(photo from Boston.com)
The weird thing about Wednesday night’s game (yes, it’s Friday. I know I’m late. Many apologies), is that as I’m watching the first inning while puttering around my apartment, killing time online and just generally multi-tasking away, I thought things were getting completely out of hand. I thought Josh Beckett was biting the big one and I was nearly overcome with a desire to smack him upside his big, fat head. Seriously, the boy’s got a melon there. I might have called it a “clusterfuck” at one point. And then, you know, sense kicked in and I realized that 1-0 wasn’t exactly an insurmountable lead. Especially with a dude named “Kameron” with a “K” pitching for the other team. Especially when Trot got to him. Because, you see, Trotter was angry. And you do not make Trotter angry.
But it was one of those games that I didn’t really fully realize the sheer awesomeness of until it was over. At which point I went, “Wait, did Beckett go 7? Really? And was that Papelbon out there? Kicking ass and taking names? Where the shit is Foulke? Oh, right, Tito wanted to win this one and spare Foulke’s neighbors the smell of rotten eggs for another few days.”
I suppose I was just thrown off because Remy kept talking about how Beckett was shaking off Tek. Finally saying, “We have agreement on a fastball down and away.” Because you don’t shake off Tek. You just don’t do it. In baseball’s version of a Jim Croce song where you don’t spit into the wind or pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, I’m pretty sure there’s an extra verse that explains that you don’t pitch inside to Big Papi, you don’t leave Manny alone with airplane glue and you don’t shake off Tek. It’s just not done. Greater men than Josh Beckett have tried and greater men have failed. Tek knows best.
Jonathan Papelbon, Stud Pitcher Extraordinaire. Mark it down.
As for Schilling, dude looks like a kid on Christmas morning who realized that he’s just gotten the Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em robots that he wanted. Finally, after acquiring endless playmates for Manny and sidekicks for Ortiz, they’ve gone and gotten Schilling a playmate. This is gonna be fun.
So now we gear up for Sox/Orioles. Kevin Millar…you remember Millar, don’t you? He of the errant facial hair, ill-advised sartorial attempts at dressing up like Tom Brady and varying degrees of cowboy-ness, has promised to tackle Curt Schilling if Big Schill hits him with a pitch this weekend. I cannot possibly be alone in praying fervently for this to happen, can I? Of course, with Millar involved, you know he’d collapse into a fit of hysterical giggles halfway to the mound and have to be carted out on a stretcher after pulling a muscle from laughing too hard.
Oh, and looks like Pedro’s up to some hijinks of his own. Guillen/Martinez ’06 Blood Feud is rather interesting.