's Day for those baseball fans among us who think that Cupid can totally suck it. We can't decide which is our favorite sign of the coming spring:
- Justin Masterson drives a clown car and smiles like Christmas morning.
- Dustin Pedroia is shredded and jacked, and possibly other verbs associated with nacho cheese.
- Ladies And Gentlemen, Your Closer exists, and shops for groceries with his teammates. (If Penny and Papelbon are going to start planning pranks together, you know Josh Beckett better lock his doors every morning and check the backseat of his car every damn night.)
- Speaking of Beckett, he can still make the mitt make that beautiful sound.
Ah, but who are we kidding? This right here is our favorite thing. Our favorite, damp, sinewy, glove-totin', oversized-shorts-wearin' thing.
Who needs truffles and diamonds? Our hearts are already full.
*We're divided on the subject of those who tested positive in 2003. We're dreading the spectre of all those names trickling out one by one and ruining a whole lot of days for a whole lot of people, but at the same time, it's not fair to compensate for one violation of confidentiality by doing it a hundred and three more times. Mainly, it all just makes us want to see Frank Thomas roll up on Bud Selig and the MLBPA and knock some heads.
**This is why Nate Silver will never hang out with us. (Yeah. This is why.)
***And no, making fun of Leigh Teixeira is not acceptable, either.
Friday, February 6, 2009
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!).
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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
We do not call it a comeback in this house
So. We promised we were going to blog, but tonight's game doesn't really inspire conversation. Still, isn't it nice to see our Papi back where he belongs? And isn't there--well, not much else nice to say?
We've used our boundless cunning* and vast network of insider connections** to infiltrate the Sox clubhouse and document some conversations that took place once the big man rejoined the band.
I. Overheard from the Bash Brothers
Papi: I cannot believe this. I leave you alone for a couple weeks and what do you do?
Manny: Hit a home run?
Papi: And what else?
Manny: Hit another home run real hard?
Papi: Manny...
Manny: It's not my fault Boston hates me! All I ever do is play baseball!
Papi: Sometimes what you do is, you don't play baseball.
Manny: ...Is this like when a tree falls in the woods?
Papi: No, it's like when we play a game and you sit in the clubhouse playing Star Wars on the WII.
Manny: But I hurt my knee and I'm a Sith Lord!
Papi: You been talkin' to Scott Boras too much.
Manny: Look, it's okay with me if Boston doesn't like Manny. My feelings ain't hurt. Sticks and stones don't break my bones.
Papi: ...
Manny: Manny can play baseball anywhere. Boston...Japan...Iraq...
Papi: Think abot this, Manny. They don't have baseball in Iraq 'cause they are too busy shooting each other with guns.
Manny: The moon, then.
Papi: They don't have baseball on the moon, either, 'cause they don't have air.
Manny: I'm gonna wear a spacesuit. I'm not dumb.
Papi: You got me there, man. Have fun on the moon, or...wherever. Just one thing, though.
Manny: I can get you a spacesuit too, don't worry.
Papi: No, no, listen. Fenway...Fenway keeps the Monster.
[They think about this for a minute. Manny looks up at the sky.]
Manny: Goodbye, moon! I got to stay in Boston!
Papi: It's one in the afternoon, Manny. That's the sun.
Manny: I know. That was a symbolic gesture to the heavens, much like the actions of the Biblical figure Job. You should read more.
Papi: ...
Manny: Did you say one o'clock? Time for juice and cookies!
II. Overheard, Talking About Practice, Practice, Man, We Talking About Practice
Papi: So what'd I miss?
Tek: Well, um, Manny wants a trade.
Papi: I know.
Tek: And Pap and his wife are expecting a baby.
Papi: I know that too, I was there.
Tek: ...What the dang--
Papi: When he told us, man, when he told us. You catchers got dirty minds.
Tek: We do not! I just didn't understand you there, man, 'cause I've been a little preoccupied, what with me bein' in the worst offensive slump in the history of mankind.
Papi: Yeah, what's that about?
Tek: I think my bat's allergic to leather.
Papi: Come here, come here. Watch me and copy what I do.
Tek: Copy what? The way you heal sick children with hugs? 'Cause that's pretty cool.
Papi: Man, just pay attention.
[Papi crushes a batting practice fastball into the bullpen.]
Papi: Now you.
Tek: Gotcha.
[Tek flies out to shallow center.]
Papi: No, no, no, no. I said copy me!
[Papi hits a ball directly into the red seat.]
Tek: Okay.
[Tek grounds it foul down the first base line.]
Papi: Why you playin'?
Tek: I don't know, Papi, why am I playin'? Please make me stop.
Papi: I show you one more time.
[Papi hits a ball over the monster, over I-95, over New Hampshire, and into Portland, Maine, where it lands in the outstretched glove of a grateful Sea Dog.]
Papi: You got it now?
Tek: Um, maybe if you show me that one again.
Papi: Hit a damn baseball!
[Tek hits a double high off the Monster.]
Papi: My work here is done! I gotta go, it's time for rounds at Children's Hospital.
[He dusts his hands off and walks away. Tek takes another cut and bounces a ground-rule double around Pesky's pole.]
Tek: There goes my hero.
Interlude: Another County Heard From
A-Rod: Hey, Papi! Remember that time we had dinner during the All-Star Break?
Papi: You mean last week?
A-Rod: That was awesome.***
Papi: It was okay.
A-Rod: We should do it again! We should bring our families! Actually, we should go on vacation together!
Papi: ...I'll let you sit next to me at PF Chang's if you be quiet.
A-Rod: You're my best friend!
Papi: You're buying.
III. Overheard via the Parents Television Council
Beckett: I'm fuckin' glad you're back, dude.
Papi: Thanks. Pass me a bottle of water?
Beckett: Hey, waiter! Bottle of water for the fuckin' man here!
[Justin Masterson looks confused.]
Papi: Never mind, I'm good.
Beckett: You sure? 'Cause I don't mind, I can make the rookies do whatever you need. I got 'em good and scared of me.
Papi: Umm...so how you been?
Beckett: Me? Great.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah. Executin' pitches.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah.
[Long pause.]
Beckett: I mean, I don't expect fifteen fuckin' runs every fuckin' time I pitch...
[Beckett sniffles. Papi nods.]
Beckett: I know it's my fuckin' job to throw fuckin' strikes, I know, but--
Papi: Hey.
Beckett: Two fuckin' runs, man, that's all I need is two--
[Beckett lets out a sob and is instantly folded into a hug of record-breaking size.]
Papi: It's okay. Papi still loves you.
In conclusion, overheard in all of Boston: BEAT L.A.!
*This is a lie. We don't really have that.
**Or those.
***The resemblance to a Chris Farley sketch here is purely coincidental. Rodriguez has never really gotten into Saturday Night Live. He does have a tape of that one time Jeter was on, though.
We've used our boundless cunning* and vast network of insider connections** to infiltrate the Sox clubhouse and document some conversations that took place once the big man rejoined the band.
I. Overheard from the Bash Brothers
Papi: I cannot believe this. I leave you alone for a couple weeks and what do you do?
Manny: Hit a home run?
Papi: And what else?
Manny: Hit another home run real hard?
Papi: Manny...
Manny: It's not my fault Boston hates me! All I ever do is play baseball!
Papi: Sometimes what you do is, you don't play baseball.
Manny: ...Is this like when a tree falls in the woods?
Papi: No, it's like when we play a game and you sit in the clubhouse playing Star Wars on the WII.
Manny: But I hurt my knee and I'm a Sith Lord!
Papi: You been talkin' to Scott Boras too much.
Manny: Look, it's okay with me if Boston doesn't like Manny. My feelings ain't hurt. Sticks and stones don't break my bones.
Papi: ...
Manny: Manny can play baseball anywhere. Boston...Japan...Iraq...
Papi: Think abot this, Manny. They don't have baseball in Iraq 'cause they are too busy shooting each other with guns.
Manny: The moon, then.
Papi: They don't have baseball on the moon, either, 'cause they don't have air.
Manny: I'm gonna wear a spacesuit. I'm not dumb.
Papi: You got me there, man. Have fun on the moon, or...wherever. Just one thing, though.
Manny: I can get you a spacesuit too, don't worry.
Papi: No, no, listen. Fenway...Fenway keeps the Monster.
[They think about this for a minute. Manny looks up at the sky.]
Manny: Goodbye, moon! I got to stay in Boston!
Papi: It's one in the afternoon, Manny. That's the sun.
Manny: I know. That was a symbolic gesture to the heavens, much like the actions of the Biblical figure Job. You should read more.
Papi: ...
Manny: Did you say one o'clock? Time for juice and cookies!
II. Overheard, Talking About Practice, Practice, Man, We Talking About Practice
Papi: So what'd I miss?
Tek: Well, um, Manny wants a trade.
Papi: I know.
Tek: And Pap and his wife are expecting a baby.
Papi: I know that too, I was there.
Tek: ...What the dang--
Papi: When he told us, man, when he told us. You catchers got dirty minds.
Tek: We do not! I just didn't understand you there, man, 'cause I've been a little preoccupied, what with me bein' in the worst offensive slump in the history of mankind.
Papi: Yeah, what's that about?
Tek: I think my bat's allergic to leather.
Papi: Come here, come here. Watch me and copy what I do.
Tek: Copy what? The way you heal sick children with hugs? 'Cause that's pretty cool.
Papi: Man, just pay attention.
[Papi crushes a batting practice fastball into the bullpen.]
Papi: Now you.
Tek: Gotcha.
[Tek flies out to shallow center.]
Papi: No, no, no, no. I said copy me!
[Papi hits a ball directly into the red seat.]
Tek: Okay.
[Tek grounds it foul down the first base line.]
Papi: Why you playin'?
Tek: I don't know, Papi, why am I playin'? Please make me stop.
Papi: I show you one more time.
[Papi hits a ball over the monster, over I-95, over New Hampshire, and into Portland, Maine, where it lands in the outstretched glove of a grateful Sea Dog.]
Papi: You got it now?
Tek: Um, maybe if you show me that one again.
Papi: Hit a damn baseball!
[Tek hits a double high off the Monster.]
Papi: My work here is done! I gotta go, it's time for rounds at Children's Hospital.
[He dusts his hands off and walks away. Tek takes another cut and bounces a ground-rule double around Pesky's pole.]
Tek: There goes my hero.
Interlude: Another County Heard From
A-Rod: Hey, Papi! Remember that time we had dinner during the All-Star Break?
Papi: You mean last week?
A-Rod: That was awesome.***
Papi: It was okay.
A-Rod: We should do it again! We should bring our families! Actually, we should go on vacation together!
Papi: ...I'll let you sit next to me at PF Chang's if you be quiet.
A-Rod: You're my best friend!
Papi: You're buying.
III. Overheard via the Parents Television Council
Beckett: I'm fuckin' glad you're back, dude.
Papi: Thanks. Pass me a bottle of water?
Beckett: Hey, waiter! Bottle of water for the fuckin' man here!
[Justin Masterson looks confused.]
Papi: Never mind, I'm good.
Beckett: You sure? 'Cause I don't mind, I can make the rookies do whatever you need. I got 'em good and scared of me.
Papi: Umm...so how you been?
Beckett: Me? Great.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah. Executin' pitches.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah.
[Long pause.]
Beckett: I mean, I don't expect fifteen fuckin' runs every fuckin' time I pitch...
[Beckett sniffles. Papi nods.]
Beckett: I know it's my fuckin' job to throw fuckin' strikes, I know, but--
Papi: Hey.
Beckett: Two fuckin' runs, man, that's all I need is two--
[Beckett lets out a sob and is instantly folded into a hug of record-breaking size.]
Papi: It's okay. Papi still loves you.
In conclusion, overheard in all of Boston: BEAT L.A.!
*This is a lie. We don't really have that.
**Or those.
***The resemblance to a Chris Farley sketch here is purely coincidental. Rodriguez has never really gotten into Saturday Night Live. He does have a tape of that one time Jeter was on, though.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
We do not sleep in this zzzzzz
So Papi's taking BP (seriously, repeat it with us: we want our Papi back!), and they're pulling an anti-Joba with Masterson, sending him back down to the farm to pitch out of the bullpen. In the meantime, Bailey's coming up to give us a better pinch-hitting option than Tek,* Dougie visited the Fens and announced that he's coaching his girls' coach-pitch team,** Lugo's still our starting shortstop, and someone needs to hold Manny accountable for some of the crap he's been pulling lately. That about sum things up?
But, look, for all the frustration of yet another road trip gone horribly wrong, for all the times we banged our heads against a wall when Tek came up in the ninth/the bullpen blew a lead/Manny watched a pitch straight down the middle/someone grounded into a double play/another man was left on base, at least our team hasn't resorted to having a catcher pitch. Yet. So it really could be much worse.
And, hey, the Devil Rays have to lose a game or two sometime, right? So all the Red Sox need to do is take care of their own business, try to combine some killer pitching and offense on the same night once in a while, and maybe invest in a few Scott Kazmir voodoo dolls. Just in case.
So repeat after us: it's only (almost) the ASB,*** it's only (almost) the ASB, it's only (almost) the ASB. And, as the great Kevin Millar once said, it's not time to jump off the Tobin Bridge just yet. Or at all. Ever.
Now let's get out there--or, rather, the guys who are actually on the team should get out there--and beat up on the Twins. Sure, they're good. Sure, their catcher can hit. Sure, they've got outfielders who can actually throw and a Canadian first baseman and a whole bunch of wonderful things we're really not all that educated about (mostly because, well, we don't particularly care). That's not the point. The point is this: this is Fenway, not the Metrodome, and it's time to win some games. For the good of our sanity, and the sanity of the greater New England, etc., area.****
*Look, we obviously love the guy, but we're not delusional: the dude couldn't hit a knuckleball-that-didn't-knuckle these days, and no way should he be hitting with the game on the line in the ninth. Not in Tampa Bay, not in New York, not in Boston.
**And to give Tek some tips on how to become a stud who hits bombs.
***It's entirely possible that we're actually excited about the All-Star Game this year. We're pretty sure it's because of those crazy Statues of Liberty and the insanity of the whole "Last Year of This Particular Yankee Stadium" thing.
****We refuse to call it "The Nation." For reasons.
Friday, April 11, 2008
We do not pay royalties to sing Happy Birthday in this house
36 candles on a chocolate cake for our favorite catcher and superhero, Jason Varitek! What does one get for the Cap'n who has everything, if one can't afford to buy him a sixth starter? We hope that the festivities included funny hats, handmade cards from the kids that left Tek covered in glitter all day, and a serenade from Manny Delcarmen's Bullpen Band. And that he came out the other side of all that in good fighting form.
Of course, we all know about the shiny new diamond ring he got this week. That's a hard act to follow.
We watched the opening ceremonies live, watched it on tape again, and might not be done yet. See, we're suckers for all things involving Mr. Johnny Pesky, the score from Jurassic Park, and/or Lord Stanley's Cup**, and we don't understand how anybody could face all three at once without shedding at least one single, perfect tear. Manny kissing Pesky on the cheek was the highlight in terms of unforgettable moments, but almost as sweet was the big smile on Okajima's face as he tried his ring on for the first time. And then of course there was Buckner's triumphant entrance (beautifully described at Cursed to First; if you haven't read that, go now and choke up all over again). We don't see the world through Cardinal-colored glasses, so we really don't get where Deadspin's coming from when they called it awkward. While we agree that most fans didn't have any grudge left against the B-man (see also: our secret Mets fandom), it was obvious that he was really moved by the reception, and it gave fans an opportunity to shower him with love and force the media to bury the hatchet as well.
Though we suppose it was a tiny bit awkward when the red-tailed hawk got an even bigger ovation. But funny-awkward, like The Office was before we stopped ever watching scripted television. Damn you, MLB.TV!
It's been nice to see the bats wake up a little tiny bit against El Tigres; very not nice to see Mike Lowell wounded in battle--now, were we just not paying enough attention in previous Aprils? Is it normal for every team to have at least three people on the disabled list, or is this year special?--and very strange, given the extremely gradual unfolding of this season, to have the first Sox-Yankees series suddenly upon us.***
It seems like only yesterday we were finagling our rotation so that Beckett was guaranteed to pitch against Roger Clemens, a torch-passing moment that's sort of lost its jazz since we learned way too much about Clemens' medical history and his nanny's swimwear. They're pretty much the same teams, though, minus a few pounds and plus a few extra hemp necklaces, and we can't help but wonder what it would be like if Epstein and Cashman were a little crazier and we were watching a Beckett-Santana duel (or a Santana-Wang duel) tonight. There would be blood, and not just on Roger's pants.
Our biggest wish for this particular series, honestly, is that there aren't any rainouts****. We'd prefer to avoid the Morgantastic, McCarverrific hype of a Yankees-Sox doubleheader late in the season. We won't be able to stand it. Our insurance doesn't cover the necessary medication, and they know us at the bars and won't let us run a tab.
*Featuring a new arrangement of the alt-classic "(He Gloved A-Rod In The Face) For Me", comp. B. Arroyo.
**Since we're on the subject, go Bruins (and, Jennifer would like to add, Devils).
***The last time we saw them, it was still called Legends Field, nobody had yet made Jonathan Papelbon try sushi, and we didn't realize that the Orioles were going to take a running leap at leading the division. Abner Doubleday, we're pretty sure, was still alive. And a new invention called "the wheel" was all the rage with the kids...
****The Sox have been lucky thus far with weather, while the Yankees have had drizzle following them around. Is it because Jeter lied when he was seventeen?
Of course, we all know about the shiny new diamond ring he got this week. That's a hard act to follow.
We watched the opening ceremonies live, watched it on tape again, and might not be done yet. See, we're suckers for all things involving Mr. Johnny Pesky, the score from Jurassic Park, and/or Lord Stanley's Cup**, and we don't understand how anybody could face all three at once without shedding at least one single, perfect tear. Manny kissing Pesky on the cheek was the highlight in terms of unforgettable moments, but almost as sweet was the big smile on Okajima's face as he tried his ring on for the first time. And then of course there was Buckner's triumphant entrance (beautifully described at Cursed to First; if you haven't read that, go now and choke up all over again). We don't see the world through Cardinal-colored glasses, so we really don't get where Deadspin's coming from when they called it awkward. While we agree that most fans didn't have any grudge left against the B-man (see also: our secret Mets fandom), it was obvious that he was really moved by the reception, and it gave fans an opportunity to shower him with love and force the media to bury the hatchet as well.
Though we suppose it was a tiny bit awkward when the red-tailed hawk got an even bigger ovation. But funny-awkward, like The Office was before we stopped ever watching scripted television. Damn you, MLB.TV!
It's been nice to see the bats wake up a little tiny bit against El Tigres; very not nice to see Mike Lowell wounded in battle--now, were we just not paying enough attention in previous Aprils? Is it normal for every team to have at least three people on the disabled list, or is this year special?--and very strange, given the extremely gradual unfolding of this season, to have the first Sox-Yankees series suddenly upon us.***
It seems like only yesterday we were finagling our rotation so that Beckett was guaranteed to pitch against Roger Clemens, a torch-passing moment that's sort of lost its jazz since we learned way too much about Clemens' medical history and his nanny's swimwear. They're pretty much the same teams, though, minus a few pounds and plus a few extra hemp necklaces, and we can't help but wonder what it would be like if Epstein and Cashman were a little crazier and we were watching a Beckett-Santana duel (or a Santana-Wang duel) tonight. There would be blood, and not just on Roger's pants.
Our biggest wish for this particular series, honestly, is that there aren't any rainouts****. We'd prefer to avoid the Morgantastic, McCarverrific hype of a Yankees-Sox doubleheader late in the season. We won't be able to stand it. Our insurance doesn't cover the necessary medication, and they know us at the bars and won't let us run a tab.
*Featuring a new arrangement of the alt-classic "(He Gloved A-Rod In The Face) For Me", comp. B. Arroyo.
**Since we're on the subject, go Bruins (and, Jennifer would like to add, Devils).
***The last time we saw them, it was still called Legends Field, nobody had yet made Jonathan Papelbon try sushi, and we didn't realize that the Orioles were going to take a running leap at leading the division. Abner Doubleday, we're pretty sure, was still alive. And a new invention called "the wheel" was all the rage with the kids...
****The Sox have been lucky thus far with weather, while the Yankees have had drizzle following them around. Is it because Jeter lied when he was seventeen?
Sunday, March 23, 2008
We do not tan, we burn, in this house
Our Floridian journey began in Bradenton, as part of a crowd that was largely composed of Red Sox fans (though there were a few Pirates fans sprinkled throughout the park, it felt much more like a Red Sox home game). We watched some infielders at BP, made the prerequisite midget jokes, and vowed to buy some TCBY later that afternoon before heading over to our seats in right field.
Our starter* at McKechnie Field was Kyle Snyder, for whom this house harbors a soft spot--it's probably his curly locks. He's also got this endearing mannerism of shaking out his right hand, Fosse style, after each pitch. We were pretty impressed by the way the ball was coming out of his jazz hand. Only one walk and one hit in his three innings, and that just seems like a lot less than he was giving up last year, doesn't it? He seemed comfortable. Timlin and Breslow, alas, did not. It's a sad day for a Red Sox pitcher** when you're outperformed by Byung-Hyun Kim.
For Kim was there. Oh, yes. And don't think a collective shudder didn't go through the stands when he made his way to the mound. It even prompted a discussion in our section about useless players of decades past. Our immediate neighbors were rocking red caps from the 70s and were, apparently, very impressed with our knowledge of Sox past, present, and future. The fact that we could knowledgably discuss both Luis Tiant and Brandon Moss was a pleasant surprise to all of us.
Next up was Legends*** Field. Which is a seriously impressive park, spacious and landscaped and copiously water-fountained, although we question the wisdom of the ad wizards who made picnic tables out of dark blue metal and placed them in direct, blazing sunlight in right field. Nevertheless, we were undaunted. We marched into enemy territory with our heads held high, wearing our Youkilis and Papi t-shirts with pride.
And we continued marching directly to the bullpen to watch certain catchers go through their Respectable pregame routine.
A lot has been said about the condition Tek's in this season and how good he looks, by a variety of journalists who basically seem to want to make us feel a little bit better about our boundless love for the man. It was pretty amazing to see in person how hard he works--we're talking an extended series of stretches and lunges, a round of long toss that backed George Kottaras all the way out to deep center field, and a series of drills with Tuck that included pouncing on invisible, imaginary balls in the dirt. All this, and he was done in time to sign several autographs for small children before watching Bartolo Colon get loose (for all the good that did him). It was, in short, a fierce display of Captainosity.
We almost didn't want the game to start.
Our particular scalding hot picnic table was shared by several New York fans, including a family with two small children and a Brooklyn resident who was featured in Sports Illustrated because of the enormous Yankees tattoo on his forearm. His wife warned us when we sat down that they were "obnoxious fans," and there was no small amount of heckling over the course of the endless first inning. Oddly enough, none of Jimmy Tattoo-Times' taunts (many of which involved Papi and hot dogs) bothered us, because at least he was paying attention to who was at bat. The same could not be said for one soul a few rows back from us who limited his heckle to an efficient two words: "The Naaaaaay-tion." Repeat for nine innings, in an increasingly drunken Jim Carrey-esque whine.
"The Neeeeaaaaaayyy-tionnnn!"
Dude, couldn't you at least try to get an 18-1 chant* going? We're trying to be righteously insulted, but you're giving us nothing to work with.
We played another round of Who's Who with the Yankees fans ("No, that's Javy Lopez--no, not that Javy Lopez, although he did play for us a bit in aught-six, and by the way, are you guys still lugging Carl Pavano around?") and were grudgingly acknowledged as "okay...for Boston people." Maybe we had a mild case of sunstroke, but we felt the same way about them by the end of the day. It was a good way to experience the rivalry without stressing the end result of the game--we've got 162 more chances to get ulcers, after all.
We'll cover Fort Myers and the Workers' Uprising in our next post, and probably throw in some pictures as well. Viva la revolution!
*"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."
**Or an Indians pitcher, if you're Breslow.
***At least on the day that we were there, it had not yet been renamed Steinbrenner Field. We really dodged a bullet.
****Jimmy Tattoo-Times did try and start this. His wife promptly shut him up by telling the world that they were Jets people.
Our starter* at McKechnie Field was Kyle Snyder, for whom this house harbors a soft spot--it's probably his curly locks. He's also got this endearing mannerism of shaking out his right hand, Fosse style, after each pitch. We were pretty impressed by the way the ball was coming out of his jazz hand. Only one walk and one hit in his three innings, and that just seems like a lot less than he was giving up last year, doesn't it? He seemed comfortable. Timlin and Breslow, alas, did not. It's a sad day for a Red Sox pitcher** when you're outperformed by Byung-Hyun Kim.
For Kim was there. Oh, yes. And don't think a collective shudder didn't go through the stands when he made his way to the mound. It even prompted a discussion in our section about useless players of decades past. Our immediate neighbors were rocking red caps from the 70s and were, apparently, very impressed with our knowledge of Sox past, present, and future. The fact that we could knowledgably discuss both Luis Tiant and Brandon Moss was a pleasant surprise to all of us.
Next up was Legends*** Field. Which is a seriously impressive park, spacious and landscaped and copiously water-fountained, although we question the wisdom of the ad wizards who made picnic tables out of dark blue metal and placed them in direct, blazing sunlight in right field. Nevertheless, we were undaunted. We marched into enemy territory with our heads held high, wearing our Youkilis and Papi t-shirts with pride.
And we continued marching directly to the bullpen to watch certain catchers go through their Respectable pregame routine.
A lot has been said about the condition Tek's in this season and how good he looks, by a variety of journalists who basically seem to want to make us feel a little bit better about our boundless love for the man. It was pretty amazing to see in person how hard he works--we're talking an extended series of stretches and lunges, a round of long toss that backed George Kottaras all the way out to deep center field, and a series of drills with Tuck that included pouncing on invisible, imaginary balls in the dirt. All this, and he was done in time to sign several autographs for small children before watching Bartolo Colon get loose (for all the good that did him). It was, in short, a fierce display of Captainosity.
We almost didn't want the game to start.
Our particular scalding hot picnic table was shared by several New York fans, including a family with two small children and a Brooklyn resident who was featured in Sports Illustrated because of the enormous Yankees tattoo on his forearm. His wife warned us when we sat down that they were "obnoxious fans," and there was no small amount of heckling over the course of the endless first inning. Oddly enough, none of Jimmy Tattoo-Times' taunts (many of which involved Papi and hot dogs) bothered us, because at least he was paying attention to who was at bat. The same could not be said for one soul a few rows back from us who limited his heckle to an efficient two words: "The Naaaaaay-tion." Repeat for nine innings, in an increasingly drunken Jim Carrey-esque whine.
"The Neeeeaaaaaayyy-tionnnn!"
Dude, couldn't you at least try to get an 18-1 chant* going? We're trying to be righteously insulted, but you're giving us nothing to work with.
We played another round of Who's Who with the Yankees fans ("No, that's Javy Lopez--no, not that Javy Lopez, although he did play for us a bit in aught-six, and by the way, are you guys still lugging Carl Pavano around?") and were grudgingly acknowledged as "okay...for Boston people." Maybe we had a mild case of sunstroke, but we felt the same way about them by the end of the day. It was a good way to experience the rivalry without stressing the end result of the game--we've got 162 more chances to get ulcers, after all.
We'll cover Fort Myers and the Workers' Uprising in our next post, and probably throw in some pictures as well. Viva la revolution!
*"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."
**Or an Indians pitcher, if you're Breslow.
***At least on the day that we were there, it had not yet been renamed Steinbrenner Field. We really dodged a bullet.
****Jimmy Tattoo-Times did try and start this. His wife promptly shut him up by telling the world that they were Jets people.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
We do not sell rhymes by the gram in this house
SCENE:
A posh steakhouse in Ft. Myers, Florida. A table.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
Jason VARITEK
DOUGIE FRESH Mirabelli
CHORUS of Baby Catchers*
VARITEK: We few, we happy few, we band of catchers--
DOUGIE FRESH: All right, stop! Collaborate and listen,
Dougie's back with my home run hittin'.
Wakefield throws a pitch that goes knuckle-y,
Killin' hitters dead like William F. Buckley.**
Will it be a strike? Yo, I should know
Into my glove it'll go.
To the extreme, I hit grand slams like Slim J.D.
Making pitchers cry all "Dude Looks Like a Lady."
Love it or leave it, I had to lose weight,
But you better be watching when I block home plate.
If you want a lobster, yo, they'll boil it
Tek's gonna pay, I'm'a go hit the toilet.
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: Mirabelli--
[DOUGIE FRESH exits.]
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: I need another drink.
*Because we're not sure who all were there, exactly. Or how to spell their names. Sorry, we're still hung over from Doug Mirabelli Appreciation Night.
**RIP, we suppose.
A posh steakhouse in Ft. Myers, Florida. A table.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
Jason VARITEK
DOUGIE FRESH Mirabelli
CHORUS of Baby Catchers*
VARITEK: We few, we happy few, we band of catchers--
DOUGIE FRESH: All right, stop! Collaborate and listen,
Dougie's back with my home run hittin'.
Wakefield throws a pitch that goes knuckle-y,
Killin' hitters dead like William F. Buckley.**
Will it be a strike? Yo, I should know
Into my glove it'll go.
To the extreme, I hit grand slams like Slim J.D.
Making pitchers cry all "Dude Looks Like a Lady."
Love it or leave it, I had to lose weight,
But you better be watching when I block home plate.
If you want a lobster, yo, they'll boil it
Tek's gonna pay, I'm'a go hit the toilet.
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: Mirabelli--
[DOUGIE FRESH exits.]
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: I need another drink.
*Because we're not sure who all were there, exactly. Or how to spell their names. Sorry, we're still hung over from Doug Mirabelli Appreciation Night.
**RIP, we suppose.
Friday, December 28, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
We do not hunt for Red October in this house
9/22/07: Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 6
SCENE:
The TROP. Visitor's clubhouse. Doors closed to the media.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The goddamned playoff-bound BOSTON RED SOX (!)
George, a MOUSE
[Enter the team.]
LOWELL: Hey, put a chain on the door--otherwise Tina Cervasio might chew her way in.
HINSKE: That's a bad thing?
LOWELL: You need to get out more.
VARITEK: Does everyone have some champagne? Good. Guys, at this time I think it'd be appropriate to make a little toast--
RAMIREZ: To being Manny! [Raises glass, pulls oblique muscle.] Ow. Not to being Manny.
TIMLIN: To our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
YOUKILIS: Seriously? I'm sitting right next to you.
TIMLIN: [Passes Youkilis a Chick tract and a cigar.]
PAPELBON: Um, I wanna make a toast to the Cap'n, 'cause he hit a roundtripper, and more importantly, he kicks ass, which you can tell 'cause he's my catcher and I kick so much ass. [Fist-pump.] Oh, and I hope the Yankees get attacked by robot dogs.
VARITEK: Paps, that's enough.
PAPELBON: Or robot mooses.
VARITEK: Paps!
PAPELBON: 'Kay, I'm done. [Downs champagne.]
VARITEK: Well, that was all very entertainin', but I have a couple things to say. [Raises glass.] First off, good game tonight. We played good baseball. That's important. That's what we have to keep doing for the rest of the season. And, you know, into October.
[Everyone cheers.]
VARITEK: It's real nice to be in this position, but don't forget that this is just the beginning. We worked hard all year and we want the division. We want home-field advantage. We, uh--well, we want bragging rights.
[Everyone cheers louder. Pedroia jumps up and swings around on the ceiling fan.]
VARITEK: Guys, seriously. Let's not get carried away. And Schill, let Beckett up outta the ice bucket already. He's turning blue.
[Beckett emerges from the ice bucket with a stream of obscenities which not even this blog can reveal.]
VARITEK: We deserve to celebrate. We've come a long way. But we still need to keep our eyes on a higher goal--
[Pedroia flies off the ceiling fan and roundhouse kicks Varitek in the chest protector. Since he weighs about 130 pounds, he bounces off and lands on his ass at Varitek's feet.]
PEDROIA: Soccer sucks!*
EVERYONE: Yeah!
[Drinking commences.]
VARITEK: [sits down in the corner with a sigh.] Well, I hope they can at least behave in front of people.
MOUSE: Squeak.**
VARITEK: Yeah. [He grins.] Why start now?
[Curtain.]
*We at Respect the Tek do not share this opinion. We respect soccer, too. Maybe we should make a blog called Respect the Wambach.
**Translation: "Whatever. I was told this party would have cheese."
SCENE:
The TROP. Visitor's clubhouse. Doors closed to the media.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The goddamned playoff-bound BOSTON RED SOX (!)
George, a MOUSE
[Enter the team.]
LOWELL: Hey, put a chain on the door--otherwise Tina Cervasio might chew her way in.
HINSKE: That's a bad thing?
LOWELL: You need to get out more.
VARITEK: Does everyone have some champagne? Good. Guys, at this time I think it'd be appropriate to make a little toast--
RAMIREZ: To being Manny! [Raises glass, pulls oblique muscle.] Ow. Not to being Manny.
TIMLIN: To our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
YOUKILIS: Seriously? I'm sitting right next to you.
TIMLIN: [Passes Youkilis a Chick tract and a cigar.]
PAPELBON: Um, I wanna make a toast to the Cap'n, 'cause he hit a roundtripper, and more importantly, he kicks ass, which you can tell 'cause he's my catcher and I kick so much ass. [Fist-pump.] Oh, and I hope the Yankees get attacked by robot dogs.
VARITEK: Paps, that's enough.
PAPELBON: Or robot mooses.
VARITEK: Paps!
PAPELBON: 'Kay, I'm done. [Downs champagne.]
VARITEK: Well, that was all very entertainin', but I have a couple things to say. [Raises glass.] First off, good game tonight. We played good baseball. That's important. That's what we have to keep doing for the rest of the season. And, you know, into October.
[Everyone cheers.]
VARITEK: It's real nice to be in this position, but don't forget that this is just the beginning. We worked hard all year and we want the division. We want home-field advantage. We, uh--well, we want bragging rights.
[Everyone cheers louder. Pedroia jumps up and swings around on the ceiling fan.]
VARITEK: Guys, seriously. Let's not get carried away. And Schill, let Beckett up outta the ice bucket already. He's turning blue.
[Beckett emerges from the ice bucket with a stream of obscenities which not even this blog can reveal.]
VARITEK: We deserve to celebrate. We've come a long way. But we still need to keep our eyes on a higher goal--
[Pedroia flies off the ceiling fan and roundhouse kicks Varitek in the chest protector. Since he weighs about 130 pounds, he bounces off and lands on his ass at Varitek's feet.]
PEDROIA: Soccer sucks!*
EVERYONE: Yeah!
[Drinking commences.]
VARITEK: [sits down in the corner with a sigh.] Well, I hope they can at least behave in front of people.
MOUSE: Squeak.**
VARITEK: Yeah. [He grins.] Why start now?
[Curtain.]
*We at Respect the Tek do not share this opinion. We respect soccer, too. Maybe we should make a blog called Respect the Wambach.
**Translation: "Whatever. I was told this party would have cheese."
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
We do not want to have to say, "we told you so" in this house
9/17/07: Red Sox 1, Blue Jays 6
9/18/07: Red Sox 3, Blue Jays 4
What did we say about Eric Gagné?
Okay, fine, Jason Varitek tells us "we need him," and normally that'd be enough for us. Normally, we'd say, "fine, let's stop calling J.D. Drew 'Nancy' and start trying to cheer him on." Normally, we'd say, "well, Tek says some of those balls were borderline and with another umpire might've been called strikes, so obviously Eric Gagné is not a ticking time bomb on the mound." But "normally" flew out the window a few losses back, and we are reeling. Of course, judging from the video footage, so is our captain.
In other news, we may not have mentioned it, but in our spare time we also root for the Mets. It's been a long stretch, is what we're saying. A painful stretch. A stretch in which we've watched our beloved pirate gang falter and our captain struggle at the plate, a stretch in which Pedro Martinez* pitched a commanding six innings only to have it tossed aside by a continually shaky Mets bullpen. A stretch that makes us way too excited about tonight's season opener of America's Next Top Model, we tell you what.
Look, we get that Manny's Being Injured and that, without him, the team is not at full offensive strength. We get that Joe Torre's Operation: Take Out the Youk finally came to fruition with one pitch from Chien-Ming Wang, thus leaving us with Eric Hinske** at first. We get that everyone's tired, we get that the Blue Jays are much better than you'd think from looking at their record, we get that the Canadian National Anthem has some sort of hypnotic suggestion in it that makes our guys unable to win ballgames. That said, raid Tavvy's cooler of Red Bulls, guys, and put some earplugs in whenever someone starts to sing, "O Canada! Our home and native land!." Get out there and play. Get out there and win.
*Stay tuned for our Guide to People You Meet at Fenway, featuring Angry Dude Who Can't Forgive Pedro Martinez for Giving Up that Homer to Aaron Boone in 2003 Because Pedro Destroyed Said Angry Dude's Hopes and Dreams and Possibly Even His Ability to Have Children and Cool Woman Who Said, "Um, Wasn't That Wakefield?" and Agreed With Us That Wake Is Totally The Man.
**We actually love Eric Hinske, but we'd rather Youkilis at first than anyone else at this point.
9/18/07: Red Sox 3, Blue Jays 4
What did we say about Eric Gagné?
Okay, fine, Jason Varitek tells us "we need him," and normally that'd be enough for us. Normally, we'd say, "fine, let's stop calling J.D. Drew 'Nancy' and start trying to cheer him on." Normally, we'd say, "well, Tek says some of those balls were borderline and with another umpire might've been called strikes, so obviously Eric Gagné is not a ticking time bomb on the mound." But "normally" flew out the window a few losses back, and we are reeling. Of course, judging from the video footage, so is our captain.
In other news, we may not have mentioned it, but in our spare time we also root for the Mets. It's been a long stretch, is what we're saying. A painful stretch. A stretch in which we've watched our beloved pirate gang falter and our captain struggle at the plate, a stretch in which Pedro Martinez* pitched a commanding six innings only to have it tossed aside by a continually shaky Mets bullpen. A stretch that makes us way too excited about tonight's season opener of America's Next Top Model, we tell you what.
Look, we get that Manny's Being Injured and that, without him, the team is not at full offensive strength. We get that Joe Torre's Operation: Take Out the Youk finally came to fruition with one pitch from Chien-Ming Wang, thus leaving us with Eric Hinske** at first. We get that everyone's tired, we get that the Blue Jays are much better than you'd think from looking at their record, we get that the Canadian National Anthem has some sort of hypnotic suggestion in it that makes our guys unable to win ballgames. That said, raid Tavvy's cooler of Red Bulls, guys, and put some earplugs in whenever someone starts to sing, "O Canada! Our home and native land!." Get out there and play. Get out there and win.
*Stay tuned for our Guide to People You Meet at Fenway, featuring Angry Dude Who Can't Forgive Pedro Martinez for Giving Up that Homer to Aaron Boone in 2003 Because Pedro Destroyed Said Angry Dude's Hopes and Dreams and Possibly Even His Ability to Have Children and Cool Woman Who Said, "Um, Wasn't That Wakefield?" and Agreed With Us That Wake Is Totally The Man.
**We actually love Eric Hinske, but we'd rather Youkilis at first than anyone else at this point.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
We do not negotiate with headhunters in this house
9/6/07: Red Sox 7, Orioles 6
9/7/07: Red Sox 4, Orioles 0
9/8/07: Red Sox 5, Orioles 11
9/9/07: Red Sox 3, Orioles 2
Hey, Boston, we're officially done with the Os for the season! Everybody set your Kevin Millar phasers back to "gently stun."
Four notes on a four-game series:
1. One of these games is not like the others. One of these games just doesn't belong.
2. Seriously, not to dwell on the single loss, but Dice-K's performance was on par with Britney Spears' trainwreck on the MTV Video Music Awards tonight. Sure, we weren't expecting perfection, but we also weren't expecting a deer-in-the-headlights gaze, slow-motion movements, and the overall sense that the star of the show had abandoned all hope.*
Britsuzaka, get yourself to some kind of "wellness clinic." We're all pulling for you. We hear Bronson Arroyo is already arranging the benefit concert.
3. After being rattled by Toronto, the bullpen was lights out at Fenway South. With the exception of Tavvy (and seriously, they've gotta stop listening to him when he claims he can throw with a two-minute warning and a Red Bull--or else, hook the man up to a Red Bull I.V.)**, our bullpen band did not give up a single run in these four games. Even though we spend a lot of this space giving love to Paps and Oki and dancing for Mike Timlin,*** we sometimes take it for granted. It's nice to pay as much attention to their "routine" dominance as to their rare mistakes. It's nice to see question marks like Lopez and Snyder and bullpen newbie Buchholz shutting down everyone in their path, and even nicer to see Paps getting his save on with an efficient-yet-badass dozen pitches. Can they all win the Cy Young together and share custody?****
4. The bottom of our order stepped it up this series. The Man Papelbon Calls Cap'n came through twice in key late-inning situations, and today he even took a little extra time out for sexy defense; Coco Crisp had a homer, tall socks, and today's game-winning hit. Even J.D. Drew (not technically in the bottom third of our order, but let's not beat around the .383 SLG) contributed, with the bat and on the basepaths. We really want to be pulling for Slim J.D., at least until such time as we have the wherewithal to actually buy the team and start auctioning contracts off on eBay. This week he made our lives easier.
Of course, it's always easy to root for Tek. The hard part is watching him strike out and make a face like he'll never forgive himself, and unfortunately we had to see that a bunch this series.***** We hope he's taking comfort, post-Orioles, in what he did accomplish. And figuring out which of his gloves will best fit Britsuzaka's face.
You know. Tough love.
*They also did about the same amount of lip-synching.
**Someone should also tell Tavvy not to try and be the voice of reason in any sort of fight situation. Did you see him approach the mound to talk to crazed Daniel Cabrera? Did you, also, expect him to pull a shank from his sweatband? When he didn't, weren't we all the tiniest bit disappointed?
***Yes, it still works. Bam-a-lam!
****Can they also have a Grammy? Come on, whatever they were playing, it must be better than the award-winning "My Humps."
*****Blame the umpire, Tek! Mike Lowell totally has your back.
9/7/07: Red Sox 4, Orioles 0
9/8/07: Red Sox 5, Orioles 11
9/9/07: Red Sox 3, Orioles 2
Hey, Boston, we're officially done with the Os for the season! Everybody set your Kevin Millar phasers back to "gently stun."
Four notes on a four-game series:
1. One of these games is not like the others. One of these games just doesn't belong.
2. Seriously, not to dwell on the single loss, but Dice-K's performance was on par with Britney Spears' trainwreck on the MTV Video Music Awards tonight. Sure, we weren't expecting perfection, but we also weren't expecting a deer-in-the-headlights gaze, slow-motion movements, and the overall sense that the star of the show had abandoned all hope.*
Britsuzaka, get yourself to some kind of "wellness clinic." We're all pulling for you. We hear Bronson Arroyo is already arranging the benefit concert.
3. After being rattled by Toronto, the bullpen was lights out at Fenway South. With the exception of Tavvy (and seriously, they've gotta stop listening to him when he claims he can throw with a two-minute warning and a Red Bull--or else, hook the man up to a Red Bull I.V.)**, our bullpen band did not give up a single run in these four games. Even though we spend a lot of this space giving love to Paps and Oki and dancing for Mike Timlin,*** we sometimes take it for granted. It's nice to pay as much attention to their "routine" dominance as to their rare mistakes. It's nice to see question marks like Lopez and Snyder and bullpen newbie Buchholz shutting down everyone in their path, and even nicer to see Paps getting his save on with an efficient-yet-badass dozen pitches. Can they all win the Cy Young together and share custody?****
4. The bottom of our order stepped it up this series. The Man Papelbon Calls Cap'n came through twice in key late-inning situations, and today he even took a little extra time out for sexy defense; Coco Crisp had a homer, tall socks, and today's game-winning hit. Even J.D. Drew (not technically in the bottom third of our order, but let's not beat around the .383 SLG) contributed, with the bat and on the basepaths. We really want to be pulling for Slim J.D., at least until such time as we have the wherewithal to actually buy the team and start auctioning contracts off on eBay. This week he made our lives easier.
Of course, it's always easy to root for Tek. The hard part is watching him strike out and make a face like he'll never forgive himself, and unfortunately we had to see that a bunch this series.***** We hope he's taking comfort, post-Orioles, in what he did accomplish. And figuring out which of his gloves will best fit Britsuzaka's face.
You know. Tough love.
*They also did about the same amount of lip-synching.
**Someone should also tell Tavvy not to try and be the voice of reason in any sort of fight situation. Did you see him approach the mound to talk to crazed Daniel Cabrera? Did you, also, expect him to pull a shank from his sweatband? When he didn't, weren't we all the tiniest bit disappointed?
***Yes, it still works. Bam-a-lam!
****Can they also have a Grammy? Come on, whatever they were playing, it must be better than the award-winning "My Humps."
*****Blame the umpire, Tek! Mike Lowell totally has your back.
Friday, August 24, 2007
We do not blame it on the rain in this house
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Sorry we've been such terrible bloggers. As you can see, we've been out to lunch.*08/24/07: White Sox 3, Red Sox 11; White Sox 1, Red Sox 10
Thanks to the rains on the plains, neither of us was able to watch the rain-delayed opening bout of the Hosiery Hostilities, only monitoring the scoreboards through the entirely unsurreptitious workplace use of CBS Sportsline's live scoreboard. This means that we didn't get to watch Jason Varitek's homer until the replay much later. Now, granted, we've watched it a half-dozen times apiece, with the added bonus that MLB's clip has the call by the entirely downtrodden White Sox announcers.** And it is spectacular. As were Papi's and Youk's blasts later on in the night, especially Youk, who may or may not actually have hit that ball with his spectacular slump-busting chin.***
Still, we feel deprived. Actually, we were kind of wondering whether Tek would catch Game 2 instead of Game 1, given that Kevin "Rules Everything Around Me" Cash was already slated for today's Wakefield start. We're sure the idea crossed the pitchers' minds, too...
BECKETT: Tek, you're catchin' my start, right?
SCHILLING: The hell he is.
BECKETT: The hell he ain't. I called dibs.
VARITEK: J.B., it's up to Tito. Also, you can't call dibs on me.
BECKETT: Don't worry, Tek, it's just a saying.
SCHILLING: He pointed at you across the field during spring training and said, "Mine."
BECKETT: So you admit I have dibs!
VARITEK: There are no dibs!
BECKETT: Listen, you and me, we've got a game plan. Curt can come up with his own game plan. He's smart like that. I'm dumb as a fuckin' rock. Everyone knows that.
SCHILLING: ...He makes a point.
VARITEK: It's up. to. Tito.
BECKETT: Hey, Tito! [points to Varitek] Mine!
And then they all lived happily ever after. Or at least for twelve hours that Ozzie Guillen will never get back.
Finally, since Mike Lowell mentioned the use of Google in the latest Friendly's Scoop w/Jonathan Papelbon, we feel compelled to leave him a note in case he does Google himself and somehow end up perusing our illustrious site.
Dear Mike Lowell,
You're definitely muy sexy, as you correctly pointed out to Cinco Ocho, and you don't need the Just-For-Men. And if you ever get tired of playing baseball, well, we think the sports world definitely needs the equivalent of the Daily Show--we respectfully submit that SportsSnarker Featuring Mike Lowell would be a high point in broadcast TV history, particularly if you retain one Cinco Ocho as a correspondent. Make it so, number 25!
Peace, love, and empathy,
The girls of Respect The Tek
*Yes, we each signed up for Red Sox Kid Nation under the flimsiest of false pretenses. Yes, we did it for Lunch: J. Papelbon (2). Though we might also use the ice cream coupons. Is that evil?
**As much as Don and Jerry can sometimes annoy, with their mascot fixation and their relentless plugging of Red Sox Nation (TM) paraphernalia, at least they muster up some nonpartisan baseball enthusiasm for great plays, regardless of who makes them. They're not ridiculous homers; they applaud the game as it happens, and nothing Jerry Remy has ever said, not even about "exploding chest hair" is as irksome as every third word out of Tim McCarver. Did we mention we're watching today's game on Fox, and they're using Coldplay as incidental music? Coldplay? In 2007?
***To be perfectly honest, we were happy about the wins, but positively giddy that both Varitek and Youkilis whipped out the offensive production. Victory is sweet, but when you see how hard they've been pushing themselves, and punishing themselves, and it finally pays off, seeing them smile is sweeter. Goatees and all.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
We do not hit the road, Jack, in this house
We are not in denial.
We're not denying that the Sox played some alarmingly bad baseball during this road trip, including abysmal pitching, embarrassing defense, and incomprehensible bullpen management (you know who you are). But we're pretty sure every other Red Sox site in the world will handle that discussion for us. Just picture us participating in the collective forehead-slap, waving our "Impeach Gagné" signs, and chanting along with everyone else in the Nation, "The sky is falling!"
Instead of making ourselves feel even worse about the narrowing division lead, we thought we'd try and get our focus away from losing and flailing and failing. The scoreboard and the standings don't tell the whole story. Here's a countdown of the things that, win or lose, make us happy about Red Sox baseball in 2007.
5. Jonathan Papelbon: how is he real? He throws like a mofo, scares opposing batters, but off the field, he's an overgrown puppy dog, clamoring for attention and correcting Josh Beckett's grammar. He is the guy who can't handle losing at cribbage on the team plane. He's the guy who calls his manager a father figure and calls himself Cinco Ocho. Just when we start to think we might have made him up in our heads, we turn around and there he is, pumping his fist and calling Beckett a "mulligan."* Oh, Jonathan, we applaud you--clap your hands if you believe in closers!--and we hope you never change.
4. This team may not be quite as balls-out silly as the '04 squad, but they're damned entertaining in some surprising ways. For starters, even without some of the pure power-hitting we've come to expect, it's fun to watch them terrorize opponents with sheer plate discipline. It's especially fun when a struggling pitcher intentionally walks Varitek only to be tagged by Coco Crisp, or, even better, when said pitcher goes from struggling to completely baffled and walks in a run. We don't have numbers handy**, but we've seen this enough over the course of the year to learn to love it. Plus, it's definitely fun to yell, "Good eye!" from the cheap seats.
That's just one example of the unconventional ways this team's found to kick ass. How about Coco being Ichiro in centerfield? How about Josh Beckett cheering for Coco being Ichiro, and alternately venting his unutterable rage on innocent coolers, benches, and reporters that cross his path? How about Mike Timlin coming back and bringing new weapons--only figurative, we hope--to the bullpen, along with surprising strength from Okajima and Delcarmen? How about Dougie going deep? This team has survived injuries to its starting aces, and sub-Mendoza performances in the first half by key players. They've survived moose attacks. They've survived the continuing, soul-sucking presence of Dan Shaughnessy. They've survived cancer.
In a season where Bonds, A-Rod and Glavine made history***, Kerry Wood and Rick Ankiel staged comebacks that nobody ever thought would happen, and there are approximately 27 teams in the wild card races, the Red Sox remain the least boring team in baseball.
3. Our first, second, and third basemen. 3-4-5. The hot corners plus one. It's sort of shocking and awesome to think about how much of our team's offense has come from Youkilis, Lowell and Pedroia. All three are batting above .300 as of this writing; the lowest OPS in the bunch is Petey's more-than-respectable .840. They've also been defensive rock stars.**** Few things are sexier than Mikey flicking a ground ball over to Youk's waiting glove like they've rigged up their own private zip-line. Except possibly Pedroia leaping around like a Californian jumping bean and magically transforming a single into a double play.
There's also the small issue of their completely terrific personalities. We've seen 'em in the field, at the plate, and chilling with Tina Cervasio and/or Jonathan Papelbon; we feel like we know them, and to paraphrase Margaret Cho's memorable routine: There's the sweet one, the smart one...and then there's the Youk.
Watching these guys play for the season to date has been a treat. Here's hoping Theo "Yoko" Epstein doesn't break up the band next year.
2. Stumbles and all, the season so far really hasn't been bad. Remember that the Yankees were supposed to be leading the division all along? Remember that time our boys hit four home runs, back to back to back to back? Remember that we sent six guys to the All Star Game and have spent a good part of the summer debating which of our three Rookie Of The Year candidates is having the best season? Last season the Red Sox limped to third place in the AL East. This season, despite injuries and illnesses and an oddly grueling schedule and Julian "Batshit But Beloved" Tavarez as a starter through the All-Star Break, the Red Sox maintained a division lead all season (knock frantically on wood until your knuckles are as bruised as ours), a lead which is still the biggest in baseball.
No matter what happens with the rest of the season, whether we end up in a division race or a wild card race or even if we never win another game, we've gotten a much better ride than we expected. Definitely a much better ride than, say, Oakland fans (sorry, you three) have gotten after their team won the division last year. And it's true that some guys haven't produced at the level we might like, especially considering their salaries, but nobody on our team is Barry Zito.
Regardless of the eventual outcome (knock on splinters), we'd still take the 2007 Red Sox over the 2007 anybody-elses.
Sure, the Bronx may be burning again these days, but ladies and gentlemen, the Fens are still en fuego.
1. The Captain. We have one. He fought back from injuries for us. Behind the plate, he's a rock. Harvey Keitel would say he has a gun. His bat still has some pop left in it. He wears ice that beeps. All his pitchers are madly in love with him.
Nobody works harder. Nobody prepares better. Nobody has more binders.
One day he and Gabe Kapler will co-manage the Red Sox. And we will say, "We told you so!" But for the time being, we'll just watch Tek give everything he has to each pitch, watch him get spitting mad at himself when he strikes out on one of those high fastballs he can't resist, and listen to him demur the credit for one of his own home runs by praising the opposing pitcher. He's so completely committed to his team that it makes us proud to be on his side. We fully realize how embarrassed he'd be to hear us say this, but Jason Varitek could pretty much make baseball worthwhile all by his lonesome.
Forty-four games are left, just about a quarter of the regular season. It's too late to jump off the crazy train. Play ball, guys. We'll be with you.
*Papelbon is really, really obsessed with Josh Beckett. This can only lead to good things, like competitive awesome pitching, and possibly a home run derby. Or a wizards' duel.
**If you're joining our show already in progress, you might not realize this, but we virtually never have numbers handy. And we're writing this on the Internet, which is where numbers come from! But we did go to the trouble to look this one up: we have the second highest OBP in baseball, and have taken the most walks. Sing it with us: not too shabby!
***We don't want to give ourselves too much credit for reversing their karma, but--we guess you're welcome, guys. Please send checks and/or money orders to the home office.
****We're not excusing Mike Lowell's inexplicably numerous errors, but the 95% of the time when he isn't playing double-A defense, he's lights out. Big points to whoever took away his Just For Men.
We're not denying that the Sox played some alarmingly bad baseball during this road trip, including abysmal pitching, embarrassing defense, and incomprehensible bullpen management (you know who you are). But we're pretty sure every other Red Sox site in the world will handle that discussion for us. Just picture us participating in the collective forehead-slap, waving our "Impeach Gagné" signs, and chanting along with everyone else in the Nation, "The sky is falling!"
Instead of making ourselves feel even worse about the narrowing division lead, we thought we'd try and get our focus away from losing and flailing and failing. The scoreboard and the standings don't tell the whole story. Here's a countdown of the things that, win or lose, make us happy about Red Sox baseball in 2007.
5. Jonathan Papelbon: how is he real? He throws like a mofo, scares opposing batters, but off the field, he's an overgrown puppy dog, clamoring for attention and correcting Josh Beckett's grammar. He is the guy who can't handle losing at cribbage on the team plane. He's the guy who calls his manager a father figure and calls himself Cinco Ocho. Just when we start to think we might have made him up in our heads, we turn around and there he is, pumping his fist and calling Beckett a "mulligan."* Oh, Jonathan, we applaud you--clap your hands if you believe in closers!--and we hope you never change.
4. This team may not be quite as balls-out silly as the '04 squad, but they're damned entertaining in some surprising ways. For starters, even without some of the pure power-hitting we've come to expect, it's fun to watch them terrorize opponents with sheer plate discipline. It's especially fun when a struggling pitcher intentionally walks Varitek only to be tagged by Coco Crisp, or, even better, when said pitcher goes from struggling to completely baffled and walks in a run. We don't have numbers handy**, but we've seen this enough over the course of the year to learn to love it. Plus, it's definitely fun to yell, "Good eye!" from the cheap seats.
That's just one example of the unconventional ways this team's found to kick ass. How about Coco being Ichiro in centerfield? How about Josh Beckett cheering for Coco being Ichiro, and alternately venting his unutterable rage on innocent coolers, benches, and reporters that cross his path? How about Mike Timlin coming back and bringing new weapons--only figurative, we hope--to the bullpen, along with surprising strength from Okajima and Delcarmen? How about Dougie going deep? This team has survived injuries to its starting aces, and sub-Mendoza performances in the first half by key players. They've survived moose attacks. They've survived the continuing, soul-sucking presence of Dan Shaughnessy. They've survived cancer.
In a season where Bonds, A-Rod and Glavine made history***, Kerry Wood and Rick Ankiel staged comebacks that nobody ever thought would happen, and there are approximately 27 teams in the wild card races, the Red Sox remain the least boring team in baseball.
3. Our first, second, and third basemen. 3-4-5. The hot corners plus one. It's sort of shocking and awesome to think about how much of our team's offense has come from Youkilis, Lowell and Pedroia. All three are batting above .300 as of this writing; the lowest OPS in the bunch is Petey's more-than-respectable .840. They've also been defensive rock stars.**** Few things are sexier than Mikey flicking a ground ball over to Youk's waiting glove like they've rigged up their own private zip-line. Except possibly Pedroia leaping around like a Californian jumping bean and magically transforming a single into a double play.
There's also the small issue of their completely terrific personalities. We've seen 'em in the field, at the plate, and chilling with Tina Cervasio and/or Jonathan Papelbon; we feel like we know them, and to paraphrase Margaret Cho's memorable routine: There's the sweet one, the smart one...and then there's the Youk.
Watching these guys play for the season to date has been a treat. Here's hoping Theo "Yoko" Epstein doesn't break up the band next year.
2. Stumbles and all, the season so far really hasn't been bad. Remember that the Yankees were supposed to be leading the division all along? Remember that time our boys hit four home runs, back to back to back to back? Remember that we sent six guys to the All Star Game and have spent a good part of the summer debating which of our three Rookie Of The Year candidates is having the best season? Last season the Red Sox limped to third place in the AL East. This season, despite injuries and illnesses and an oddly grueling schedule and Julian "Batshit But Beloved" Tavarez as a starter through the All-Star Break, the Red Sox maintained a division lead all season (knock frantically on wood until your knuckles are as bruised as ours), a lead which is still the biggest in baseball.
No matter what happens with the rest of the season, whether we end up in a division race or a wild card race or even if we never win another game, we've gotten a much better ride than we expected. Definitely a much better ride than, say, Oakland fans (sorry, you three) have gotten after their team won the division last year. And it's true that some guys haven't produced at the level we might like, especially considering their salaries, but nobody on our team is Barry Zito.
Regardless of the eventual outcome (knock on splinters), we'd still take the 2007 Red Sox over the 2007 anybody-elses.
Sure, the Bronx may be burning again these days, but ladies and gentlemen, the Fens are still en fuego.
1. The Captain. We have one. He fought back from injuries for us. Behind the plate, he's a rock. Harvey Keitel would say he has a gun. His bat still has some pop left in it. He wears ice that beeps. All his pitchers are madly in love with him.
Nobody works harder. Nobody prepares better. Nobody has more binders.
One day he and Gabe Kapler will co-manage the Red Sox. And we will say, "We told you so!" But for the time being, we'll just watch Tek give everything he has to each pitch, watch him get spitting mad at himself when he strikes out on one of those high fastballs he can't resist, and listen to him demur the credit for one of his own home runs by praising the opposing pitcher. He's so completely committed to his team that it makes us proud to be on his side. We fully realize how embarrassed he'd be to hear us say this, but Jason Varitek could pretty much make baseball worthwhile all by his lonesome.
Forty-four games are left, just about a quarter of the regular season. It's too late to jump off the crazy train. Play ball, guys. We'll be with you.
*Papelbon is really, really obsessed with Josh Beckett. This can only lead to good things, like competitive awesome pitching, and possibly a home run derby. Or a wizards' duel.
**If you're joining our show already in progress, you might not realize this, but we virtually never have numbers handy. And we're writing this on the Internet, which is where numbers come from! But we did go to the trouble to look this one up: we have the second highest OBP in baseball, and have taken the most walks. Sing it with us: not too shabby!
***We don't want to give ourselves too much credit for reversing their karma, but--we guess you're welcome, guys. Please send checks and/or money orders to the home office.
****We're not excusing Mike Lowell's inexplicably numerous errors, but the 95% of the time when he isn't playing double-A defense, he's lights out. Big points to whoever took away his Just For Men.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
We do not scream for ice cream in this house
Dear Boston Red Sox,
Look, we know you used up your offense for the week against...some phantom team allegedly from Tampa. Clearly you weren't interested in winning last night* (c.f. Mike Lowell skying the ball over Not Youk at first, and also, Julian Tavarez). Tonight, despite a decent start by Little Suzy Gabbard, you (once again) couldn't move one extra run across the plate in twelve straight innings**. You guys need a break. Our hearts need less breaking. Is there any reason you didn't just forfeit the Detroit series and let everybody do something else fun for the weekend?
Big love,
The girls of Respect The Tek.
That said, we have a couple of non-game related items worthy of discussion:
+ Jason Varitek's Golf Mailbag. Oh, Captain our Captain. There's plenty to love here (Tek's baby Japanese! "Kevin can't steal my beard, his chin is too big!") but our favorite bit is his resistance to the implied suggestion that he might use a computer to collate his data on opposing players. Theo Epstein has probably tried to push this on him in the past--"See, you choose a name from this drop-down list, and the pivot table will break out the numbers for you like so!" Tek took one glance at the nice Excel fields and the tidy SQL backend and replied, "Theo, I got this binder here, it's my Central Division binder and it's organized by team and then by depth-chart position, and I went through with a highlighter so the lefties are yellow, the righties are blue--guess what color I used for switch hitters?"
And Theo probably didn't give up completely, he still sends out notes about corporate discounts on the Palm Pilot, but Tek just hugs his binder tight, secure in the knowledge that he'll still be able to look at hitter profiles when the peak oil crisis comes and the lights go out on Broadway.
Oh, and he has secret pregame rituals about which nobody must know. 'Fess up, Cap'n, said rituals involve staking vampires in the name of the Light, don't they?
+Friendly's Scoop with Jonathan Papelbon. He's serious, he's comical, he's sweet, he's surly, he surveys his teammates as to who's the sexiest pitcher*** and hitter, and he refers to himself as Cinco Ocho. After watching El Papelbon walk sadly away from the mound tonight, this is just what we needed. Well, that and a win later today to stop the sweep.
*Granted, Doug Mirabelli is a stud who hits bombs.
**Can anyone explain why they even put Papelbon in at that point? Sure, we were running low on arms, but we felt like it was a bad omen to see him come in when we hadn't taken a lead in the top of the inning.
***You can actually see him thinking, Come on, say Jonathan Papelbon, say it! Aww, shucks, no one ever says I'm sexy. Of course, if anyone ever did, he would probably blush so hard he'd fall down from the head-rush. And Josh Beckett would owe him ten bucks. Come to think of it, that would be the funniest Scoop ever. Make it so, Friendly's! And hey, I ordered a sundae, like, an hour ago!
Look, we know you used up your offense for the week against...some phantom team allegedly from Tampa. Clearly you weren't interested in winning last night* (c.f. Mike Lowell skying the ball over Not Youk at first, and also, Julian Tavarez). Tonight, despite a decent start by Little Suzy Gabbard, you (once again) couldn't move one extra run across the plate in twelve straight innings**. You guys need a break. Our hearts need less breaking. Is there any reason you didn't just forfeit the Detroit series and let everybody do something else fun for the weekend?
Big love,
The girls of Respect The Tek.
That said, we have a couple of non-game related items worthy of discussion:
+ Jason Varitek's Golf Mailbag. Oh, Captain our Captain. There's plenty to love here (Tek's baby Japanese! "Kevin can't steal my beard, his chin is too big!") but our favorite bit is his resistance to the implied suggestion that he might use a computer to collate his data on opposing players. Theo Epstein has probably tried to push this on him in the past--"See, you choose a name from this drop-down list, and the pivot table will break out the numbers for you like so!" Tek took one glance at the nice Excel fields and the tidy SQL backend and replied, "Theo, I got this binder here, it's my Central Division binder and it's organized by team and then by depth-chart position, and I went through with a highlighter so the lefties are yellow, the righties are blue--guess what color I used for switch hitters?"
And Theo probably didn't give up completely, he still sends out notes about corporate discounts on the Palm Pilot, but Tek just hugs his binder tight, secure in the knowledge that he'll still be able to look at hitter profiles when the peak oil crisis comes and the lights go out on Broadway.
Oh, and he has secret pregame rituals about which nobody must know. 'Fess up, Cap'n, said rituals involve staking vampires in the name of the Light, don't they?
+Friendly's Scoop with Jonathan Papelbon. He's serious, he's comical, he's sweet, he's surly, he surveys his teammates as to who's the sexiest pitcher*** and hitter, and he refers to himself as Cinco Ocho. After watching El Papelbon walk sadly away from the mound tonight, this is just what we needed. Well, that and a win later today to stop the sweep.
*Granted, Doug Mirabelli is a stud who hits bombs.
**Can anyone explain why they even put Papelbon in at that point? Sure, we were running low on arms, but we felt like it was a bad omen to see him come in when we hadn't taken a lead in the top of the inning.
***You can actually see him thinking, Come on, say Jonathan Papelbon, say it! Aww, shucks, no one ever says I'm sexy. Of course, if anyone ever did, he would probably blush so hard he'd fall down from the head-rush. And Josh Beckett would owe him ten bucks. Come to think of it, that would be the funniest Scoop ever. Make it so, Friendly's! And hey, I ordered a sundae, like, an hour ago!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
We do not condone violence against PDAs in this house
THE BATTLE IN SEATTLE
Three short monologues starring Jason Varitek.
I. Kason At The Rubber
"Time!"
[Jogs to mound.]
"Hey, Gabby. Deep breath. You can do this, I've seen you throw. Just find your confidence.Don't worry about the guy on first. Or second...or third.
Look, let's break it down to the basics, okay? Take a look at my mitt."
[Flexes glove hand. Gabbard flinches.]
"Hey, whoa, I'm not gonna--I only did that the one time, and A-Rod had it coming. Gabby, the mitt is not your enemy. The mitt is your friend. No, better. The mitt is your hot babysitter that you used to have a crush on, a couple years ago when you were in the sixth grade. All you care about in the world is this mitt here. And all you wanna do is make the mitt happy.
By which I mean, stop throwing at my shoe, okay?"
[Pats Gabbard on the shoulder.]
"No sweat, kid. You got 'em. Curveball inside this time.
All right, let's go."
II. Post-Game Post-Mortem
[Stomps into clubhouse.]
"Hey, Tito, who are we going to fire?
Well, I need you to fire somebody, so who's it gonna be? Can we fire the conditioning coach? Can we trade Gabby away right now for a nickel on the dollar and maybe get a new hairdresser for Coco? I don't care. I don't give one single goddamn, Tito. Someone's gotta pay. Someone's gotta pay tonight. We aren't hitting with men on base, and that little son of a bitch can't throw--
Of course I told him it was okay! What do you take me for? Forget it, I'm calling Theo Epstein. Gonna suspend my own no-trade clause and see if I can get my ass traded for Mark Buehrle. 'Cause it's the only thing I can do for this team at this point, that's why. Anybody got a phone?
Schill, what are you--are you blogging again? Gimme that Blackberry.
...Wait a second, you're--how many times have you voted for the All-Star Game? Thirty- what? That's just wrong, Curtis Montague Schilling. That is bad for our sport. And hey, what have you got my name on there for? Jorge Posada is having the best offensive year of his career! I'm batting .266! What the hell is wrong with you?
How do I make a call on this piece of shit?"
[Dials.]
"Hi, Mr. Epstein? Mr. Epstein, it's Jason Varitek. We have a slight emergency here. A slight emergency known as incompetence. So if you're available... well, I guess you're not. Or maybe you're sleeping. I forget we're on Western time. Sorry to bother you, sir. Goodnight."
[Hangs up, stares at the Blackberry.]
"Walked in three fucking runs in the bottom of the first."
[Drops the Blackberry on the clubhouse floor, stomps on it hard, grabs a nearby bat and whales on it until it is in pieces. Schilling flinches.]
"Don't you look at me like that, old man, you just sit there on the D/L and...and be on the D/L. Put something on your shoulder. Heat that the fuck up.
What?
Oh, five bucks for the swear jar? Yeah, okay. Actually, here's a ten. I'm gonna go tell that umpire what I think of him and his mother."
III. In The Air Tonight
"Hi, honey.
Well, it was a rough series. What can I say? Their pitchers just had some nasty stuff, and ours--well, our bullpen definitely didn't have their best stuff. I don't know, I thought my research was pretty good on this series, but it just didn't play out the way I expected. And I wasn't seeing the ball as well as I could have...
Thanks. I'll tell Dice and Pap you said that, too. That's real sweet of you.
No, you're right, no point worrying about it now. See you when we land. G'night."
[Hangs up. Gazes contemplatively out of plane window. Flips through binders with Tampa Bay scouting reports.]
"Hey, Dougie, you awake?"
[Snoring.]
"Guess that'd be a no. Man, I hate taking the red-eye."
[Picks up phone again and dials.]
"...Hey, Nomar? Tek. Heard a little rumor that you were playing third tonight. That's pretty cool, you know, because some old guys just retire or drift down to the minors. It's only real all-star guys like you that hang around even when they're basically being put out to pasture. You're a lot like Cal Ripken.
You know, in the sense that you and Cal Ripken are both old third basemen.
Call me when you get this, Nomy. Oh, and do you have Damon's new phone number? Because all I have is his new batting average, and I'd like to give him a ring. Just to say hi."
[Hangs up the phone. Smiles. Eventually, falls asleep.]
Three short monologues starring Jason Varitek.
I. Kason At The Rubber
"Time!"
[Jogs to mound.]
"Hey, Gabby. Deep breath. You can do this, I've seen you throw. Just find your confidence.Don't worry about the guy on first. Or second...or third.
Look, let's break it down to the basics, okay? Take a look at my mitt."
[Flexes glove hand. Gabbard flinches.]
"Hey, whoa, I'm not gonna--I only did that the one time, and A-Rod had it coming. Gabby, the mitt is not your enemy. The mitt is your friend. No, better. The mitt is your hot babysitter that you used to have a crush on, a couple years ago when you were in the sixth grade. All you care about in the world is this mitt here. And all you wanna do is make the mitt happy.
By which I mean, stop throwing at my shoe, okay?"
[Pats Gabbard on the shoulder.]
"No sweat, kid. You got 'em. Curveball inside this time.
All right, let's go."
II. Post-Game Post-Mortem
[Stomps into clubhouse.]
"Hey, Tito, who are we going to fire?
Well, I need you to fire somebody, so who's it gonna be? Can we fire the conditioning coach? Can we trade Gabby away right now for a nickel on the dollar and maybe get a new hairdresser for Coco? I don't care. I don't give one single goddamn, Tito. Someone's gotta pay. Someone's gotta pay tonight. We aren't hitting with men on base, and that little son of a bitch can't throw--
Of course I told him it was okay! What do you take me for? Forget it, I'm calling Theo Epstein. Gonna suspend my own no-trade clause and see if I can get my ass traded for Mark Buehrle. 'Cause it's the only thing I can do for this team at this point, that's why. Anybody got a phone?
Schill, what are you--are you blogging again? Gimme that Blackberry.
...Wait a second, you're--how many times have you voted for the All-Star Game? Thirty- what? That's just wrong, Curtis Montague Schilling. That is bad for our sport. And hey, what have you got my name on there for? Jorge Posada is having the best offensive year of his career! I'm batting .266! What the hell is wrong with you?
How do I make a call on this piece of shit?"
[Dials.]
"Hi, Mr. Epstein? Mr. Epstein, it's Jason Varitek. We have a slight emergency here. A slight emergency known as incompetence. So if you're available... well, I guess you're not. Or maybe you're sleeping. I forget we're on Western time. Sorry to bother you, sir. Goodnight."
[Hangs up, stares at the Blackberry.]
"Walked in three fucking runs in the bottom of the first."
[Drops the Blackberry on the clubhouse floor, stomps on it hard, grabs a nearby bat and whales on it until it is in pieces. Schilling flinches.]
"Don't you look at me like that, old man, you just sit there on the D/L and...and be on the D/L. Put something on your shoulder. Heat that the fuck up.
What?
Oh, five bucks for the swear jar? Yeah, okay. Actually, here's a ten. I'm gonna go tell that umpire what I think of him and his mother."
III. In The Air Tonight
"Hi, honey.
Well, it was a rough series. What can I say? Their pitchers just had some nasty stuff, and ours--well, our bullpen definitely didn't have their best stuff. I don't know, I thought my research was pretty good on this series, but it just didn't play out the way I expected. And I wasn't seeing the ball as well as I could have...
Thanks. I'll tell Dice and Pap you said that, too. That's real sweet of you.
No, you're right, no point worrying about it now. See you when we land. G'night."
[Hangs up. Gazes contemplatively out of plane window. Flips through binders with Tampa Bay scouting reports.]
"Hey, Dougie, you awake?"
[Snoring.]
"Guess that'd be a no. Man, I hate taking the red-eye."
[Picks up phone again and dials.]
"...Hey, Nomar? Tek. Heard a little rumor that you were playing third tonight. That's pretty cool, you know, because some old guys just retire or drift down to the minors. It's only real all-star guys like you that hang around even when they're basically being put out to pasture. You're a lot like Cal Ripken.
You know, in the sense that you and Cal Ripken are both old third basemen.
Call me when you get this, Nomy. Oh, and do you have Damon's new phone number? Because all I have is his new batting average, and I'd like to give him a ring. Just to say hi."
[Hangs up the phone. Smiles. Eventually, falls asleep.]
Monday, June 25, 2007
We do not acknowledge Florida in this house
The All-Star Game generates nearly as much chatter and analysis as American Idol, and deserves to be taken much less seriously. About 74.3 percent less seriously, if you look at the statistics.* American Idol actually has an impact on our everyday lives, insofar as we still hear that stupid "Jesus Take The Wheel" song once a fortnight. But since we can't live All-Star season vicariously through Simon Cowell...
COWELL: Alex, it was a great performance--
[Shot of teary-eyed DEREK JETER wearing "A-Rod A-RMY" T-shirt in crowd]
COWELL: --If I closed my eyes! You look like a Portuguese cabaret singer!
[Boos from the audience.]
COWELL: I'm just being honest.
...We did vote. Repeatedly. But come on, if it wasn't a popularity contest, they wouldn't let you vote twenty-five times per e-mail address plus however many ballots you can scavenge off the bleacher seats. So these, and only these, were our guiding principles:
1. We don't feel obligated to vote for people who are definitely going to win, even if they clearly deserve it. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Boston" factor.
2. We sometimes vote against people we dislike rather than for people we like. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Miami" factor.
3. We vote with our hearts first, the stats second, and then we just close our eyes and poke at the person whose name we recognize best.
Without further ado, because we're fresh out of ado, here is our 2007 AL ballot.
1st Base
Probable Winner: David Ortiz
Most Deserving: Ortiz
We Voted For: Kevin Youkilis
You know why Papi hasn't hit up to his previous home run pace? Nobody is throwing him pitches! Pitchers be hatin'; Papi still be postin' a 1.027 OPS. During this season's insanely long bout of interleague play, he even made a nice pick or two at first (and we think it's stupid not having a DH slot, anyway; it's not like the All-Stars are about the Purity Of The Game Of Base-Ball). Of course, we knew Papi would coast to the All-Star Game on his Clooneyesque reserves of charm, so we wrote in the Greek God of Blogs. He's having as good a season as last year's MVP** and still finds time to play horsey with Manny Ramirez.
2nd Base
Probable Winner: Placido Polanco
Most Deserving: Polanco
We Voted For: Polanco and Dustin Pedroia
Everyone agrees that Polanco deserves the position, although taking a glance at B.J. Upton's numbers is rather confusing, but he plays for the nonexistent Tampa Bay Devil Rays*** so who cares? So each of us voted for Polanco some and Pedroia some, since Our Little Man Dusty is having a comparably impressive year (he's a lock to go All-State!).
Shortstop
Probable Winner: Derek Jeter
Most Deserving: Orlando Cabrera
We Voted For: Cabrera, and also everyone who is neither Jeter nor Julio Lugo
Cabrera is similar offensively and much better defensively (4 errors is better than 11, no?). And his biggest selling point? He's not Admiral Calm-Eyed Deke.**** He got the bulk of our votes, but we threw a couple each to Yuniesky Betancourt (Mariners love, plus he's got a hell of a life story), Carlos Guillen (fear), and Miguel Tejada (we pity the fool who tries to play actual baseball for the Orioles, we do, we pity the fool).
3rd Base
Probable Winner: Alex Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Rodriguez
We Voted For: Mike Lowell
Look, A-Rod is the best player in baseball right now, and we have no problem acknowledging that. We think sometimes the fans and media are unfair to him; his personal life should be his business and no one else's, and the fact that he hasn't won a World Series doesn't mean he isn't a stunning and committed ballplayer. That said, he's also whiny, annoying, and prone to the occasional bush-league move, and we can respect him all day long and still not punch a little hole next to his name.
While he may fade down the stretch, Iron Mike currently has excellent numbers.
Catcher
Probable Winner: Ivan Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Jorge Posada
We Voted For: Jason Varitek
Who would've thought this would be the most competitive category? It defies logic. Posada's offensive pace is bound to taper off, but for the first half of 2007 there's hardly anyone hitting better in any position. Rodriguez is a hotshot offensively and defensively, catching one of the strongest rotations in baseball. There are underrated younger competitors: Victor Martinez has a filthy-dirty number of RBIS; Joe Mauer's batting .319 and hasn't let a ball get past him once this season.
Yeah. Hi. Did you look at the name of the blog?
If we were to try and justify it statistically, we would note that Varitek has a lower CERA and fewer successful stolen bases than either Posada or Pudge, but we aren't. We're voting with our hearts. And the hearts of Josh Beckett and Jonathan Papelbon and Curt Schilling, and all those great big grown men who get starry-eyed when they talk about Captain Fenway. We don't expect him to win, don't even need him to win, but we voted for him with every one of our mumblety-mumble ballots.
Jason Varitek. Early and often.
Outfield
Probable Winners: Vladimir Guerrero, Manny Ramirez, Ichiro Suzuki
Most Deserving: Guerrero, Suzuki, Magglio Ordonez
We Voted For: Suzuki, Ordonez, Nick Swisher
Manny doesn't wanna go to the All-Star game. Manny wants to throw a big three-day party instead, with girls dancing on the bar and Julian Tavarez smoking a bowl underneath it. Manny wants to grill some burgers--he has a grill, maybe you've heard about it--and invite all his teammates over, except maybe Curt Schilling 'cause he doesn't know how to get down, and play a lot of Outkast and maybe put the game on just to cheer for Papi and/or Youk.
Stop voting for him, people, it's just mean. And it's ridiculous that Ordonez, who is literally hitting better than anyone in the game, can't crack the top three here. Here's hoping for a groundswell.
We can't explain why we voted for Nick Swisher instead of Guerrero, except for some kind of impossibly powerful Moneyball hangover, a lingering fondness that began during last year's playoffs, and the fact that The The Angels Angels of Anaheim are among our least favorite teams (they hang out down there with the Yankees, Indians, and Braves; we're busy girls).
In conclusion, this is a bunch of hooey. We've handled it with the mindfulness it deserves.
Let's all go vote for the ESPYs!
*The statistics here are the same ones we used to plan our voting strategy; specifically, well, almost none. Wait until you see how astute we were with the NL.
**Justin Morneau is still a monster, though, and he's surely playing hard--he crashed into someone so hard at home plate that he started coughing up blood. Baseball is so much cooler than football.
***Seriously, you expect us to believe that there is a team called the Tampa Bay Devil Rays? Piffle. And I'm a big fan of the Schenectady Flying Dutchmen.
****TM Fire Joe Morgan.
COWELL: Alex, it was a great performance--
[Shot of teary-eyed DEREK JETER wearing "A-Rod A-RMY" T-shirt in crowd]
COWELL: --If I closed my eyes! You look like a Portuguese cabaret singer!
[Boos from the audience.]
COWELL: I'm just being honest.
...We did vote. Repeatedly. But come on, if it wasn't a popularity contest, they wouldn't let you vote twenty-five times per e-mail address plus however many ballots you can scavenge off the bleacher seats. So these, and only these, were our guiding principles:
1. We don't feel obligated to vote for people who are definitely going to win, even if they clearly deserve it. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Boston" factor.
2. We sometimes vote against people we dislike rather than for people we like. Call this the "Ralph Nader 2000, if you lived in Miami" factor.
3. We vote with our hearts first, the stats second, and then we just close our eyes and poke at the person whose name we recognize best.
Without further ado, because we're fresh out of ado, here is our 2007 AL ballot.
1st Base
Probable Winner: David Ortiz
Most Deserving: Ortiz
We Voted For: Kevin Youkilis
You know why Papi hasn't hit up to his previous home run pace? Nobody is throwing him pitches! Pitchers be hatin'; Papi still be postin' a 1.027 OPS. During this season's insanely long bout of interleague play, he even made a nice pick or two at first (and we think it's stupid not having a DH slot, anyway; it's not like the All-Stars are about the Purity Of The Game Of Base-Ball). Of course, we knew Papi would coast to the All-Star Game on his Clooneyesque reserves of charm, so we wrote in the Greek God of Blogs. He's having as good a season as last year's MVP** and still finds time to play horsey with Manny Ramirez.
2nd Base
Probable Winner: Placido Polanco
Most Deserving: Polanco
We Voted For: Polanco and Dustin Pedroia
Everyone agrees that Polanco deserves the position, although taking a glance at B.J. Upton's numbers is rather confusing, but he plays for the nonexistent Tampa Bay Devil Rays*** so who cares? So each of us voted for Polanco some and Pedroia some, since Our Little Man Dusty is having a comparably impressive year (he's a lock to go All-State!).
Shortstop
Probable Winner: Derek Jeter
Most Deserving: Orlando Cabrera
We Voted For: Cabrera, and also everyone who is neither Jeter nor Julio Lugo
Cabrera is similar offensively and much better defensively (4 errors is better than 11, no?). And his biggest selling point? He's not Admiral Calm-Eyed Deke.**** He got the bulk of our votes, but we threw a couple each to Yuniesky Betancourt (Mariners love, plus he's got a hell of a life story), Carlos Guillen (fear), and Miguel Tejada (we pity the fool who tries to play actual baseball for the Orioles, we do, we pity the fool).
3rd Base
Probable Winner: Alex Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Rodriguez
We Voted For: Mike Lowell
Look, A-Rod is the best player in baseball right now, and we have no problem acknowledging that. We think sometimes the fans and media are unfair to him; his personal life should be his business and no one else's, and the fact that he hasn't won a World Series doesn't mean he isn't a stunning and committed ballplayer. That said, he's also whiny, annoying, and prone to the occasional bush-league move, and we can respect him all day long and still not punch a little hole next to his name.
While he may fade down the stretch, Iron Mike currently has excellent numbers.
Catcher
Probable Winner: Ivan Rodriguez
Most Deserving: Jorge Posada
We Voted For: Jason Varitek
Who would've thought this would be the most competitive category? It defies logic. Posada's offensive pace is bound to taper off, but for the first half of 2007 there's hardly anyone hitting better in any position. Rodriguez is a hotshot offensively and defensively, catching one of the strongest rotations in baseball. There are underrated younger competitors: Victor Martinez has a filthy-dirty number of RBIS; Joe Mauer's batting .319 and hasn't let a ball get past him once this season.
Yeah. Hi. Did you look at the name of the blog?
If we were to try and justify it statistically, we would note that Varitek has a lower CERA and fewer successful stolen bases than either Posada or Pudge, but we aren't. We're voting with our hearts. And the hearts of Josh Beckett and Jonathan Papelbon and Curt Schilling, and all those great big grown men who get starry-eyed when they talk about Captain Fenway. We don't expect him to win, don't even need him to win, but we voted for him with every one of our mumblety-mumble ballots.
Jason Varitek. Early and often.
Outfield
Probable Winners: Vladimir Guerrero, Manny Ramirez, Ichiro Suzuki
Most Deserving: Guerrero, Suzuki, Magglio Ordonez
We Voted For: Suzuki, Ordonez, Nick Swisher
Manny doesn't wanna go to the All-Star game. Manny wants to throw a big three-day party instead, with girls dancing on the bar and Julian Tavarez smoking a bowl underneath it. Manny wants to grill some burgers--he has a grill, maybe you've heard about it--and invite all his teammates over, except maybe Curt Schilling 'cause he doesn't know how to get down, and play a lot of Outkast and maybe put the game on just to cheer for Papi and/or Youk.
Stop voting for him, people, it's just mean. And it's ridiculous that Ordonez, who is literally hitting better than anyone in the game, can't crack the top three here. Here's hoping for a groundswell.
We can't explain why we voted for Nick Swisher instead of Guerrero, except for some kind of impossibly powerful Moneyball hangover, a lingering fondness that began during last year's playoffs, and the fact that The The Angels Angels of Anaheim are among our least favorite teams (they hang out down there with the Yankees, Indians, and Braves; we're busy girls).
In conclusion, this is a bunch of hooey. We've handled it with the mindfulness it deserves.
Let's all go vote for the ESPYs!
*The statistics here are the same ones we used to plan our voting strategy; specifically, well, almost none. Wait until you see how astute we were with the NL.
**Justin Morneau is still a monster, though, and he's surely playing hard--he crashed into someone so hard at home plate that he started coughing up blood. Baseball is so much cooler than football.
***Seriously, you expect us to believe that there is a team called the Tampa Bay Devil Rays? Piffle. And I'm a big fan of the Schenectady Flying Dutchmen.
****TM Fire Joe Morgan.
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