Return of Flutie Magic

According to the Boston Globe, Doug Flutie is currently signing a contract to serve as the New England Patriots’ backup to quarterback Tom Brady.

20 years after Flutie’s famous Hail Mary lob at Boston College, Flutie Magic returns to Boston.

Presumably, this means he’ll also be available to shag foul balls at Fenway.

So that happened…

Days without sports force me to engage in other activities. And then things like this happen. Please, Red Sox, for the sake of my liver, my sanity and my continued well-being, play a game tonight.

Note: If you look really closely at the picture in that post, a ghostly hand emerges from the darkness, offering Amy yet another beer. This, dear readers, is the elusive Steve Brady. A sighting of whom is even more rare than Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Mosnter. Photographic evidence, kids. It does not lie.

Now Accepting…

…applications for a groom.

Exactly how warped does it make me that I would actually consider something like this?

Just imagine, the Monster as the backdrop for all your wedding photos, ring bearers wearing bat boy uniforms, rose petals strewn down the first base line, the vows projected on the scoreboard. I’m not a normal girl, am I?

Proud Papa

As you can see, Millar is already familiar with parenting.

A bright spot in this otherwise dark and tormented place known as Red Sox Nation (What? We’re good with the pathos), is the news that Kevin Millar and his wife Jeana yesterday welcomed the arrival of twins Kashten and Kylie. (I will not make fun of their names, I will not make fun of their names…)

According to Kentucky Fried Kevin: “The babies are healthy. The boy was six pounds, two ounces. The girl was four pounds, 11 ounces. It went as good as it goes. I didn’t look as much as I should have probably. It’s the one thing I regret. I should have looked a little more, but I was scared to.”

Allow me to be a girl for just a second, AWWWWWWWWW!

Lest you think that Millar will let this distract him from his game, well, listen up: “Maybe we’ll hit a home run for the kid. We’re on pace for one,” said Millar, poking fun at himself for not going deep yet this season.

Oh Millar, still a kid at heart.

A sincere congratulations to Kevin and Jeana who went through some quite serious stuff last year, baseball aside. And a sincere rally cap to the kids who are going to have, perhaps, the most embarassing dad this side of Ozzy Osbourne. Although, to be fair, to the best of my knowledge, Ozzy’s never taken a header rounding first base. I’m sure Millar will be a great dad and I wish the entire family only the best. Here’s hoping that Kevin imparts his joy of life, and the game of baseball, to the little ‘uns. I want to see these kids in about three years, when Manny and Tizzle are teaching them handshakes…

Bloody Wonderful

Curt Schilling becomes the newest member of the Let’s Go On the DL Team! Really, the jokes about ankles being the Achilles heals of this team are just damn too easy.

*Hulk smash*

Ahem. As you were.

The Talk

That's right, boys, we need to talk. Why don't you pull up a chair? No, it's okay, come closer, I won't bite. Actually, you're right, you might want to remain standing. I'm just sayin' I'm not a runner by nature but you light a fire under me, like perhaps the FIRE OF A THOUSAND BURNING SUNS THAT BLOWING A FIVE-RUN LEAD TO BALTIMORE incites and I just might hunt down your asses and whip y'all good.

You see this ice behind me, boys? This is the ice in my soul. My soul is frozen. My soul is frozen with the potential love for you that's just waiting to be thawed and brought forth. But no, you don't want me to love you. So you continue sucking so hard you've actually created Red Sox-shaped vaccumms which, while not actually useful for fielding ground balls, are, in fact, keeping the infield nice and tidy.

Billy Mueller, you're the only one exempt from my wrath right now because I'm just tickled pink to see you're walking upright and not, you know, dead from the Bubonic plague or some rare strain of the Ebola virus. Also, RBIs. A few RBIs and a girl can forgive many things.

What I cannot forgive is WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, KEITH FOULKE! Seriously? The fuck? Two 2-run homeruns? Two? Are you fucking kidding me? Look what you've done, you've made me resort to repetition of the word "fuck" and use it in nearly every part of speech. I'm an editor, Keith. Words are my thing. And you leave me speechless. And not in a good way.

Kevin, I'm glad you're having babies tomorrow and I do truly wish you all the best with that but for the love of all that is good and holy, please do not DROP THEM! I've noticed you sometimes have problems with this.

Boys, are we not having fun right now? Is that the problem? Do we miss O-Cab and D-Lowe and Pedro and Pokey and Dave Roberts? I miss them too, guys but they ain't coming back. Except maybe Dave Roberts who I'm totally kidnapping. I think we need more manlove, boys. We need more hugging and feeding of applesauce to each other. We need more shenanigans and tomfoolery. Some ballyhoo, even. You all need to start engaging in acts that will make Tek and Billy look at you disapprovingly. Really, start the love now. I miss the love.

Boys, I want to love you all the time, day and night. I don't want it to hurt anymore. We can't break up, we've been through too much. There's too much history here. But you need to know I'm hurting. I hurt because I LOVE TOO MUCH! You need to start returning some of that love.

That up there *gestures upwards* is my concerned face. Trust me, you don't want to see the sad one. Let's get it together boys. Let's play like men. Or, better yet, let's play like guys who realize how fucking lucky they are to be playing baseball for a living.

I'm in for the long haul, boys, you know that. But you need to start earning my love. Sigh.

Yours...for better or for worse,
Kristen



Time to Pay Up

This one will do just fine…

Dear Fat Man,

Kindly remember our deal. You don’t pitch like shit and I stop making fun of you. Or you continue to suck boiled eggs and you buy me a pony. Please see the above pony. It can be purchased at a farm in New Hampshire for a reasonable price. I shall expect it to be waiting for me, tied to the fence post and lazily munching on my front lawn when I return from work this evening.

Sincerely,
Kristen

I don’t really want to talk about it. Can we just pretend it never happened? Except for Tek’s Monster shot. That most assuredly did happen. Truthfully, I missed most of the game in actual real-live action because I was being a good little worker bee and retired directly to the mouse-infested BPL to do some freelance work immediately after, well, work. “I can do this,” I told myself. “This will be fine. You can ignore the game for one night. You don’t need to know what’s going on every second of every game. You need to get your work done if you ever want to make the downpayment on your new apartment.” This was the rational side of my brain speaking. The irrational side countered, “Ooo, look! The BPL has wireless internet! Gamecast, SGMB, email, here I come!” Technology is a cruel mistress.

However, after three innings or so, it became clear that the poorly drawn “hitters” and the crudely constructed “strike zone” on my laptop were not going to be telling me anything I wanted to hear. After a while, David Wells’ mug shot actually appeared to be mocking me. “Screw you, Fat Man,” I said under my breath, “You’re back on the shit list.”

As was, I might add, Amy1, who got to attend the game and felt the need to inform me that she was “right behind the bullpen. I can throw pebbles at Varitek. Oooo, he’s stretching! Your boy’s hot.” I believe I responded in a stage whisper, “I hate you.” It’s not true, of course, I love Amy dearly, but that is not nice, that is. Rubbing it in and such. However, I have further incontrivertible proof that Varitek does indeed love me as I got a text message from Amy, “Send some mojo!” and a voicemail message shortly thereafter, “Your mojo worked! Send more!” Boy knows who loves him. I’m just sayin’.

So, aside from that, can we just forget about the rest of the game? Let’s just pretend that yesterday was an off-day and tonight the newly christened Neptune Nuts (Clement) faces off, again, against Rodrigo Lopez and these Orioles who have begun to drive me batshit. Also, there are far too many people named Lopez and/or BJ on the Orioles. Amy2 and I are calling for a moratorium. They’re just being greedy. That, and no grown man should be able to refer to himself as “BJ” without giggling.

See y’all tomorrow. Pony rides for everyone!

Until then, let’s just look at the following stats and bask in their hearty glow. Three guesses who’s numbers these are. And the first two don’t count. Someone’s pullin’ their weight around here:

	G	AB	R	H	2B	3B	HR	RBI	TB	BB	SO	SB	CS	OBP	SLG	AVG
2005	17	64	9	21	2	1	5	10	40	3	12	0	0	.358	.625	.328

Bad Blood

(photo from Boston.com)

The following IM conversation between Amy* and myself took place approximately seven seconds before Papi went deep:

Amy: How you gonna boo David Ortiz?
Me: Tizzle gonna make y’all pay. He’s gonna kick your asses, is what.
Papi’s Bat: BOOM, bitches!

Let it never be said us girls don’t know our players.

Seriously, you guys, why do we have bad blood with Tampa Bay? Does this go back to the Pedro beanball wars and the D-Rays pitchers always plunking Daubach in his substantial heiny? Can we let it go? Otherwise, Trot Nixon is going to kill someone with his steely, steely eyes of doom. As Blaine Neal’s purpose has now been clarified as “Trot Holder Backer,” we’re in for some serious stuff if “a certain person” keeps poking Trotter in the eye. Also, don’t throw at Ortiz. Papi “Don’t play that.”

No one is more upset than me about the way the first two games turned out, okay? I mean, I’m subjected to the continuation of the Red Sox Catcher Blood Feud with my brother on Friday night and I took an unholy amount of flack when Dougie gets lifted for Tek who then proceeds to ground into an inning-ending double play. “I’m sorry, is that Steve Yzerman batting? Oh, right, I forgot, this isn’t hockey. Hard to tell with that fucking ‘C!'”

And don’t even get me started on the amount of shit I had to listen to when Embree’s first pitch was deposited in the outfield grandstands. “Well Tek obviously called for that pitch. Nice job, Captain.”

However, the evening did lead to this little wager. You’re all witnesses:

Kev: Dougie’s gonna hit an inside the parker.
Me: Doug Mirabelli?
Kev: Yeah, he’s gonna hit a round tripper. You watch.
Me: Doug Mirabelli, our backup catcher, he of the parachute-trailing run is going to hit an inside the park home run?
Kev: Damn straight.
Me: Here’s what: Dougie hits an inside the parker and I’ll buy you a case of beer.
Kev: What about a triple?
Me: Twelve-pack.
Kev: Double?
Me: Six pack but he’s totally hitting a double sometime this year.
Kev: Inside the parker. It’s happening.

My dad pipes up from the depths of the couch: If Doug Mirabelli hits an inside the park homerun, I’ll eat my shirt.

Kev: Hope you like cotton.

So there it is, the sibling wager. Technically, I think it was only supposed to extend to Friday’s game but so tickled am I at the prospects of seeing Dougie truck around the bases, huffing and puffing and hauling that imaginary piano and at my dad slowly and methodically devouring his golf shirt that I’m willing to offer up the price of a case of beer to see both happen.

Saturday’s game wasn’t witnessed in person but rather on tape at 2am after many, many, way too many beers and a few inadvisable gin and tonics. This is Butchie’s fault. Most days when I drink too much, it’s Butchie’s fault. Butchie, in addition to being my own personal cheerleader, er, Pip, is also a horrendously bad influence.

I allowed myself to be torn away from the Sox and the Big Schill on Saturday night to attend a bad prom party hosted by my godparents and populated by all manner of people in hideous “prom”ish attire. Amy’s** dress was tangerine, lemon and fuchsia. Mine was black and irridescent and sparkly. A corset was worn, as were false eyelashes and some truly horrific purple and teal eyeshadow. I looked like I was repping the New Orleans Hornets. Or, alternatively, a drag queen. Which, and I’m just sayin’, I’ve been to New Orleans, there ain’t that much of a difference.

Anyway, ain’t nothin’ that says “anguish” like watching the Sox, no, watching Curt Schilling blow a 4-run lead to the effin’ Devil Rays while wearing a sparkly prom dress, flip flops and dealing with the spins. Yesterday was a very, very long day.

Tonight it’s the Fat Man vs. Bruce Chen, Part the Second. Let’s see if we can stifle the Birds again.

Oh, and just so we’re all clear, my mom is the greatest ever. I showed up at my parents’ house on Friday night to find this waiting for me. Minus the “C.” Let’s all hear it for my mom.

And this. Flattering, ain’t it? I feel it’s my duty to inform you all that I don’t normally have seven chins nor am I twelve months pregnant. I was, however, carrying most of my earthly possessions in the front pocket of my hoodie and was probably suffering from heat stroke and exhaustion. Also, distracted by the shiny.

EDIT: I was just reminded, there were pineapple chunks marinating in Vodka. That may also have added to the problem.

*There are two Amys. I know, this is getting confusing. This is Amy of Platooned. Or AmyintheSouth to many of you. We don’t “know” each other per se. But we chat frequently, distract each other from work and serve as most excellent Pips for one another in all boy-related situations.

**This is Amy of Pasquinade who works, at present, 4 feet to my left. We have dubbed ourselves hetero life partners as we spend what is most likely an unhealthy amount of time together. This Amy witnesses, in person, most of my insanity and debauchery. She also sometimes spills beer on people. Just so we’re all clear.

I’m completely…

…nuts.

This has very little to do with sports but it’s an interesting and most likely frightening glimpse into Amy and Kristen’s shared descent into madness. Far be it for me to keep this from you. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I mention the Sox at some point. As I do.

Red Sox Catcher Blood Feud Update

(the boys play nice)

An email exchange between my mom and I, detailing the latest developments in the blood feud:

Mom: So, dinner while watching the Sox game tonight? Will that be acceptable for you?

Me: You don’t know me at all, do you? Catch any of last night’s game? Matty Clement has balls of steel.

Mom (graciously ignoring my comments on the density of our pitcher’s naughty bits): As a matter of fact, yes. Your bro was over and watched most of it with me. Tek got on base and Kev goes, “Damn, I’m never gonna live this down. She had to call and wake me up this morning, giving me shit about his 3-run homer last night.”

Me: I left him a message that said: “So was that a 3 run bomb that Tek hit? It was, right? But hey, good to see they put Dougie in when he couldn’t do any damage. Nice to see he’s getting some work in.”

Mom: You’re bad.

Me: Tell Kev Dougie goes tonight so it’s his opportunity to make up some ground.

Mom: I don’t think I’ll have to tell him. He knows. You two can argue while watching it over dinner.

Me: You enjoy antagonizing your children. We need some more blood feud updates.

Mom: No bloodshed in my living room!

Me: You take all the fun out of things.