Monthly Archives: June 2005

Asked for…and delivered

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(Bronson gets back his big boy pants)

Gentleman? A word before I go.

Okay, excellent. This pleases me greatly. Now, listen up, boys. Today is an off-day. Enjoy it. You deserve it. You’ve done well. Get some sleep, play some dominoes, fry some plantains, talk to your dealer. You know, whatever. But I want to see y’all ready for Friday. I want to see no mercy. It’s true that I won’t be able to watch the game due to my being in, you know, Brooklyn, but through the magic of ESPN, text messaging and my uncanny ability to harass unsuspecting passerby into telling me the score, rest assured that I’ll be keeping my eye on you. You’re not out of the woods yet, boys.

I see that every other team in the AL East won last night as well. In fact, the ESPN announcers on SportsCenter have taken to holding textbooks in front of their crotches, such is their excitement over Jason Giambi’s walk-off homer in the Bronx yesterday. Ah, I see George has ordered Giambi back on the juice. We all knew it was all a matter of time. I won’t get into how the game was, in point of fact, OVER in the 9th inning when Gary “The Right Field ‘Roid Monster” Sheffield grounded into a double play and was in fact out, thus ending the game. And I won’t get into A-Rod’s ill-advised attempt at running over the Pirates’ catcher, despite the stop sign thrown up by his third base coach. An attempt at appearing “tough” I would venture, as well as a “True Yankee.” I won’t get into any of that.

What I will get into is this: Bronson Fucking Arroyo. He’s back, y’all. Also? Bill Mueller. Mr. Mueller is on a 7-game hit streak and while I can’t reveal to you all the details of his newfound mojo (he’d be awfully embarrassed and we can’t risk upsetting the delicate balance of karma), I will tell you that it came into being approximately seven games ago. Just sayin’. We (that being Marianne and myself) should not be messed with. Because we will figure something out about you (or make something up) and we will hold it against you and threaten to share your dirty little secrets with everyone. And then, you will need to win. Don’t believe us? Ask Billy Mueller.

Okay, I’m off to make my way to South Station and brave Amy’s rendition of “No Sleep ‘Till Brooklyn” for roughly the next four hours. Great fun, I assure you. Take care, kids. And Red Sox? I’ve got my eye on you.


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If there’s a picture of David Wells on my blog, you know he did something pretty damn good.

Okey dokey, I’ll take it! It almost pains me to admit it but damn, that was, um, pretty freakin’ impressive on the part of a one Mr. David Wells. A one-hitter (thanks also to Messrs. Timlin and Foulke) will do a lot to curry a girl’s favor. And Mr. Wells, after his last two outings, has made it pretty damn clear that he very much wants me to like him. So, grudgingly, I will.

I will also admit to being criminally jealous of Beth, who was at the game, and a twinge envious of Katherine who, in a hell of an indoctrination, got her first taste of Fenway Park. Except for that “twinge” part. Color me Green Monster green, actually. Katherine called me, post game. Times like these, I do not stand on ceremony.

“I can’t fucking believe you got to see that goddamned game!” I shrieked, eschewing the usual “Hello?”

“I know!” she said, “That was pretty cool.”

“Dude, no,” I replied, “That was a fucking one-hitter. That hasn’t happened in 15 years!”

“Wow,” she breathed.

Wow indeed.

So David Wells has been given a respite. I will not require a pony, giraffe, monkey or other exotic animal for at least, oh, let’s say his next three starts. This does not mean he’s allowed to Hoover-up the joint from here on out. It simply means that if he does, I won’t complain. Right, that’ll happen.

And again, for the third day in a row I say: Manny? With the bat! Now that was a Manny shot. Monster-seat grabbing and all. Seriously, I don’t know what’s happened to him but I like it. I like it a great deal. Perhaps he realized that as wonderful as Varitek is, he should not be rivaling the Great Manny Ramirez for yearly home run total. Because while this was reflecting well on Varitek, it was doing quite the opposite for Manuelito. Perhaps Millar really did kick him the ass and tell him to suck it up and be happy to be playing baseball for a living. Perhaps he saw what happens when we boo Edgah and he just couldn’t stand the thought of being booed himself (Manny strikes me as the very sensitive type). Or perhaps he just…felt like hitting. He’s Manny. We’ll never know. But as long as he has truly found his swing and he continues to give us heartswelling moments of adorable manlove and childlike glee in the dugout, I’m not sure I care.

And speaking of the dugout? MLB and NESN need to get on a Dugout Cam immediately if not sooner. Tell me you would not watch this. I would venture a guess that most people would not only watch this, they would pay to watch this. And by “most people” I mean “Red Sox fans.” This is the reason picture-in-picture was invented, folks. It doesn’t need to happen for every team. I doubt anyone much cares about seeing the Rockies’ dugout, sitting stoically and occasionally punctuating the suck by spitting sunflower seeds. But for the Sox, this would be better than any Must See TV that NBC or any of the other major networks are spewing out right now. Come on, can’t you picture it? Bellhorn turns his head away from the camera every few minutes and a telltale puff of smoke rises towards the field. Damon walks over to get a cup of Gatorade and, naturally, bangs his head on Dougie’s butt, sitting on the cooler. Trotter, steely eyes of intensity, places his hat underneath his feet and slowly and methodically grinds rosin, sunflower seed husks and pine tar into it with his heels. Matty edges farther and farther away from David Wells. Manny tries to build a Stretch Armstrong doll out of his Big League Chew. You just know it would be the greatest thing ever televised. Let’s start a petition to get this to happen. Who’s with me?

In semi-related baseball news, Amy and I will be departing for points slightly farther South as we leave tomorrow morning for Brooklyn to attend the Tomato Nation Baseball Con. We are set to meet the illustrious Sars of the very same Tomato Nation (which, if you’re not reading it, what the hell is wrong with you?) and talk some baseball. She’s a Yankee fan and this is going down in Brooklyn but, because we are ostensibly nice, polite girls, we shall try to keep the shit-talking to a minimum. Besides, it’s for charity and small children getting baseball equipment and the like. Plus, talking baseball is fun. Especially with knowledgeable people. However, I must admit to being absolutely fascinated to experience the New York attitude on the current state of the Yankees from inside the belly of the beast. Call it a covert operation, if you will. Will report back with findings.

As for the Sox, we turn to Bronson “BE the Saturn Balls, man, BE the Saturn Balls!” Arroyo who looks to both continue the Sox’ current domination and right his own self. Obviously, we know he can do this. Because he is Saturn Balls Arroyo. And no man with balls the size of Saturn is going to lose a game to the freakin’ Cincinnati Reds. Right, Bronson? Right.

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Return of the Manlove!

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Yes, yes, yes. More of this, please. Excellent pitching combined with timely and relentless hitting make Kristen a happy girl. And don’t you want to make Kristen happy, Red Sox? Don’t you?

Carlton Fisk, despite wearing a truly horrifying shirt that Jerry Remy was forced to make fun of enjoys making Kristen happy because he was just generally awesome and fantastic and gracious during the pre-game ceremony in which the Sox officially named the left-field foul pole, “Fisk’s Pole,” in commemoration of his game-winning home run of Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. Plus, he looks pretty damn good for a 57-year old. Looks like he could still play, in fact. Also? The original Pudge is a New England native and a New Hampshire boy. Yes, sir, that is how we represent the Granite State, yo. Plus, we know how I love them catchers with questionable fashion sense.

The Sox themselves beat up on the Cincinnati Reds to the tune of a 10-3 win. Matty, who has re-earned the right to be called “Neptune Nuts,” pitched his little butt off, scattering six hits and three runs. But most impressive, and most important if we’re being all stathead about it, are the nine strikeouts and only one walk he issued. He made it through eight full innings on 107 pitches and I do think our little Matty is coming into his own. Naturally, those of us who have, erm, active imaginations spent a goodly amount of time talking about Matty man-crushing on Tek and have developed all kinds of theories as to why he’s pitching better this year. Say what you want about this but I think we’re right on. Was it a coincidence that when Tek was removed for the ninth inning, most likely to get some rest after a long night (more on that in a bit), Brad Mills (acting as manager as Terry was attending his daughter’s graduation) yanked Matty as well? I know he was up to 107 pitches and with the game pretty soundly in hand there was really no need to throw him out there to try to get his second complete game of the season, but I like to believe that Matty looked over, saw Dougie donning the Tools of Ignorance and his eyes got big and panicky. His head started to swivel from side to side like, well, like Orlando Cabrera, actually, and he ran over to Tek, then luxuriating on the bench.

“Mr. Varitek?” (you just know Matty refers to Tek as “Mr. Varitek.”), “Are you not going out for the ninth inning?”

“Nah,” Tek most likely said, “Dougie’s got it from here.”

“But, but, but…” Matty undoubtedly stammered, “but…I NEED you!”

Varitek, at this point, surely laid a reassuring paw on Matty’s head and gave him a fatherly hair ruffle, “No you don’t. You’ll be all right.”

I then like to imagine that Mills approached Matty, gave him a baseball-y pat on the rump and said, “Great work tonight, ole’ buddy. Mantei’ll take it from here.”

Then, obviously, Matty let out a huge sigh of relief and sat down happily next to Varitek as Mantei took care of the ninth.

See, kids? Imaginary Baseball World is fun!

Surely this is why us creative types should never get into sports. That way lies madness.

And speaking of Imaginary Baseball World…Marianne and I have further decided that from here on out, Jason Varitek is the bearer of “Tea Party Mojo.” This decision came about after hearing that Mrs. Tek gave birth to the couple’s third daughter sometime around 4:30 in the morning yesterday. Caroline Morgan, I believe is what they’ve decided to name her. I like to think that Tek petitioned his wife to name their daughter after “Sweet Caroline” in a tribute to the passion of Red Sox fandom and I will not be dissuaded from this line of thinking. (Amy, in the SGMB Game Thread made an excellent point that, “Not to be outdone, Trotter’s next [child] will be named ‘Tessie’.”)

The “Tea Party Mojo” comes into effect when we realized that really, there is nothing funnier than a large, large man being forced to sit on a Fisher Price Tea Party plastic chair and don barrettes with his three wee daughters. Like in that Friendly’s commercial. Probably Tek will be made to wear a bonnet too. That is the highest of high comedy. Also, when his daughters are old enough to date, we pity the poor buggers who show up at the Tek house, angling to take the Tekettes out. You just know Varitek, still in playing shape but with perhaps a bit of added bulk ‘round the middle will be sitting at the kitchen table scrutinizing scouting reports on the potential boyfriends. Name, age, grades, Social Security numbers, family income, tattoos or distinguishing marks, preferred brand of bath soap, pulp/no pulp stance on orange juice, and the like. Poor kids. They don’t stand a chance.

As for other childlike behavior, (we call that a “seamless segueway,” kids) is Manny Ramirez not the world’s most delightful creature on occasion? His home run last night, which, if Wily Mo Pena had been at all familiar with Fenway Park, would most likely have been a fly out, was a sight to behold. Manny, believing the ball to have been caught, was just about to turn and trot back into the dugout when he realized that Pena had lost the ball over the wall. Manny broke into a huge smile, raised his arms in a celebratory gesture and began his home run trot. And then the manlove began. For those of you without NESN, get it immediately. I don’t care what it costs. It’s worth every penny to hear Remy and Don O. go on for a half inning about the difference between “baseball hugs” and “man hugs.” This Sox team, in case you’ve been living in baseball-free Siberia for the past few years, is all about the man hugs. Especially Manny Ramirez. And it is a wonderful thing. Last night also marked the second night in a row that Manny has taken an opposing pitcher deep. This is also a welcome sight as I’d begun to worry a bit about Mr. Monkeyshines. But the return of the manlove is a promising sign. Perhaps Millar gave him another of his patented, “You play baseball for a living, you big oaf! And you get paid eleventy billion dollars to do it! Stop sulking and cowboy up, man. Yee-haw!,” verbal ass-kickings. If so, then we are again reminded why Kevin Millar is on this team. As Amy observed over 7-11 Slurpees in my rainforest-like living room “That shit-eating grin of Millar’s has gotten him out of more things…” “I know,” I responded, “And damned if it doesn’t work.”

Tonight it’s David Wells (still thinking on an appropriate nickname for that one although admittedly, Manny’s head rubs did make me squeal with delight,) vs. NotTim (but in fact “Luke”) Hudson for the Reds. Hudson’s sporting a hefty 7.50 ERA but tonight will be only his second appearance of the season. And we all know how the Sox behave around newbie pitchers. So I’m here to tell them that tonight, we’re going to knock that shit off. Tonight, we’re showing no mercy. Tonight, we’re scoring runs! Go on, boys, go get ‘em!

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Riding the Wake

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Wake with the wheels!

So I get home on Friday around 12:45 (gotta love summer hours), and wait for the Comcast dude to show up. The last time he was supposed to come, he rang the doorbell once, waited for approximately .4 seconds, stuck a note in the door and booked it out of there all “Sorry we missed you! You’ll be without cable, internet or contact with the outside world for the foreseeable future until we can further inconvenience you!” So this time, after speaking in a controlled and yet stern voice to the Comcast dispatcher, “No, you will not come on Tuesday between noon and 3. You will come on Friday between 1 and 3 because that is when I will be home. I work for a living. At an office. And you will not leave until I have cable and internet. Understand?” I spent the time waiting by painting my bedroom walls in an ADD type manner. But I was afraid to turn on the radio or the ceiling fan lest I drown out the sound of the doorbell. Oh, and did I mention that it was 8,000 degrees centigrade on Friday? And that I’d spent a few hours inhaling paint fumes? And that the trees outside my windows (Trees! In the city! I know!) have seen fit to mate and spew a thick coat of pollen through my windows and onto everything I own, giving all my possessions a faint yellow tinge? Yeah, so, Comcast dude rings the bell, I nearly break my neck climbing down from a stepladder like a not particularly agile gibbon monkey, run down the stairs, paintbrush spraying hunter green dots all over everything and I fling open the door for him:


“Um, I’m here from Comcast?” he says, eyeing my warily.

“Yes!” I say, resisting the urge to add, “about bloody time!” “I’m glad you’re here. The Sox/Cubs game starts in half an hour.”

“Okay,” he adds, edging past me like you’d circle around a particularly rabid looking dog tied to a fire hydrant. “I should be able to hook it up by then.”

“BASEBALL!” I yelled.

Poor guy. I very nearly hugged him.

When he left forty minutes later, I did indeed have cable and some “basic” instructions on how to install my internet so that I wouldn’t have to pay him the $49.95. Oh, and just a helpful side note from me to you: just pay the bloody $49.95. You’ll spare yourself a frustrating hour and half monkeying around with wires and cables and wireless modems, all culminating in you either a) dropping your entire laptop on the hardwood floor when John Halama, on your shiny new cable, gives up a home run to a freakin’ pitcher, or b) calling Comcast customer support, having the guy on the other end tell you “Oh, I’ll just remote start it from here,” and spewing vile in the form of “It would have been helpful if someone told me YOU COULD DO THAT! NOW WAIT, UNTIL MY COMPUTER STARTS UP AGAIN!” Or possibly both.

Of course, after watching the first two bloodbaths, I very nearly called Comcast and demanded my money back.

You know what that means? That means it’s time for a brief missive to the Sox again.

Dear Red Sox,

Hi, yeah, it’s me again. Listen, I’ve done my part. I’ve not been to Fenway or anywhere else to watch you play since the last time you made it very clear that you don’t want me there. I haven’t even watched all the games lately owing to lack of cable. And yet, this doesn’t seem to matter to you. You’re all, “Hey, you know what would be fun? If we lost 9 of 11. That would be ace!” So, what? The World Series wasn’t enough of a challenge for you? You wanted to give St. Louis fans something to brag about? That’s charitable and all but you are the World Champion Boston Fucking Red Sox! Perhaps it’s time to play like it?

Also, the Yankees? Not exactly on fire. In fact, if “on fire” is good, the Yankees are pretty much absolute zero. Like, they’re sucking. Hard. Joe Torre is pissed. He’s yelling at them. Jeter’s crying in the dugout. is actually BANNING PEOPLE FROM THEIR GAME THREADS FOR EXCESSIVE NEGATIVITY. (Leading to some mighty barren game threads, I would imagine as aside from “pinstripes are kind of slimming” there really isn’t much in the way of positive comments one can make about that giant hole of suck New Yorkers are calling a major league baseball team.)

Plus, the Orioles are finally starting to show signs of giving up the ghost and pretending like they’re an actual grown-up, big person baseball team who expects to contend. Even the Blue Jays are faltering. And Tampa Bay, well, yeah. We must take advantage of these things, boys. We must be winning while the rest of the division is losing. You’ve even gone and pissed Theo off and I think we all know what happens when you piss Theo off. He curses you and important body bits start to fall off. Don’t believe me? Ask this guy.

So come on, gentlemen, no more of this “let’s flirt with .500!” baseball. I’m tired of it. You’re the goddamn Boston Red Sox. Act like it.



Last night was promising. Last night was good. Wake got his binky back and I think we all know how I feel about Jason Varitek, (I mean, we all know how I feel about Jason Varitek in a purely professional and family-friendly manner), but dudes, Wake needed his BelliBinky. I won’t deny it. The differences between his previous bunch of starts with Tek catching and then last night with Doug E. Fresh behind the plate was startling. And I’m sure no one is happier about this than Varitek. I do feel a bit bad for Kelly Shoppach who never did manage to get his first major league hit while he was sitting in Dougie’s stead but he’ll get another chance.

Also? Manny with the bat? Indeed. This is what I like to see. I like to seen Manny hitting balls clean out of parks. All “You ain’t throwin’ this one back, bitches.” And Youks with the home run. And Damon also. And JAY PAYTON! There was some serious anger and vitriol being spewed over at the SGMB game thread last night in regards to Miller and Morgan’s ESPN commentary. Could have been that the heat was making us all a bit persnickety but it could have also been that Miller and Morgan were sucking especially potent ass. Like, is it necessary to sing “Duke of Earl” in the middle of an at-bat? Really? And could we maybe get a bit more excited about Jay Payton’s home run? I seriously didn’t know that ball even had a shot until it landed in a fans outstretched hands. “Oh, that’s gone. *Yawn.*” Asshats. Just because the Red Sox are no longer America’s lovable losers does not mean we need to be all “Le sigh, they’re so last year” about them now. Yeah the Cubs are our brothers in suffering and now we all need to cheer them and blah, blah, historycakes. But dude, I don’t care how bloody lovable and squishable and smurfy the Cubs are, I’m not cheering for them at the expense of my team. That’s madness. I would prefer it if the announcers adopted at least an air of bipartisanship as well.

Although, I gotta admit, a cool thing happened during the game on Saturday. As is the tradition at Wrigley Field, some local celeb or athlete or personality or what have you gets to lead the crowd in singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch. On Saturday, they had Chris Chelios (formerly of the Chicago Blackhawks. That’s hockey, y’all), and Jack O’Callahan, (former Boston University defenseman for the Miracle on Ice team of 1980) leading the singing. Chelios was wearing a Cubs hat and O’Callahan, despite now living in Chicago, stayed true to his Charlestown roots by sporting a Sox cap. When they got to the “And it’s root, root, root for the home team…” bit wherein the crowd always inserts the name of their team, O’Callahan hijacked the microphone and screamed “RED SOX!” confounding the hell out of Chelios and the rest of the people in the park. The poor Cubs fans are so polite they couldn’t even find it within themselves to boo. Imagine if that had happened at Fenway? Anyway, it tickled me to no end, not the least of which because I went, “Awwww, hockey…” So good on ya, Jack O’Callahan.

Tonight, the boys are back at home where I think they need to be. This will undoubtedly make my commute a bit, shall we say, stuffier with all the Fenway partygoers but it never bothered me too much when I lived in Kenmore Square. After all, Sox fans are my people. We understand each other. Matty’s back at it and looks to rebound from his last outing wherein he was nearly bitchslapped by a frustrated Varitek. And rightfully so. Cincinnati’s in the house for the first time since the 1975 World Series and perhaps the most demure championship celebration ever. So come on, boys, let’s show these guys how a real championship team plays.

Oh, also, the Pats got their rings. Again. And it was, as it continues to be, awesomeness. Richard Seymour showed up to get his shiny quelling speculation that he didn’t show up for training camp because he’s you know, dead. One can only hope that he ends this childish holding out game because you DO NOT continue to be Kristen’s Patriot Baby Daddy if you act in such a petulant manner. Just something to think about, Big Sey. Also, meep! God, I miss that guy an unnatural amount. The new one is oval-shaped one in the middle. Been a lot of sparkly thrown around Boston of late. Just sayin’.

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The Dark Ages…Without Cable

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Cam the Man

Stupid Comcast. I still have no cable (&%#@!), no internet (&%#@!), I’m going through NESN withdrawal and rocking back and forth like a crack addict gone cold turkey and I’d gotten erroneous reports that the game had been rained out. So I figure, what the hell? Marianne will come over, we’ll watch the World Series DVD, we’ll have a long and in-depth conversation about, um, less family-friendly baseball matters wherein we decide that Imaginary Baseball World is way more fun that Actual Baseball World and that if, in reality, Matty Clement is actually a “Playa 4 Life!” we’d be totally confused and not know what to do. And then, I get into work this morning and find out that David Wells has pitched a gem. Not only that but Papi (naturally) went yard, Edgah (Hey, buddy!) knocked one out and Kevin Millar made what sounds to be an embarassing (but ultimately harmless and therefore hilarious) fielding error playing for Manny in left. That’s not to say Manny wouldn’t have made the same blasted error but hey, I’m certainly not one to split hairs. Oh, and Johnny Damon ran into something. Someone, actually – in this case St. Louis pitcher and New Hampshire native (Whoop! Represent the Granite State!) Chris Carpenter. But in the end, it was 4-0 Boston. The Sox avoid the sweep and get the hell out of dodge as they make their way to Chicago to take on the Cubs for the first time ever. Apparently, Nomar is also going to get his World Series ring. Dudes, Nomar. Remember him? That seems like eleventy billion years ago…

Anyway, in other sports news that I actually DID know was going down, Cam Neely has been elected to the Hockey Hall of Fame. Forgive the horrid pun but, SCORE! Neely, next to Bourque was always one of my favorites. He played the game right and did the black and gold proud. Kevin Paul Dupont sums it up perfectly in today’s Globe:

But it takes the tale of the tape, the videotape, to capture the true essence of Neely and why he was named yesterday to the Hockey Hall of Fame. In his prime, which was shortened by injuries, he was the game’s mightiest force — dynamic on his skates, powerful with his shot, and often a raging, runaway locomotive when it came time to execute bodychecks or deliver an even more physical message.

Were his career not ended prematurely by injuries (damn you, Ulf Samuelsson, damn you!) he might still be playing (assuming there’d be hockey to be played.) Neely, just 40, follows his longtime teammate, Bourque into the Hall of Fame, a most deserved accomplishment. Though he played for only ten years, a relatively short tenure, he played all of them in Boston and during his career, there was no one else more respected and feared. It’ll be a rightful honor to see his plaque next to Bourque’s in the Hall. Congratulations, Cam!

“You guys want to kick my dog while you’re here?”

Comcast informs me they’re coming tomorrow to hook up my cable and internet. Seeing as how today is a travel day for the Sox, I just might make it. I said might. Don’t be surprised if the cable dude has to coax me out of the closet where I’ve taken to hiding with the radio and a pair of rabbit ears.

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Things Just Keep Getting Better

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Those of you who come here for informed game commentary aided by the snarky are going to be a bit put out today. Because the game? Let’s just say Hoover makes a better product. The pitching? Matty is about one “ball four, high and outside” away from being bitch-slapped by Tek’s mitt. The hitting? Brutha, please. The bats, as Manny would say, are in a “coma.” However, we did get to see Manny, in pursuit of a routine fly ball (as much as anything is ever routine with that spaceshot out there) fall down, get up, STILL make the catch, and give Matty and everyone else on the field the double finger points, old school Pedro style.

And speaking of Pedro, he made an earnest bid for a no-hitter last night. He didn’t get it but he did pitch a complete game. I know some people want, or at least predict, that this is the year his arm will fall off. But I stand by my prediction that he’ll win the NL Cy Young. And that’s okay. I know Pedro was a jerk a lot of the time but goddamn, he was also Pedro Freakin’ Martinez. And he meant something. He still means something to us. I, for one, was rooting for the guy.

Also, it should be noted, the Yankees lost (again) to the Brew Crew. Granted, Milwaukee had Ben Sheets, their ace going, but it’s noteworthy that on successive nights, a Wang and a Johnson have left Yankees fans dissatisfied. And the phallic jokes come even before the Queer Eye rundown.

As for Queer Eye…better get this out of the way now: SQUEEEEEEEE! What else is there to say other than the fact that it was pretty much the greatest hour of television in the history of ever. I do not remember the last time I laughed that hard and for that long. (Hard! Long! I’m not even trying anymore.) Amy and I headed over to Annette’s with Marianne and the four of us ate pizza, drank girly drinks and watched our boys get their wax on. And just when you think it’s impossible to love a team more, this happens:

Mirabelli (getting his nails shaped) to Kevin Millar: How gay do you feel right now?
Millar (feet soaking in rose petal water): Whoever said gay was bad? I am now gay!

I fully expect that sound bite to show up on WEEI posthaste and for the entire right wing, conservative world to get their bloomers in a twist but me? I loved it. Every second of it. Everything from the camera cuts between Tek’s stoic grimaces while getting his back waxed to Wakefield screaming bloody murder at having his eyebrows tweezed. From Johnny Damon taking heat for having his own personal stylist to Tek claiming that he “just goes to the nearest Supercuts.” From Carson Kressley asking a small child if he could show him “anything in a sensible pump” to Kyan Douglas looking not entirely out of place in a baseball uniform. From Millar “pitching” to Little Leaguers and Wake mock-berating Carson for his shoddy fielding. All of it. It was good times.

Here’s where you boys may want to tune out. Because I’m about to tell you that I very nearly wet myself when Carson greeted Varitek by calling him “The Quadmaster”* and lifting up his terrycloth robe to expose the Thighs of Freedom. Not to mention that when Tek did show up (late, as he was playing an exhibition away game) he was choppered onto the field and the legend read “Jason Varitek Arrives” complete with dramatic musical crescendos and Steven Seagal-movie timestamp. And when he entered the media room-turned-spa, Millar greeted him be saying, “Hi, Cap’n.” Awwww! Plus, arms! Usually Tek is all about the legs but, arms! It’s fairly safe to say that my love for Jason Varitek continues to grow exponentially. Anyway…you were saying?

I must once again express how very, very proud I am of our boys for doing something like this. Not simply because it’s a great way to show tolerance for something that really, should so not even be an issue anymore in the year two thousand and freakin’ five but also because their main intention, aside from giving their fans a laugh, was to raise money to rebuild the Port Charlotte Little League field that had been devastated by Hurricane Charlie. And that they did. I’m not going to pretend like the best part of that show for me personally wasn’t seeing Varitek in a suit but the looks on those kids faces when they realized they were getting their field back was almost as good.

People have said to me “You realize that the Sox appearing on Queer Eye is going to put a lot of pressure on them. They’re going to get made fun of.” To which I’ve always responded, “More pressure than an 86-year championship drought? I don’t think so.” And as for the “making fun of” part? Do you honestly think the Sox take themselves seriously? I mean really, according to today’s Globe, the Sox go out of their way to keep from being too serious. To whit:

In a not-so-stunning upset, Kevin Millar was the talk of the day before the game even started for two reasons: No. 1, what he was wearing around 3:30 p.m., and No. 2, what he did about that time.

Millar, you see, was taking batting practice on an oppressive afternoon when the temperature hovered in the neighborhood of 90, and he was wearing nothing but cleats, socks, and compression (read: white Spandex) shorts that players usually wear under their pants.

”Couple of those people were on those tours, I saw two ladies throw up,” Francona said. ”Nobody should have to endure — there’s a limit to how much someone should have to endure. I know there’s about five coaches who feel a lot better about themselves right now.

While dressed down, so to speak, Millar accomplished a rather impressive feat, best recounted by Francona.

The skipper: ”I was standing in the bullpen. I hit a fungo as high as I could toward home plate. It didn’t quite get there. It was out near shortstop. He saw it coming, he got going as fast as he could with his bat and hit it, and hit it for a home run. I told him to go buy a lottery ticket. It’s [expletive] incredible.”

Oh, Red Sox. This is why I love them. They can be getting their asses handed to them by the Cardinals in some sort of watered down “revenge” on one channel and on the other, they’re whining about back waxing and playing baseball with Little Leaguers. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s a good time to be a Red Sox fan.

*Apparently the term was “Quadzilla” which I am certain I would have caught upon rewatching. But, you know, there was lifted terrycloth and exposed Thighs of Freedom involved. Y’all are lucky I’m still alive.

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Le sigh

(photo from Yahoo! Sports)

First of all, FIRST OF ALL, “best fans in baseball,” my ass. Did you hear those bastards booing Edgah? Did you? It wasn’t all of them, just a smattering of boos and they were soon drowned out by the reigning chorus of cheers and yeah, I know that he left for more money and how would we feel and blah, blah, blah. But you put a player on my team, in the uniform of my guys, and he becomes my binky. And you BEST NOT boo him. Except for David Wells. Everyone can feel free to boo him. But listen up, St. Louis fans, Mr. Renteria did some damn good things for you. And you will show him the requisite amount of respect. If not, us Boston fans will take it upon our own selves to give you a little what for in the “best fans in baseball” department. Edgah is our muffin now and you best recognize. And DON’T EVEN try to play the Pedro card with me because yes, for those of you wondering, I would stand up and cheer for Pedro if he came back to pitch at Fenway this year. He did great things for us. So there. Hmph.

Anyway…aside from me getting all righteously indignant about the treatment of Edgah, there isn’t that much for me to say about last night’s game. It…sucked? That about sums it up. Succinct and to the point. 7-1 badness happened on the part of the Red Sox but aside from Tim Wakefield nearly taking off Papi’s head with an ill-advised pickoff move to first, it wasn’t terribly interesting badness. Varitek did get to tag out the Cardinals’ slow as molasses catcher, Bengie “I’m the one named after a dog in a children’s movie” Molina, and Tek tagging anyone out at the plate is always a welcome sign and usually prompts me to yell in the general direction of the screen, “You just try to run him over, bitches. That “C” might as well stand for “concrete.”’ But other than that? Le sigh.

Of course, it’s a bit hard to get too bent out of shape after losing a game like this when you realized that Timmy dearly, dearly needs his binky back (in the form of a one Mr. Mirabelli) and while I love Tek, his appearance behind the plate during a Wake game gives me unfortunate flashbacks to last October’s ALCS Game 5 or, what I like to call, “The Never Ending Passed Fucking Ball-a-Thon.” Yikes.

Also, the Yankees? Lost to Milwaukee. Yeah, the Brewers. Yeah, they still play baseball. On a barely professional level with about three fans in attendance but still, the Brewers. Their mascot, may I remind you, slides down a slide into a foamy mug of beer when a Brewers player hits a home run. Considering their historical status, I’m thinking they should amend it to whenever a Brewers player successfully turns a grounder to short into an out, but hey, they’re not my team. What they are is the team that beat the Yankees and Mr. Face Erosion, himself, Randy Johnson last night, giving him a record of 5-5 with an ERA over 4.00. As Amy said “Does that mean that Torre pulled his Johnson out on national TV?” Yeah, we’re five.

So tonight, we’re back at it, facing off against those very same red birds, hell bent on vengeance and fury. But, you know, in that ever-so-polite Midwestern fashion. It’s Neptune Nuts against Mr. Baserunning Error himself, Jeff Suppan. I think I speak for all Red Sox fans when I say we are not terribly upset that Jeff Suppan found work elsewhere. And to Matty I say: Emancipate!

Edit: It was Yadier Molina, not Bengie. Like I can keep the eight of them straight. Keerist.

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