*with apologies to Emma.
You know, when you think about it, the Orioles have served as a kind of Chicken Soup for the Red Sox Fan’s Soul. Especially after two rainouts and the growing belief that we, as a region, will never again see the sun. And if we do, we’ll likely start hissing at it and squinting and calling our local news stations to report a giant ball of flame in the sky. Either that or stripping naked and running down Beacon Street, awash in it’s unfamiliar glory.
Anyway, BASEBALL! I do feel for Orioles fans (this means you, Marianne), because it can’t be fun having a team come in and steamroll you like that twelve times in a row. And for serious? I still don’t quite believe this supposed domination we have over the Orioles. In fact, I remember very distinctly fearing them because they seemed to always give us fits. Isn’t it the Orioles that boasted sup-par pitchers when playing the rest of the league who inexplicably morphed into Cy Young winners when matched up against the Red Sox? I don’t think I’m making this up. But then, it’s possible, thinking, as I am, from the bottom of a fish tank formerly known as “Boston.”
It is delightful to see Wily Mo get his shit together, however. And I still maintain that one of these days, he’s going to unleash a rocket that’ll shatter some windows on the Prudential Center. In fact, on Friday I was praying for the umps to call the game not because I wanted to pull out a win (that was so not happening what with the “Oh crap, we, uh, we thought they were just gonna cancel it early. I don’t have my cleats. Or bat. Or uniform.” attitude the team seemed to have going), but because I was terrified that Wily Mo was gonna let loose with a monstrous swing, lose his grip on the rain-drenched bat and send it flying violently into the stands where it would wipe out an entire section. And you just know that somehow, Matty Clement would think this was his fault, thus reducing him to the blubbering mass of tears and snot that we’ve all been expecting for a while now. He’s fragile, people. It’s coming. I can feel it.
But back to last night’s game. And the fact that I’ve noticed that Mike Lowell’s attractiveness is directly proportional to his ability to come up with hits in key situations. It’s amazing, really. He strikes out and he’s just “Mike Lowell: Spokesman for Just for Men.” But he lines a triple, knocks a clutch double off the wall, or, as with last night, sends a home run outta there and suddenly, he’s George Clooney. Same goes for Mark Loretta. Dude gets caught stealing and he’s just your average amateur entomologist but he hits a walk off and we’re looking at Timothy Hutton in Beautiful Girls. Studies should be done on this phenomenon.
Right. So…baseball. Tonight we square off again against Los Orioles when we send Master Schilling to the hill to face off with Bruce Chen. Now, you know Schill ain’t havin’ it the way things went down last time so if I’m the Orioles, I’m looking for some Dirty Harry type business to be happening. And frankly, I’m a little scared.