A Home of One’s Own

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That’s right, kids, I’ve finally moved. As of Saturday, I am officially living in Brookline. Thanks to my familial relations who lugged all my shit up two flights of stairs and managed not to – I think – break anything too important. Fittingly, the first thing one sees upon entering the apartment is the bar area but really, that’s to be expected, is it not?

Because Comcast is clearly the evil demon seed from which all horror and wickedness springs, I will not have cable or internet until Friday afternoon. Because of this, when the installer comes, he’ll most likely find me, curled up in the fetal position on the floor of my very green bedroom, rocking back and forth and talking to myself. Thank christ Anam Cara and their large screen isn’t very far away and Amy is sweet enough to allow me to steal her wireless internet signal for a few days. A girl needs her baseball after all.

As for this past weekend’s series, well, the snippets I heard on the radio combined with the bits and pieces I caught on the hospital waiting room televisions and explanations from friends all mushed together in my head to form some incomplete and somewhat fuzzy mosaic of a three game series. Which we won? I guess? I did hear the replay of O-Cab’s homecoming, as it were and my hardened heart went out to the little guy. Man, do I miss him. Even despite Edgah’s recent “This be my job now, bitches” play, I still miss Cabby. I miss his antics and his insane, OCD/ADD behavior, in the dugout and on the field. I miss his raw enthusiasm. I just flat out miss him. That said, I would like to thank him for not hurting us too badly with his play.

I called my dad during the ninth inning of Friday’s game merely to check the score but since The Rick had been imbibing with friends by the campfire, what I actually got was an in-depth play by play of the top of the ninth as it was going down. “There is beaded sweat on Keith Foulke’s brow.”

Me: How’d we get the runs?
Dad: Damon, I think. And Pokey made a great play.
Me: Pokey doesn’t play for us anymore, dad.
Dad:…what? It was Pokey.
Me: He’s with Seattle, dad. And he’s on the DL.
Dad:
Me: Was it Number 3?
Dad: Um…yeah.
Me: That’s Edgah. He switched numbers with David Wells.
Dad:…what?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Look, I’ve been having a few beers. Leave me alone. Sheesh.
Me: Heh, am I going to have to march my ass down to Fenway and strangle Keith Foulke my own self?
Dad: Maybe. Base hit.
Me: Oh for chrissakes, the bases are loaded?
Dad: Yeah, go-ahead run on first.

He then proceeded to give me the exact location of every pitch to Steve Finley and exploded in a shower of good will when Foulke struck him out.

Dad: Strike three! In on the hands! Sox win!
Me: Finally.
Dad: I’m putting the phone up to the TV. Can you hear that?
Me: Dad, I’m half a mile from Fenway. I can hear it in person.
Dad: Sox win! Sox win!
Me: You realize this is going in the blog.
Dad: You can quote me! How about that! Sox win! Sox win!

And you all wonder where I get it from.

I did get a phone call from Colleen prior to game 2 of the series wherein she informed me that she knew that I would be spending the majority of the day lugging all my earthly possessions up two flights of stairs and therefore, wouldn’t be able to watch the game, but it was on Fox so she would watch it in New Orleans in my stead. “Tell B I love him,” I said. “I will,” she replied. “No,” I said, “You don’t understand. I know that the Sox are your team and you like them and all but I swear, I give you two weeks of living here before you develop an unnatural love for those twenty-five men.” “Living with you,” she replied, “I don’t doubt it.”

She then called me afterwards, “Well,” she said, “that was four hours of my life I’ll never get back.” “What the frig happened?” I asked. She proceeded to give me a run down of the debacle that unfolded. “Everyone in the bullpen sucked,” she said. We then proceeded to have this conversation:

Me: It was Embree, wasn’t it?
Colleen: Well yeah, but also Mantei. He sucked too.
Me: That’s too bad. He so pretty.
Colleen: Yup. Oh, but Myers didn’t suck.
Me: Weird.
Colleen: But he only pitched to like one or two guys. Why don’t they leave him in longer if he keeps getting people out?
Me: He’s a LOOGY.
Colleen:
Me: A lefty specialist?
Colleen:
Me: A lefty, one out guy.
Colleen: So he’s only supposed to get one or two guys?
Me: Yeah.
Colleen: Oh, then he did his job.
Me: Right.
Colleen: Then, um, is there some guy named Perolla?
Me: If there is, they plucked him out of the stands.
Colleen: Shit, what was that guy’s name?
Me: Halama?
Colleen: Yes! Halama, that’s it. He sucked too.
Me: Yeah, Perolla, Halama, it’s practically the same thing.
Colleen: I hate you.
Me: You love me and you know it. And I will destroy you like I’ve destroyed all my other friends.
Colleen: I have no doubt.

Colleen then went on to profess her dislike for Tim McCarver:

Colleen: That’s the guy you hate, right?
Me: With the white hot passion of a thousand exploding suns.
Colleen: He’s…so bad. He was just talking and I’m like “Why are you still talking?” He wasn’t making any sense and he just would…not shut up.
Me: Indeed. You’re lucky it wasn’t a Yankees/Sox games. Then, in addition to the utter inanity he spews for nine-innings, you get the uncomfortable Derek Jeter man crush and the Yankee ballwashing.
Colleen: Ew.
Me: I’m sayin’.

As for yesterday’s game, I caught the final inning while waiting at the hospital and Keith Foulke, in a very uncharacteristic display of not sucking, got the final three outs without giving up a hit. That’s what we like to see, my dear. Keep that up.

So, apologies if my posts are a bit sparse for the next week. I’m apparently at the mercy of the Demon God Comcast and I’ve got another freelancing project that needs to be finished yesterday so I’ll be a bit tied up. In the meantime, be sure to watch the Sox on Queer Eye tomorrow night and, oh yeah, the Return to St. Louis. Remember that place? Good times.

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