Making your own fun

(Lowell’s all smiles)

What can I say? I was prolific yesterday. Another NESN.com column detailing all the insane discussions you can have at the ballpark during a game in which the Sox are losing. I call it “making your own fun.”

Now, what to make of my belief that this team is very big on home repairs…

My two cents

Surprise, surprise, I had something to say.

NESN.com has my take.

Mike Lowell is only one man!

(Photo by Chrissy)

Seriously, you guys. Mike Lowell can’t do everything himself. He’ll try, sure, because that’s just the kind of guy he is. But he can’t possibly be expected to take care of everything from RBIs to pitching all by himself. I mean, he has to save some time for proper facial hair care maintenance and upkeep after all. It’s a daunting task.

And he’ll do what he can to inspire, but I suspect that even Mike Lowell thinks maybe Brad Penny’s sort of a lost cause at this point. Look, I thought it was going to rain last night too, Bradley, but I still showed up ready to play. It would have been nice if you’d done the same, sir. We’re getting kind of thin on options around these parts and I’d appreciate it if you’d not start the game on the first pitch by putting the Sox in the hole. At least wait until the second pitch. I mean, seriously.

However, may I reiterate how nice it is to attend a Red Sox game and not have to worry about the specter of Julio Lugo ever, ever again? At one point I said to Chrissy, “So I have this theory that no one on the team really liked Lugo. And you know how infielders always turn around and motion to the outfielders and tell them how many outs there are?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Well I always wondered if like Jacoby or Jason Bay nodded but in their head they were all ‘I know how many outs there are, Julio. I’m paying attention. Gosh.'”

“But Jed Lowrie tells them how many outs there are too,” she said.

“True,” I answered, “But everyone likes Jed Lowrie. He just wants to help.”

“I see your point,” she said.

And…yeah, the fact that Lugo isn’t on the team anymore is pretty much the best thing that happened at the game last night. What does that tell you?

(A more in-depth recap of the game, er, sort of, in tomorrow’s NESN post. Link to follow.)

Jim Rice is most displeased

(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

Yes, Nick Green, I’m perplexed too. Apparently not a one of you know how to follow directions. Those directions being “win baseball games” not, as has apparently been understood “lose baseball games on late-inning comebacks by the other team in particularly soul-crushing fashion because you feel like sticking it to Hall of Fame inductee Jim Rice because you’re not fond of the loud pocket squares he wears on NESN.” Or whyever it was that you lost.

I guess from now on we’re going to have to start putting notes on everyone’s gloves, cheat sheet style. “Catch ball.” “Throw ball.” “Hit ball.” “Do not lose.”

Honestly, boys, baseball is not a complicated game. There are only so many fundamentals to remember. I thought we were past this?

So tonight, tonight you’re going to win, correct? Because I have the sweet seats and I am tired. Extremely tired and creaky from all the mountain hiking and marathon training I’ve been doing and I would like very much if an evening in the cramped Fenway seats ended with a win for my troubles. Wouldn’t that be nice? I don’t feel like trekking all the way to the ballpark to watch you blow another one, boys. There are certainly better uses of my time. So straighten up and fly right. And perhaps you could tell me at what point I turned into my crotchety grandfather.

And also, you kids get off my lawn!

Now was that so hard?

(Photo from Boston.com)

This is what I’m talking about. This is what I mean. Timely hitting. Good pitching. Defense when it’s needed. That’s some good baseball right there. Fundamentals! Who knew? Apparently all it took was me undergoing some penance by sleeping two nights in a sweaty and campfire-scented Mitsubishi Galant because Mother Nature decided to be a right bitch and rain out my camping trip this past weekend. Why it wasn’t necessary for, oh, say John Smoltz or Jason Varitek to cram themselves into a late model foreign car while using baked beans as a pillow is beyond me but if that’s what it takes…I do it all for you, boys.

Now, can we assume that losing nonsense is behind us? I do so enjoy the winning. I’m really like to continue that for a while. Most especially on Wednesday as I’ve been gifted some incredibly stellar third base line seats and would really enjoy watching a victory unfold from that vantage point. Also, I mean, it’ll be much easier for me to corral Chrissy and keep her from charging the field to attack Mike Lowell if I’m enjoying a victory in the making and not fretting about a potential loss or a further drop in the standings. I’m just saying. Don’t you want me to relax, Red Sox? My neck is still wonky from the car’s headrest and I think you owe it to me.

And yes, I understand there’s quite a leap in logic necessary for me to assume my uncomfortable camping situation had anything to do with the Red Sox fortunes but you know what? We don’t do rational around these parts. It’s not our way.

But Josh Beckett can’t do it all himself, guys. Despite the fact that I’m sure he’d claim otherwise and take the mound in head to toe camo gear with a bowie knife in his teeth, he really can’t pitch every day. That means someone’s going to have to step up in the in between times. How about you, Clay? Why don’t you start it off tonight. Remember that time you pitched a no-hitter? Yeah, me too. How about you bring some of that magic back? I’d really appreciate not being made to sleep in a car again to keep you all in your winning ways. The things I do for this team, honestly…

A strongly-worded letter

New NESN.com post up proving that sometimes you make your point better in writing using big words and thinly-veiled threats.

Off to the woods of New Hampshire for some camping this weekend. Here’s hoping I don’t get eaten by bears. Keep an eye on things for me, will you?

At laaaaaaaaaast

I feel as though Etta James should be singing right now. Yes, that’s correct. According to our good friends at NESN, Julio Lugo has been designated for assignment meaning that the Sox have ten days to either trade or release him. That’s right, our long national nightmare is over.

Since his signing Lugo has been the bane of my existence, fandom-wise and while I certainly don’t take responsibility for his demotion, it doesn’t mean I won’t delight in it. I’d say we have the dedication and support of readers like you to thank. Perhaps I’m being too hard on the guy but I swear, the phrase “past a diving Lugo” would kill me were it employed in drinking game shenanigans. Plus there’s the whole penchant for grounding into double plays.

There was one time I remember specifically because my parents and a few friends were driving back from a Portland Sea Dogs game where we’d watched Theo Epstein scout Clay Buchholz and we were listening to the late innings of the Red Sox game on the radio. Lugo came up in a crucial situation and I swear I could FEEL that he was going to fuck it up. And, predictably, he did. I yelled “GodDAMMIT, Lugo!” really loudly at the radio, waking my mom who was dozing in the passenger’s seat. Her scream and subsequent attempt to smack me nearly made my dad careen off the road. My point being, Julio Lugo is clearly a menace to society and my continued well-being and I’m glad that particular chapter in our lives is over.

That said, pretty soon NO ONE is going to want to play shortstop in this town. Maybe the position is cursed?

I’ll leave that to you to ponder as we all embark on this lovely, Lugo-less weekend.

Seven Signs of Summer

(Photo from Boston.com)

You guys? Jed Lowrie just wants to help. Lookit how anxious he is!

New NESN.com post in which I detail all the things we have to look forward to in the second half of the season including but not limited to Jonathan Papelbon’s complete break with reality and Dustin Pedroia’s bicycle chain necklace. Enjoy!

America’s very rapid pastime

(Photo from NYTimes.com)

I don’t know about you, but I’m so used to All-Star games lasting many, many moons or going into extra innings or involving some creative bullpen management using airplane glue and smelling salts that a short game, clocking in at just over two hours and twenty minutes felt very odd to me. Seemed President Obama threw out the ceremonial first pitch and twenty minutes later, we were handing the MVP trophy to Carl Crawford.

Of course, the rapid pace of the game didn’t stop me from falling asleep during the later innings due to fatigue and what was, if we’re being honest, not a terribly exciting game. And since Fox was playing what sounded to me like the Jurassic Park theme music every time they cut to or back from commercial, it lead to some interesting half dreams on my part. HJ would tell you I’m prone to babbling complete nonsense in my sleep (seriously, he could tell you stories). And apparently last night was no different. Falling asleep on the couch, I believe I told him that I figured out how dinosaurs died out. It had nothing to do with meteors or ice ages but rather that they’d taken to grazing in the outfield at Major League Baseball stadiums and but since the professional groundskeepers were so good at their jobs, the grass wasn’t long enough to sustain the dinosaurs so they died out.

I believe I then declared that I had solved the mystery of the dinosaur’s extinction and therefore, science could focus on more important things now like those flying cars and robot maids we were all supposed to have by now.

Seriously. I said all of that.

Which leads me to believe that the All-Star game happening in my head may, in fact, have been slightly more interesting than the one that went down in St. Louis. Aside from Albert Pujols’ embarassing error in the first inning in front of his worshipping home town fans and Carl Crawford’s bacon-saving catch to keep Jonathan Papelbon from getting all cocky, it was mostly excellent ballplayers doing what excellent ballplayers do best. Except for hitting home runs. That didn’t so much happen.

And no matter what you may think of them personally, it was a little weird to have an All-Star game without Alex Rodriguez or David Ortiz or Manny Ramirez. It just felt somehow incomplete. Also, whither Tim Wakefield? I know that he was likely only going to get into the game if it went into extras or if something untoward was happening with the American League but I still really wanted to see Wake pitch. Maybe next year. Maybe he’s only getting better.

Despite the relative snooze-fest of the game, I did enjoy President Obama in the booth which added some much needed, you know, competence to the idiocy that usually goes on between Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. And though I don’t love the White Sox personally and I think Ozzie Guillen is a complete and total mad man, I appreciate the fact that Obama doesn’t pander to the electorate with a generic “Baseball” jersey or a jacket depicting a giant American flag or eagle or some such. The man is a fan of his team and I respect that. I mean, he flat out said that he doesn’t root for the Cubs. That takes some stones. That’s why he’s President. Honestly, I wish he could have stuck around a bit longer – as did Joe Buck as he practically begged him not to leave him alone with McCarver – but I suspect Rahm Emanuel was standing in the corner motioning for him to wrap it up because he was concerned about what prolonged exposure to the idiocy of Tim McCarver would do to the leader of the free world. The man has problems to solve.

Like that dinosaur thing. Someone should get on that.

Insert royalty-themed headline here

(Photo from Yahoo! Sports)

It’s getting to the point where I honestly think the best part of the Home Run Derby is the fact that the camera frequently focuses on the kids of all the players running around on what I can only assume is a Mountain Dew high and acting like, well, like kids. Particularly adorable last night was Prince Fielder’s kid who just kept running around willy nilly and falling down for no apparent reason other than the fact that he’s, you know, a small child and probably got into Jonathan Papelbon’s Pixi-Stix stash sometime before the Derby commenced.

That said, I’m pretty sure ESPN and Major League Baseball as a whole are glad that professional baseball players often produce photogenic and hilarious children (D’Angelo Ortiz obviously being the most adorable in recent memory) as they’re occasionally stuck with the task of having to promote Nelson Cruz (who?) in the Home Run Derby. And since no one outside of Josh Hamilton is aware of the existence of Nelson Cruz, well…back to the cute kids running around in the grass it is.

All in all, it was a fairly nondescript Home Run Derby. I mean, good for Prince Fielder and all but it wasn’t terribly high on drama. Exciting though hearing about Fielder’s vegetarianism is, drama runs a little low now that he’s reportedly reconciled with his famous father and Joe Morgan was relegated to talking about…I don’t know. I try not to listen to Joe Morgan. I figure I’ll live longer that way.

I mean, Nelson Cruz? This wasn’t even like last year where the announcers could rehash the Josh Hamilton Redemption Story over and over again and take side bets with each other over how many times they could shoehorn the word “crackhead” into the broadcast without getting slapped with an FCC fine. (Turns out, a whole lot.)

But here’s a question I have: Since Carlos Pena replaced Dustin Pedroia in the All-Star Game due to Pedroia wanting to be with his pregnant wife Kelli who is undergoing labor complications, did Pena also replace Petey in the Home Run Derby? What I mean is, did the world miss out on Dustin Pedroia trying to jack home runs over the St. Louis arch while corkscrewing himself into the ground? Because that? Would have been AMAZING. And we are all the poorer for having to miss it. Let’s just see what we can do to make sure this happens next year in Anaheim, no? The world needs to see this. Also, if tradition holds, there will be a wee Pedroia roaming around the infield during such an event (yes, I’m aware that 1-year-olds don’t so much “roam” as they do “scoot and drool” but allow me this moment of poetic license), and the TV cameras will have something adorable to focus on when someone like Jason Bartlett wins the Home Run Derby.