Trot for Boston

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(all photos from Boston.com)

A visual dichotomy of the two sides of last night’s televised events:

This was fun and good times.

This was sadness and woe.

I know what I said yesterday but that second one is a bit jarring when it becomes real and not some crazy internet conspiracy. Anyway, moving on…

The game, as it were, was watched primarily at Boston Billiards where Katherine and I took down Sebastian and Marianne (later pinch hit for by Steve Brady), three games to one.

*blows on fingers*

Aside from the satisfaction of whipping a boy at a tangentially related athletic contest (though if you can do it while drinking beer – and we did – I’m not sure how “athletic” you can consider pool), Sebastian’s rage blackouts are always good times. Especially when it’s coupled by the Sox staging a walk-off.

I cannot, for the love of all things good and holy, figure out what the hell is wrong with Kevin Millar. I don’t mean his swing or his glove, I mean his head. Seriously, what the fuck is going on in there? Have you seen him? Can you explain to me why he looks like Hulk Hogan? Better yet, can you explain to me what he slipped into Curt’s drink to prompt him to take the same actions minus the truly horrific facial hair? It looks like he mugged Goldilocks and is wearing one of her severed braids on his face like some sort of bizarre trophy. Bagged another blonde, eh, Kevin? Seriously, the hell?

As for Curt, well, five earned runs against the D-Rays is not what one would call “acceptable.” Schilling hereby owes Trotter all the Wild Turkey and dancing girls he wants for the rest of the season.

Let’s talk about Trot for a minute. Let’s discuss how he is, without a doubt, one of the scariest players in Major League Baseball. And not in the Gary “If I weren’t playing baseball, I’d be breaking legs for the mob ’cause I fancy myself like Shaft” Sheffield kind of way. And not in the Vladimir “Oh dear god, do we really have to pitch to this guy, holy shit, we’re fucked” Guerrero kind of way. But I mean in the Trot “One time a guy was sitting next to me at Kentucky Fried Chicken and he was chewing his biscuit too loudly so I snapped and stabbed him in the jugular with a plastic spork” Nixon way. I’ve gotten the feeling that Trotter has a lot of pent up rage and I’ve taken to coaxing him, via the television, “vengeance and fury, Trot, vengeance and fury,” when he’s up. All I’m saying is he’s liable to go apeshit at any time, and I wouldn’t want to be the ball coming towards him in such a situation.

Oh, and I don’t know how many of y’all noticed but did we see that with two on and one out last night in the bottom of the ninth inning, Jason Varitek DID NOT swing and miss at the high fastballs? Did we see that? You’re all welcome. We had a talk, me and him. Well, I talked, he listened. If by “listened” I mean, “continued to go about his business in that magical box in my living room since I don’t actually KNOW HIM.” Nevertheless, I feel like we’re getting somewhere. He was likely afraid that I would make good on the threat that if he struck out on another high fastball which he has NEVER been able to hit, I was going to march myself down to that park, wait outside the player’s entrance and pinch him on the fleshy part of his underarm until he cried. I was also holding a pool cue in hand when I made this threat in the general direction of the TV. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to cross me either. But I feel good about this. I feel like we’re growing. We’re finally communicating.

Of course, Tek was also the catalyst for some angsty debates on the part of Sebastian and myself. See, and I don’t like to admit this because otherwise, he’s a lovely person, but Sebastian is a Yankees fan. And when he started ranting up and down that Varitek “phantom tagged” Toby Hall at the plate (a valid claim, it seems, upon replay), and that all the runs that followed were gift runs, I just stared at him.

Sebastian: You’re going to win on a botched call! Doesn’t that feel cheap?
Me: I’ll take it.
Sebastian: But it was a phantom tag! They should have another run!
Me: Really, Knoblauch, what’s that like? Tell me that story again.

Pot, meet kettle.

And finally, because by some weird twist of sanity and logic, I’ve gone this long without mentioning it, how hot is Bill Mueller lately? I don’t actually mean in the “Hello, Billy and thank you for wearing the tight home pants” way, though that’s nice, but I mean at the plate. I know he’s always been rather dialed in with runners in scoring position but he seems damn near automatic these days. It’s fun to watch. Last Sunday he hit a home run, a double and put in some Gold Glove defensive work in the field, an excellent all-around day. The day that forces you to pay attention to Bill Mueller. On a team with the likes of Schilling, Manny, Tizzle, and Damon, Buelly often gets overlooked. I’m sure he’s fine with that but I think he deserves a bit more recognition.

Tonight, it’s Wake vs. Casey Fossum, the man we traded for Schilling. For that, I’ll always have a bit of a soft spot for the guy. Not enough to actually want him to win, but more in an affectionate chuff under the chin sort of way. Thanks, Casey, for letting us bring in the big guns. Now, boys, after saying your hellos, kindly go out there and hit him like he owes you money.

Oh, and Bell-Watch ’05 goes like this: 0-for-4. Yanks lose. Excellent.

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