I shall expect the Governator and plagues of locusts forthwith.
Look, I thought it was amusing when Bronson Arroyo started hitting home runs. And I found it mildly entertaining when Youkilis was, you know, making plays at first like an honest-to-goodness first baseman.
But now Josh Beckett is hitting home runs and JT Snow is making errors while David Ortiz plays a flawless first and Mike Lowell is making opposing pitchers his bitch and Alex freakin’ Gonzalez, for cryin’ out loud feels he has any business hitting home runs and I don’t need to tell you people that I AM SCARED.
Like maybe last week’s rain was a precursor to what’s really coming. Like maybe that was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Like maybe, before we know it, Tek will start hitting grand slams with regularity, Manny will hustle from first to third with his head down and Lenny Dinardo won’t suck.
Well, some things will never change.
If Armageddon is indeed upon us, I’d say tonight around 7:05 when Big Schill faces off against the Yankees’ Wang is as good a time as any for it to begin. Drag those Hazmat suits out and duct tape the windows, it might get ugly in here.
Does anyone know if Raid works on locusts?
Now, this is only baseball-adjacent but I would be remiss if I did not share with you the sheer awesomeness of what Marianne and I witnessed on Friday night while tucking into burgers and beers at the Coolidge Corner Clubhouse and watching the Sox/Phillies and O’s/Nats games simultaneously.
As a side note, lemme tell you that watching the O’s game in the reflection of the partition between the bar and seating areas because you are too lazy to turn around makes for some mighty interesting viewing. Because reflections tend to reflect, you know, mirror images of things, I kept wondering why runners were taking off for third after making contact and why in the name of all that is holy was Kevin Millar playing third base? For real, it took me a good eight innings to figure this out.
Anyway, at one point, the Clubhouse decided to throw on some music and chose Journey’s seminal “Don’t Stop Believing.” This song will always be special to me because when Amy and I ran from her apartment in Brookline to Kenmore Square the night the Sox won the Series, I distinctly remember being passed by a Jeep full of people, hanging out the windows and screaming along to the song at the top of their lungs. So for me, it’s a Red Sox song. The extremely inebriated gentleman seated at the table behind us evidently agreed. Much head-banging ensued. Finger guns happened. Rock horns were thrown.
Now, for those of you who don’t know, Marianne is a “real” musician. She can read music and knows what the hell “cadence” is and takes endless delight in my American Idol fixation. She also knows the lyrics to only two songs ever written, Digital Underground’s “The Humpty Dance” and the oh-so-excellent “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard. So you can imagine her delight when Dude Behind Us starting belting out the lyrics to a Journey song in the middle of a sports bar. “STREETLIGHT PEOPLE!”
He then followed it up with some karaoke to Pearl Jam as we reasoned that Theo must be in the crowd somewhere.
And so, Dude Behind Us, we salute you. You definitely added to our baseball viewing experience. And also further proved my theory that the world would be a much better place if we could all just rock out to some power ballads now and then.