The Wayback Machine

In the absence of any ideas of my own, I figure why not steal ideas from some other (more creative) bloggers?

Yesterday red turned back the clock to the painful aftermath of the 2003 ALCS. This is what I had to say on October 17th, 2003. It's strangely optimistic (in a twisted way) considering the violent maelstrom of emotions I was experiencing that day.

beth also dialed up the wayback machine, offering a retrospective look at her highlights of the 2004 season. When it comes to writing about baseball I'm not nearly as prolific a writer as beth, but here are a few of my own highlights from blogging the 2004 Red Sox.

This year's baseball odyssey began in April, with a trio of posts about a trip to Baltimore to see the Red Sox opening series of the season. My 'New Year's Day' of 2003 and my first look at Schilling and Foulke.

In June I honored the occasion of a Red Sox trip to the Bronx with a post on my favorite baseball nicknames. Later that month I called for the head of Terry Francona. I feel retarded just typing those words.

There was more gloom and doom in July. I did proclaim some signs of life, so I don't look like a total idiot, but I still wasn't happy about the Orioles owning the Red Sox.

I opened the month of August by hurling more abuse at Francona, which I am heartily sorry for; I also directed some calumny in the direction of Dale Sveum, for which I am not sorry. Still, despite my pessimism I did announce eternal allegiance to the Red Sox, and mere days later I am feeling guardedly optimistic. By the time August draws to a close, I am giddy and calling for a sweep of the Tigers.

September- the homestretch. I am happy. I am reveling in the Red Sox winning streak and calling for the Yankees in the post-season. I am channeling Steven Seagal. I think I may have levitated. September 28th - the Red Sox clinch the wild card and I speculate on whether the End Times are here.

You know the rest.

Bliss

Did I say was done? Well I lied. I'm mostly done. Two last items of business:

1) I picked my number 38 jersey up off the floor this morning and took a good long look at it. It's filthy, stains everywhere. And I thought to myself I don't recall rolling around in the dirt as part of last night's celebration.

But whatever. It's all good today.

2) If the fates ever decree that I marry, the date is absolutely going to be October 27th.

Yes, I'm serious. No, I will not be persuaded otherwise. Yes, I realize I've gone completely around the bend.

Day of Days

"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters."
-Gary Sheffield on the 2004 World Champion Red Sox

Yeah I know, I've posted the Sheffield quote before. But that shit doesn't get old, does it? Hell no: It just. Gets. Better. I just might make that quote part of the banner for this joint. Anyhoo, drive on through Mr. Sheffield. Drive on through.

Meanwhile, A-Rod is haunted.

So... um... yeah, last night the Red Sox won the World Series for the first time in 86 years. Stay with me best you can people, while I unload my discombobulated thoughts in a scattered fashion.

That eight game winning streak? Longest in post-season history baby. Dig it.

Could the Red Sox have dominated the Cardinals any further? I mean short of dragging La Russa into the dugout for a chain whipping and then tossing his naked, bruised and bleeding body onto the field?

Class. There's been a lot of noise about 'class.' As in the Yankees have it, the Red Sox don't and blah blah blah. You know who really has class? The St. Louis Cardinals. In the 7th inning the Cardinals organization opened the gates to the stadium so Sox fans could be there for the final outs. A truly gracious gesture.

I had a staring contest with a newspaper box this morning. I pulled up in front of Dunkies, stepped out of my car... and there it was: the Boston Globe Victory Edition. I looked at it for some looong seconds. Then I stepped a couple of paces to my left and studied it from that angle. Yup, still there. Still reads Victory Edition. I aproached the newspaper box - almost like I was sneaking up on it (will it vanish if I get too close?) - dropped my quarters in and grabbed a copy. Then I did a little leaping skipping thing and giggled like a five-year old.

There were literally hundreds upon hundreds of articles about the Red Sox published today. This is one of my favorites, perhaps the favorite. It's about the about the redemption of Johnny Pesky. Johnny Pesky who was unfairly made the goat of the Red Sox 1946 World Series loss to the Cardinals. (Evidently sportswriters of the 1940s were capable of being every bit as vicious and stupid as their modern day descendants). Johnny Pesky who has spent a life time working for the Red Sox organization. I love the fact that this team, the now historical 2004 Red Sox, have included Mr. Pesky in their celebrations:

Boston first baseman Kevin Millar pushed his way through the crowd to hug Pesky and whispered "Thank you" into his ear. Big David Ortiz hugged him and handed him the gleaming World Series trophy to hold, an award more precious than if it were made of real gold. "This is for you, baby!'' Ortiz shouted to Pesky. "Enjoy yourself.''


And then Johnny Damon was there, too, and Curt Schilling, and who knows who else until suddenly Pesky was the oldest man to ever find himself in the middle of a mosh pit. Schilling poured a bottle of beer over Pesky's head, cupped his wrinkled face in his two meaty hands and kissed the 85-year-old right on the lips. "I couldn't let the year go by without doing this,'' he said.

Too bad Teddy Ballgame wasn't there to see it. I assume he was in Baseball Heaven laying a beating on the Babe's ass.

Over the next few weeks I will be eagerly - nay feverishly - scanning every incoming copy of The New Yorker for Roger Angell's article on this series. Cannot wait. But here's one of my other favorite baseball writers, Tom Boswell:

The scene was not at all what some pundits have predicted. This week, many stuffy voices have already said that Red Sox Nation, with a World Series crown on its collective head, will suddenly be disoriented and suffer an identity crisis.

What will fans of the Red Sox do if they cannot recite, chapter and verse, the catechism of woe that has been befallen them and their forbearers? How boring for Red Sox fans to be just another franchise with no uniqueness, no aura of mythology.

These skeptics are, no doubt, the same clods that wonder how Washingtonians will cope with getting the Expos after 33 years without a major league team. What will we do without our angst-ridden identity as baseball lovers who're denied a team?

The answer, of course, is the same for both groups of the longtime baseball disenfranchised. After a certain necessary period of numbness and disbelief subsides, both will gradually become very, very happy and have a parade. Coping will be blissfully simple after that brief adjustment. And, every spring, Boston fans will be delighted not to answer questions about 1918, just as Washington fans will be pleased not to hear, "Will you ever get a team?"

I have a pair of tickets to see Richard Thompson tonight. Anyone want 'em? The mix of adrenaline and anxiety that fueled my past few weeks is gone; now I am very tired and very happy. I just don't see myself going out tonight. I need to sleep. To relax. I'll eat the tickets if need be. Totally worth it.

Saturday presents me with a dilemma: parade or pub crawl? Oh such painful choices.

On second thought, I should have such dilemmas every weekend.

No one will be surprised if I say this has been the best baseball season of my life. The one image that sticks in my mind - will always stick in my mind - is Curt, Bronson and D-Lowe doing the O.K. Corral walk across the field to the bullpen in Game 5 of the ALCS. Somebody please tell me where to fin, or simply send to me, a picture of this. There has to be one, right?

No, this hasn't been a very personal or emotional post. I'm still savoring all those feelings - to be honest I don't want to let them go, which is what writing them down would feel like to me. Maybe I'll never write of last night in detail. I don't know, I'm still processing.

But beth has a pair of kick-ass posts up, one thankful and one very funny.

When can I get the DVD of this post-season? How about tomorrow? That works for me.

Time to wrap this one up. One last thing though - how fucking cool was it to see Wake holding the trophy?

I Feel So Good

I feel so good I'm going to break somebody's heart tonight.
I feel so good I'm going to take someone apart tonight.
They put me in jail for my deviant ways,
Two years, seven months, and sixteen days.
Now I'm back on the street in a purple haze,
And I feel so good,
I feel so good.

I feel so good I'm going to break somebody's heart tonight.
I feel so good I'm going to make somebody's day tonight.
I feel so good I'm going to make somebody pay tonight.
I'm old enough to sin, but I'm too young to vote.
Society been dragging on the tail of my coat,
But I've got a suitcase full of fifty-pound notes.
And a half-naked woman with her tongue down my throat
They've made me pay for the things I've done.
Now it's my turn to have all the fun
I feel so good I'm going to break somebody's heart tonight.

Movement to Contact

The Bunny is moving into position. I will be doing likewise shortly. Red Sox Nation prepares. And waits. And hopes.

Hey Ho, Let's Go!

Baseball on my Mind

I'm listening to Richard Thompson covering a Britney Spears song and contemplating the Red Sox in the World Series with a 3-0 lead.

Strange days, my friends, strange days. I'm having a wee bit of trouble concentrating; my thoughts ricochet from one subject to another like a stone skipping across water. My head's a zig zaggy muddle and likely this post will just as off kilter. But I don't care. I got my wish.

Speaking of music, ESPN.com's Page 3 has a listing of the at-bat songs for the Red Sox. Start your CD burners ladie and gents. Big Papi likes Jump Around. Dig it.

The Sons of Sam Horn Win It For thread continues to grow. It's garnered attention across the internet and even, I believe, in the main stream press. Take a look but beware - as I warned previously some of the posts are heart-wrenching:

Win it for my brother, Johnny, who left Boston in 1944 for the South Pacific, a Red Sox hat adorning his head. He was a nineteen year old kid who loved five things - his country, his family, the Red Sox, Fenway Park, and Ted Williams. He lost his life at a hellhole called Okinawa.

There hasn't been a single day that hasn't gone by when I don't think of him.

This one's for you, JB.

I have my own 'win it for' wishes. I'm just keeping them close. For now.

I really enjoyed this article in the Boston Globe which should've been titled The Education of Bronson Arroyo:

He is surrounded by veteran pitchers who have been here before, and he has tried to learn something from each of them. They have embraced him because he is young and eager and interested in the way they go about their job.

Curt Schilling is his conscience, reviewing each little slip-up, and offering solutions for the next time. Pedro, alternately brilliant and brooding, studies his lanky teammate, says nothing for days, then drops a pearl of wisdom in his cap. Tim Wakefield, everybody's friend, encourages Arroyo regardless of the outcome. Derek Lowe, who has become Arroyo's closest friend on the team, is the one who vents and allows Arroyo to vent in return.

The young pitcher marvels at them all. He is respectful of their space -- he rarely approaches Martinez, for instance -- but is also delighted when they release some of their stress behind the closed doors of the clubhouse.

"Pedro does so many crazy things," Arroyo said. "Some days, you don't even know he's there, but then the next day he's running around the clubhouse naked, screaming at everyone.

"Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that guy is the same guy who goes out on the mound and has a look in his eyes like a killer."

Curt Schilling bitchslapping the media isn't exactly news to anyone around here who's heard 'Curt in a Car' tearing a piece off of some talk show dolt. Boston Dirt Dogs has an interview in which Schill goes national and lays the smack down on the likes of Laura Vecsey (Baltimore Sun) and John Heyman (New York Newsday). Some choice quotes:

BDD:Any reply to Ms. Vecsey on the spirit of her piece?

CS: "Other than she's a bad person? No. There are a lot of her in that industry, Pedro Gomez, Joel Heyman, to name a few. People with so little skill in their profession that they need to speculate, make up, fabricate, to write something interesting enough to be printed. What makes them bad people? I am sure I cannot nail the exact reason, but I know some."

"Jealousy, bitterness, the need to be "different", I am sure there are others, but those are the ones I know off hand. There are so many ironies to these people and what they do. An athlete is quiet like Matt Williams, he's an SOB and a horrible guy (which he wasn't) for not talking to the press. An athlete answers the media's questions in yes/no format, he's dull, he's a cliche-spewing idiot. An athlete answers the media's questions with what he believes, right or wrong, he's a media whore. It's pretty much a no win, especially in markets like Boston and NY, where the sheer volume of media means there is gonna be some crap written every single day."

Check out Keys to the Game. It's funny and fun, and this should all be fun right? Even if some people feel the need to point out that I act a little 'on edge' during games, that I pace too much and my face changes color, I assure you I'm having fun.

Really. My definition of 'fun' has simply had to become a little more... elastic of late.

And now Richard Thompson is covering the Beatles' It Won't Be Long. Dig it.

All Eyes On Petey

Tonight Pedro Martinez takes the mound in St. Louis, looking for a bit of redemption and the chance to grab some post-season glory. For the past week the baseball buzz has been all about Curt Schilling - and rightly so. But now it's time for Petey to step up.

The man who is arguably the greatest of all Red Sox pitchers is making his first ever World Series start. It should have come sooner, perhaps would've have come sooner, had he spent more time in a rotation with men named Schilling and less time with men named Rapp or Portugal. What may be his last start under the scarlet 'B' comes when he is past his prime:

Pedro is no longer the Pedro of legend. His athletic mortality has been clear during the 20 innings he has pitched in the 2004 playoffs. The Pedro of legend would not have given up 20 hits and 12 earned runs in those 20 innings, and he surely would not have walked 11 batters. As a starter, he has a win, a loss, and a no-decision, and he also had that curious inning of work in Yankee Game 7, a 20-pitch effort that arched eyebrows around the globe (no exaggeration).

Right now the Big Question (besides 'will Schilling be available for a Game Six?') is: how will Pedro perform tonight? Will he be the Petey who displayed his gunslinger strut to great effect during his last start in Oakland? The Petey who struggled during his last outings of the regular season? The Pedro who turned in workmanlike but unremarkable starts against the Yankees? To quote Ryan again:

The relevant time frame is the present, and the relevant question is, just what can management, his manager, his teammates, the media, and the entirety of Red Sox Nation expect from the 2004 autumn Pedro Martinez, who has won just once in his last seven starts?

I'll save the prognostication to those better equipped to make such predictions and simply tell what I want, what I hope for.

I want one last display of vintage Petey. I want the cold-eyed stare and the gunslinger strut. I want him to carve up the Cardinals' lineup and leave raggedy pieces of Redbird hitters strewn about the batter's box.

There is no logical reason for me to expect such an encore. Red Sox fans have already been treated to two pitching miracles; a third would beggar belief. And yet, the first truly awe-inspiring mind-blowing up-on-your-feet-and-screaming pitching miracle I ever watched was delivered by Pedro, not Curt. Yes, I'm talking about Game Five of the 1999 ALDS against the Cleveland Indians.

And no, I'm not interested in weighing the two experiences, 1999 and 2004, against one another. They are apples and oranges: different teams, different pitchers and different styles. Schilling's' match-ups against the Yankees and Cardinals seemed as much about will as skill. There wasn't a lot of finesse - watching Curt on the mound I got the impression that if need be he'd grab his opponents by the neck and shove a loss down their throats. Watching Pedro on October 11, 1999 was otherworldly. Injured in Game One (back strain) he strolled to the mound in the 4th and pitched six innings of no-hit ball, striking out eight - all in the same matter-of-fact manner you or I might use in dialing up a pizza.

I don't expect to see that level of greatness tonight. I've no doubt his spirit is willing and his pride wishes it to be, but that his body is no longer able to perform at that superhuman level. My heads tells me to expect another 6-7 innings with 3-4 runs given up. My heart? My heart wishes for a swan song worthy of someone who gave the fans so many memorable games. If not greatness, then an echo of greatness fading away.

Oops, almost forgot. If tonight's game should be rained out and you need a baseball fix; if for some reason you missed 1999 the first time around, you find it here in MLB.Com's Baseball's Best.

One Afternoon at Fenway

First view of the 2004 American League Pennant: gratifying.

One 'You're History Babe' Pin: Free.
One Red Sox T-shirt (green with red shamrock): $20.00
One Red Sox floppy hat (blue with red 'B'): $20.00
Sum total for Keeping the Faith: 34 years and counting.

Seeing the Timlinator arrive for Game Two of the 2004 World Series, wearing an all-black suit and his desert-scheme camouflage baseball hat: priceless.

Old School Series

The St. Louis Cardinals are coming to Boston. I've read reports that the team is staying somewhere in the suburbs at an 'undisclosed' location. In 1967 the visiting Cardinals stayed in Quincy - so who knows, maybe they're holed up at the Adams Inn (yeah right) or the Marriot.

In other news, I'm too tired and wrung out to post coherently. I need to get ready because come Saturday, it's into the breach once more.

A friend emailed the following suggestion for 2004 Red Sox team motto:

Too Dumb To Lose
Too Weird To Care

I kind of like it. Go Sox.

Update

Ha! The Cards are staying in Quincy. I knew I sensed a disturbance in the Force.

The Plan

The Bunny (OC Southern Brigade, Red Sox Nation) reports in:

We the people (that is, the Annapolis chapter of Red Sox Nation), made a valiant effort to help break the c-word. At Harry Browne's there was an auction last night of Sox/Ball Lickers memorabilia. The only thing we could afford was a baseball signed by Don Zimmer.

Our plan was simple; bid on the ball, win it, take it out on the street during the seventh inning stretch, burn it, and urinate on it to put out the charred remains. (Boy, beer does that to you, huh?)

Get those plane tickets and hurry home bro. This weekend at Fenway - World Fuckin' Serious.

Prayers Were Answered

The Baseball Jesus heard.

Warning: link may induce tears.

Mama Said Knock You Out

Don't call it a comeback
I've been here for years
I'm rocking my peers
Puttin' suckers in fear
Makin' the tears rain down like a monsoon
Listen to the bass go boom
Explosions, overpowerin'
Over the competition I'm towerin'
-LL Cool J

"They're a walking disaster. They act like they're tough, how they care so much about winning, but it's all a front. They're just a bunch of characters."
-Gary Sheffield

Well the impossible did follow the improbable. Let's play another.

Three. More. Hours.

This been the longest day of my life.

I lay down. I lay down and wait like an animal.

And the Bunny explains some lessons learned.

Hair of the Dog

Heart-breaker, soul-shaker, I've been told about you.
Steam-roller, the midnight shoulder,
What they been sayin' must be true.

Red hot mama, oh that charmer,
Time's come to pay your dues.

Now you're messin' with a a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.

Talking jive and poison ivy, you ain't gonna cling to me.
Minute-taker, fall-faker, I ain't so blind I can't see.

Now you're messin' with a a son of a bitch,
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch.

The hair of the dog that bit them in game one i.e. Schilling's troubled ankle, was just what the Red Sox needed last night. All of Red Sox Nation is agog over Curt's gutsy performance last night.

Admit it though, you were worried before the start of the game. And then when Schilling stepped to the mound minus 'the magic boot' and with blood seeping through his sock, neither you or I knew what to expect. What we got was a live demonstration of Hemingway's definition of courage - grace under pressure. Even Shank was impressed:

The big righty sent a message to all of the Yankees in the first inning. With one out and nobody aboard, Schilling threw a pitch that zipped past the handsome head of Alex Rodriguez, subject of so much offseason haggling involving these ancient rivals. It was a two-seamer telegram. There would be no 19 runs, no 22 hits for the Yankees in this game. No more swinging from the heels without fear of consequence. New sheriff on the mound. All that.

'All that' was an eleven-pitch nine-strike first inning, pushing off an ankle that was basically nailed to the rest of his leg, that sent our hopes soaring. And then kept them aloft through seven innings. And now we get to play a game seven.

These are indeed the End Times my friends. Last night's broadcast repeatedly showed some simple old fool dancing about Yankee Stadium dressed as Babe Ruth's ghost, but some of us are beginning to see a higher power at work here: The Baseball Jesus. How else could the Red Sox have become the first team ever to force a game seven after being tagged and bagged, down 3-0? How else do you explain the Red Sox getting the correct call on not one, but two controversial plays? (The Ghost of Offerman's phantom tag rests in peace now.)Evangelical Christians await The Rapture, when the just take a magical escalator direct to Heaven while the heathens remain behind and suffer under the Beast. Red Sox Nation is hoping for their own Rapture, when the just and long-suffering ascend to that mystical plane where the Yankees go down to defeat.

Some Random Bits From Last Night...

Mark Bellhorn. After grounded into the double play last night I was immediately on the phone to the Bunny, screaming about him being poison at the plate. After he homered to left, my phone rang and it was the Bunny:
"I think you owe Mr. Bellhorn an apology."
Indeed I do. Sorry, Mr. Bellhorn. Beers are on me.

One way to deal with FOX's awful commentary is to drown it out with music. We played the juke box all through the game last night and it was sweet sweet relief. Why listen to McCarver's idiocy when you can have the Ramones instead? Remember to bring your quarters tonight.

Boston.com is asking what's your superstition? Mine are as follows:

Dress properly. Blue baseball hat (with the pair of Red Socks logo on the front and a smaller red 'B' on the back) combined with the Curt Schilling home jersey. Which incidentally cannot be washed until the post-season is over and is therefore rapidly accumulating stains. My favorite is the mustard stain, acquired in the bleachers at the Sox Yankees game in September.

Hopping and capering about can only help your team. Extra mojo points for frantic arm waving.

The appearance of Posada on the screen must be greeted with a stream of invective. When he does his stepping out of the batter's box routine, continue invective but switch to Spanish invective.

Being bored is not allowed. Hey ho, Let's Go!

Stupid Idiot Guy

The impossible may be following on the heels of the improbable, and nothing surprises us any more. Nothing. Records are broken nightly and superlatives lose their meaning in the face of the astounding events we watch unfold on the field.

Last night, for the first and possibly last time, I watched a Red Sox post-season game secure in the confidence that Boston would win. I don't know why; I cannot claim any special knowledge, insight or forethought and I doubt I will feel that way in Game 6. But for Game 5 my only concern was that the Yankees would take a big lead early; once that fear proved groundless and the game sailed on (and on and on and on) into extra innings I never doubted. Magnum P.E.I. and I laughed and joked through whole game, mocking McCarver non-stop and berating fans who lacked faith. Watching the umpire blew the call on Ortiz's checked swing, a young lady yelled at the TV 'you stupid idiot guy!' Soon, everyone there in the local was referring to the umpires, the announcers and the Yankees as 'stupid idiot guy!' When Ortiz drove in the winning run, I hopped and clapped like a five year old, hugged total strangers, and generally made a ruckus.

How beautiful was Wakefield's part in all this? In viewing any kind of competitive spectacle there two cliches I'm a sure sucker for: the kid, the rookie, trying to bring his game to a new level; and the old-timer, the grizzled veteran taking care of business with quiet competence. Wake certainly fits the second cliche. He is the Red Sox elder statesman, a self-effacing man who in long years of service has done everything the team has asked of him and filled just about every role a pitcher conceivably could. Somewhere in an alternate reality he is the 2003 ALCS MVP and he, of all people, deserved a chance to play some more baseball this year. The Boston bullpen went eight scoreless innings - Wake pitched three of them, including a dangerous tour through the hear of the Yankee's lineup. His knuckler was just obscene, befuddling Yankee hitters and Jason Varitek.

Now I'm torn between wanting more baseball tonight and praying for a rain-out. If the Schilling gamble goes south I'd be a lot happier if there were at least some (partially) rested arms available for relief. On other hand, I don't want to let up, especially on the great Mariano Rivera. With all those innings worked and pitches thrown - and two blown saves (Inconceivable! Never go in against Rivera when a ring is on the line!) I've never seen him look more human, more vulnerable. I don't want to give him a chance to recover.

Hey Ho, Let's Go!

Odyssey

To say I was upset after Saturday night's game would be a gross understatement. I was pacing about Heather's living room, ranting about swearing off the Red Sox because why waste my time? Think of what I could accomplish if I took the 300 odd hours a year spent watching the Red Sox and did something else. Anything else. I didn't even bother watching the whole game.

Needless to say, I was at the game early last night - but it wasn't easy to get there. I woke up not wanting to go; the thought of witnessing the culmination of a Yankee sweep at Fenway was almost too much. However, as the day wore on I let go of my anger and despondency and entered into an oddly tranquil statement. Fuck it, I thought, whatever happens, happens. Just enjoy being at the ball park one more time this year.

And so I did. Coming up out of the tunnel from the Kenmore Square T-Station I was happy to be there. I did game day things: some beers at the Cask n' Flagon, sausage from the Sausage King, more beers and banter on Yawkey way. I mourned the end of the 2004 Red Sox season by soaking up the last few hours of it, in preparation for the coming dark of winter.

As you all know by now, I was a little premature. The Sox managed a come from behind win on Ortiz's walk off homer, a moment I did not see in person, sad to say. In the eighth winning, at ten to midnight, we left to catch the T back to Quincy. I didn't feel at all conflicted about this. I had made my peace with the season, said my goodbyes and didn't feel like taking a $50 cab ride home. After Saturday's mugging, I didn't even think about a comeback.

For reasons beyond my control, the T ride home took over an hour. I won't go into detail save to say that a rather dim fellow decided that the T tunnel - not the platform, the actual tunnel - was an ideal place to relieve himself and barely missed being squashed like a bug. Simple bastard. The end result was I arrived in Quincy at 1:15 A.M., with barely enough time to slide in the back door of the local and see Big Papi's dinger on TV.

So now we play another. I'll be watching. Nobody believed me when I said I quit anyway.

Quote Du Jour

"I would probably feel much worse if I wasn't so heavily sedated" - David St. Hubbins

I'm Your Huckleberry

"And you must be Doc Holliday."
"That's the rumor."
"You retired, too?"
"Not me. I'm in my prime."
"Yeah, you look it."
"And you must be Ringo. Look, darling, Johnny Ringo. The deadliest pistoleer since Wild Bill, they say. What do you think, darling? Should I hate him?"
"You don't even know him."
"Yes, but there's just something about him. Something around the eyes, I don't know, reminds me of... me. No. I'm sure of it. I hate him."

Surely you're familiar with the story of Wyatt Earp, as related in the movie Tombstone? Wyatt was a known man, with a reputation for being good with a gun. He nearly cleaned out Tombstone singlehandedly, but in the end he couldn't do it alone. His good friend Doc Holliday had to finish it for him, by facing off with Johnny Ringo. Yeah, they laughed at Doc - called him a drunk, a fool and has-been on the verge of death . But they didn't laugh when he pulled his pistol and went to work, and neither did Johnny Ringo.

Curt Schilling was the man with the reputation in this town, the ace with the number 38 on his back and the number 21 in the win column. He brought the Red Sox this far, but he can't finish it himself - the Big Fellah (and the rest of the team) are going to have to rely on Pedro Martinez. Yeah, Petey's come in for his share of mockery lately, what with the 'daddy' comments and the midget good luck charm; some folks have said he's through, that he doesn't have what it takes anymore to beat the Yankees.

They just might not be laughing so much tonight.

"My fight's not with you, Holliday."
"I beg to differ, sir. We started a game we never got to finish. Play For Blood - remember?"
"Oh that. That was just foolin' about."
"I wasn't."

Machinegun

I have little to say about last night's game at the moment. Despite a valiant effort, the eight (then ten) run deficit was too much for the Sox to overcome; like Pike, Dutch and the rest of the Bunch they went down with guns.. er bats, blazing. The thought that the Big Fellah may be done for the series is too ugly to dwell on. It's up to Petey now.

There are plenty of folks across Red Sox Nation kvetching about Fox announcer's awful commentary, the chief culprit - to no surprise - being Tim McCarver. There's no need to expound on this at any great length, but I will note that I came to the following two conclusions last night:
1. When Timblelina says something particularly grating, I find that imagining myself driving nails into his forehead has a strangely soothing effect.
2. McCarver's inane comment about Derek Jeter's 'calm eyes' leads me to believe that Timblelina must wile away the hours in his hotel room practicing his signature - Mrs. Derek Jeter.

The Bunny is worried that I have lost faith. He should know better; I have gone along with pretty much every cockamamie scheme he's ever come up with - why would this be any different? Sure I put the kaibosh on the Spam Museum because hey, a man's gotta have some standards, but I'll be marching with you tonight.

The big question is: will The Baseball Jesus be marching with us?

It is too soon to tell, for His ways are inscrutable.

Yes, I Know

I am aware that there maybe (and I stress that maybe) one or two readers who come here looking for my trademark original content (i.e. ravings) on a dazzling variety of topics (i.e. books, movies, strange events that plague me, and random notions that pop into my head). And I'm aware that you may be disappointed at the recent lack of said content in recent days.

But right now it's all Red Sox, all the time. Not only on this blog, but in real life. I'm having a great deal of trouble concentrating on anything else - it all seems of secondary concern until game time. Papi hadn't finished running the bases and I was already counting the hours until tonight; today I've been twitching in my seat like a seven-year old on the last day of the school year.

Yes, I know that's a bit... mad, but I am comforted by the fact that it will all pass by Halloween at the latest and I can return to my regularly scheduled blogging for my 'selective' audience.

Dueling Emails

Hungry for more baseball commentary? During the ALCS All Baseball will be hosting a series of emails between Edward of Bambino's Curse and Alex of Bronx Banter. The first installment is already up.

Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?

"Now remember, things look bad and it looks like you're not gonna make it, then you gotta get mean. I mean plumb, mad-dog mean. 'Cause if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That's just the way it is."

Game Eight. Tonight. In the Bronx. The Red Sox, a self-described bunch of 'idiots' and a scruffy, disreputable lot much like The Outlaw Josey Wales and his crew, take on the clean-cut corporate Yankees. Hey ho, let's go.

"They say you're a hard put and dangerous man, Josey Wales. They say they're goin' to heel and hide you to a barn door. You know what I say?"
"What's that, Granny?"
"I say that big talk's worth doodly-squat."

Beyond and Back

I am blogging to you from my bed in the hospital run by the Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Agony. I have three IVs hooked up to me: the first to bring me adrenaline extracted from the corpses of young Rally Monkeys; the second for fresh infusions of Gatorade; and the third to help me mainline John Powers Irish whiskey.

You see, I had a near death experience.

The last thing I remember was an Angels' grand slam, evening the score. Suddenly I was falling...drifting..down a tunnel of warm light. I could look down and see my corporeal body, slumped over the table, head resting in a pool of High Life, but I felt... nothing.

At the end of the tunnel there was Mozart playing...or was it Danzig... so hard to tell the difference. I fell, fell through the tunnel of light into the arms of cherubim - who all bore a striking resemblance to Drew Barrymore. Or Liz Phair. Whatever dude, they were hot.

The cherubim, clad in Red Sox hats (blue n' red, natch), Number Seven home jerseys, and high-heeled go go boots, bore me to what they called 'the Hall of Heroes.'

"You have long suffered as part of the Red Sox Nation. Abide now here with us. Teach us the ways of Texas Hold 'Em, and explain why reading is sexy."

But it was not to be. A gong sounded, echoing through out the Hall of Heroes like a Wall ball double. I was torm from the arms of the cherubim, and found myself back in my earthly form. Big Papi was circling the bases. The Red Sox had swept the Angels in the ALDS.

I heard voice, like a sigh born on the wind.

"It is not yet time for you to rest in Valhalla. The ALCS looms before you - one more step must you take on the road to Paradise."

The Magnificent Nine

People stepped aside for?
None.
Insults swallowed?
None.
Enemies?
None.
No enemies?
Alive.
(from The Magnificent Seven)

Just trying to generate a little more Western-themed mojo for the Red Sox. The Magnificent Seven seemed an obvious choice, seeing as Charles Bronson was one of the Seven, and Bronson Arroyo takes the mound today.

Less than an hour away now....

"I Am Going To Leave My Heart Out There"*

Like the song says, last night was a long strange trip, one that began with me pounding on the bar at the local and ended with a victory dance around my darkened living room in the small hours of the morning. It was a rush of jumbled emotions and images coming almost too fast for your heart to bear, until in the end it's easier to recall the game as bits of frozen mental snap shots than as an orderly whole.

There was stately Bartolo Colon, who pitched so slowly and deliberately that time seemed to flow backwards when he was on the mound.

There was Bellhorn's hideous gaffe on the bases, and the Manny-Cabrera confusion fest over a routine fly ball.

There was David Ortiz (David Ortiz?) racing down the line for a single, the slow motion replay showing him leaping (as much as Big Papi can 'leap') and stre-e-etching that leg out to the base to beat the throw.

There was Varitek's two run blast that brought the crowd at the local to it's feet with howls of joy.

There was Millar's stellar play around the first base bag, snaring an Anderson line drive for the unassisted doubleplay, making me wonder if the former Dr. Strangeglove has some sort of Faustian bargain in play.

There was Trot and Cabrera combining for the killing stroke in the ninth.

And throughout it all, there was Pedro, who took the mound determined to prove his doubters wrong...

You know, I was number 1 today. That's all that matters to me. I don't believe in what the experts from out here have to say. I am just here to do my job. I get paid to do my job, and I do it anywhere they choose to put me

I actually shut my mouth, I ate my ego, because I wanted to let go on some of these experts around here talking trash, and I swallowed it, because to me, anytime they give me the ball, I am special. I am the number 1. It doesn't matter how many days I have to wait

... and then took the opportunity to lay to rest, or least try to lay to rest, the media-manufactured controversy surrounding his supposedly hurt feelings:

And to me it was an honor to see Curt Schilling win. He pitched better than me; I am admitting it. I respect that, as well, so enough with the trash talking. We get along really well. I have never been mad because he pitches any game. He has been outstanding against not only this team but any team we played. We get along great. Please don't try to break that up, making up trash, talking or making up stuff that's not true, so I am glad I am the type to feel better.

Despite some defensive miscues and a very tight strike zone courtesy of the home plate umpire, Petey pitched a great game, better than his final line (7 IP, 6 H, 3 R, 3 ER, 2 BB, 2 SO) indicates. He was strong from start to finish; in today's Herald columnist Tony Massarotti notes the speed of Pedro's last 20 fastballs: 90, 90, 90, 90, 93, 93, 94, 94, 93, 93, 93, 95, 92, 94, 92, 93, 92, 94, 94 and 93 mph.

That's some good stuff right there, and hopefully there's more in store when the series moves to Fenway tomorrow. Trot Nixon says stomp 'em and I agree. A five game series is a like a streetfight - short, sharp and furious - and when your opponent goes down you don't let up, you give 'em the boot.

I'm looking for a sweep. I'm looking for the Red Sox to give the Angels a taste of the Fenway Two-Step.

*quote from Pedro's post-game interview.

Dreaming is Free

Last night the Red Sox took the first game of the ALDS, based on an imperfect but effective performance from the Big Fellah and the offensive explosion that staked him to a big lead.

The announcing - no surprise - was horrid. I suppose I must resign myself to this for the remainder of the post-season, but I have a recurring fantasy...

Game 2, Anaheim. It's the top of the first, and all eyes are trained on the playing field. But in the upper reaches of the stadium, something stirs. Three figures are crouched above the press box, clad in black ninja suits, utility belts bristling with equipment. The Hello Kitty Mafia prepares to swing into action.

In unison the three consult their chronometers. The time is drawing near.

"Execute Attack Plan Delta in thirty seconds...mark!"

Three ropes slither over the edge, coming to rest by the window shielding the TV announcers. The Hello Kitty Mafia stand ready...

"Code Green! Go go go go!"

With expert skill and fluid ease the three go over the side. Rapelling down the outer face they reach their destination... and crash through window into the announcers' booth!

With his left hand Snuggles grabs a firm hold of Sutcliffe's tie. With his right hand he grabs one of the BBQ ribs dangling from his utility belt and procedes to beat Sutcliffe about the head with it.

"Welcome to Q-town! The Red Sox will bunt whenever they want! Whenever! (thwack!) They! (thwack!) Want! (thwack!)"

Sutcliffe quickly lapses into unconsciousness. Tony Gwynn has fled the booth. Bunny is menacing the camera men with the jagged end of a High Life bottle.

"Keep those cameras rolling, or I'll cut you!"

Chris Berman is sobbing in the corner... "the children...the children... they cry at night... for Nomar... ." We ignore him. What does he know about Red Sox baseball?

The broadcast booth is secured. I turn to address the cameras.

"Attention Red Sox Nation! Do not attempt to adjust your television set! We are in control here! In the name of a long-suffering people we have acted to bring decency, good sense, and a case of High Life to the broadcast booth! The revolution will be televised! Until our demands are met we will call all Red Sox post-season games!"

(Brief pause while Bunny hands me a beer. Snuggles is firing up the portable ninja grill. The camera men will be well fed.)

"Our demands are as follows... .
Number one - Tim McCarver will be barred from announcing any Red Sox game.
Number two - there will be no mention of curses, jinxes or baggage.
Number three - there will be no unwarranted praise of Yankees players, especially Derek Jeter."
Number four - to insure compliance with these demands, all Red Sox championship games will be announced by Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano.

That is all."

"Let's Go."

Dutch: They'll be waitin' for us.
Pike: I wouldn't have it any other way.
(scrap of dialogue from The Wild Bunch)

Why not us? There is no reason the last team standing can't be us, you know it, we know it. Now is the time to go out and prove to ourselves, the fans, the game, how good of a team we are. If 25 guys believe that what we are after is the most important thing in their lives for 4 weeks, there is _nothing_ that can't be done. Figured I may as well start one game thread this year, considering that coming in here and reading them is sometimes more entertaining than any movie you could see, and often times more entertaining than the game itself.
(posted by Curt Schilling aka The Big Fellah on SoSH last night)

In a few hours the first game of the Red Sox post-season will begin in Anaheim, where the Angels await. Plenty of folks have thrown down some damn fine posts on the Red Sox and the coming series, but not me. All season long I've been waiting, writing and thinking about this moment, and now that it's here I have no desire to wait, write or think about it any longer. I just want it to begin so I can immerse myself in October baseball and all the feelings that come with it.

Come what may there will be no crying this year, no crying in baseball. The deeper the Sox go in the play-offs, the more we will be bombarded with the usual jiggery-pokery about curses, psychic baggage, 1986, 1978 blah blah blah. There will be the usual fluff pieces on Red Sox fandom - their constant state of despair and cynicism, secret delight in losing and oh-whatever-will-they-do-if-they-win?

To which I say, fuck that shit. Being a Red Sox fan is neither a burden, a curse, a life sentence or a call to misery. Being a Red Sox fan is fun, an open invitation to participate in an ongoing drama of epic proportions. It's a modern day Grail quest, with mass participation and emotions of tremendous highs and lows and I. Fucking. Love It. No matter what course the 2004 post-season takes I absolutely will not indulge in any whining of the Oh-woe-is-me-the-poor-Red-Sox-fan-look-how-exquisitely-I-suffer variety. What bilge. If you want it easy, well go cheer for the Yankees and you'll pretty much get at least a championship every decade. But don't kid yourself that being a Boston fan is tough, or difficult. It ain't.

You want tough? Try being a Milwaukee Brewers fan, all dressed up with no post-season to go, in a shiny new stadium that may never see a championship series. Try being a Cubs fan, with a longer World Series victory drought than the Red Sox and far fewer 'almosts' to sustain and give hope. Two storied franchises suffered heartbreakers last year. One of them gets a shot at redemption, the other a subdued flight home - which would you rather cheer for?

Between the Patriots and the Red Sox these are great times to be a sports fan in New England. We're lucky to have all this action and the memories being created. The Red Sox may last three games, or they may go the full 11 to the Land of Canaan - I intend to enjoy either way. Enough with the doomsayers and crybabies. Hold these moments close - because plenty of folks never get any at all.

Thief!

Blogger ate my post.

Which essentially boiled down to this: go Red Sox.

More later. Maybe. Blogger and time permitting.

Begin

October baseball - a time when all things are briefly possible - begins tomorrow in Anaheim.

Game time is 4 PM. This means I will not be able to view the action from either the comfortable confines of the local, or from within my sniper's hide of sofa cushions. Adjustments will be made, must be made; as the hour draws nearer, my insides coil tighter.

Hey ho, let's go.