A Sort of Homecoming

In case you somehow missed it, Pedro Martinez has been town recently. My previous thoughts on the man can be found here and here; I can't really think of anything else to add.

Here are some other worthwhile posts about Petey:

Cursed and First

Bullshit Memorial Stadium

12 eight

Touching All the Bases

By Way Of Sorrows

Today Denton asks:

Other than the Trop, is there a park in all of baseball as miserable as the Metrodome?

My answer is, yes and no.

Yes, and the place was called Veteran's Stadium.

No, because the Vet has now gone the way of the Dodo and free baseball on TV and exists no more.

For the record I have been to the Metrodome, and it has the distinct honor of being the only ballpark I've ever visited that was spooky. As in the place gave me the creeps. Allow me to explain.

I flew out to Minneapolis in 1998 (or maybe 1999 - my recall is not 100% on this) to attend a wedding. While there we - my then girlfriend and I - decided to catch a game. Tickets were easy to come by, because the Twins were playing, er, not so well at the time. Now here's were we start to get to the creepy parts.

We caught a cab from the hotel to the Metrodome and the first thing I noticed was how empty the streets were. No crowds, hell, no people. This shook me - I was used to the crowds of vendors and fans the fill the streets around Fenway and Camden Yards on gameday - there was none of that. The streets around the Metrodome were flat out empty. Ever seen one of those post-apocalptic movies where the hero awakes from a coma or suspended animation or some shit like that, and everyone is dead, and the hero wanders the deserted streets looking for other humans? Yeah, I'm talking that empty. So empty that there was a brief moment when I wondered if the cab driver was lost and had driven us in an entirely different direction from the Metrodome.

So, we arrived at the ballpark and needless to say, the lack of crowds in the street was due to the entire lack of fans at the game. I forget how many were in attendance that night, but I'm sure they wouldn't have filled McCoy Stadium, let alone a major league ball park. And this is where we get to the part that creeped me out.

Since this was a ball game I had some beers, and where beers are had, trips to the restroom follow. So I left my seat, went up the stairs to the concourse, and stopped. I looked to my left. Nobody in sight. I looked to the right. Same thing. I felt like the Omega Man. Even better - or weirder or creepier - was the fact that as I tromped off to the men's room I noticed I could hear my footsteps. Think about it - you can expect to hear a whole lot of things during a visit to the ballpark, but your own footsteps in an empty concourse is generally not one of them.

The men's room was the ookiest part of this trip. For those of you have never been in one, let me tell you what a men's room in a major league ball park is normally like. They are big, crowded, dirty, sweaty, all for the reasons you might guess. What a men's room in a major league ball park is usually not is sparkly clean (because no one had used it) and completely empty. It was entirely too easy to stand at the sink washing your hands and imagine that not only were you the only one in the men's room, but you were also the only one in the giant building that surrounded the men's room.

Now, I won't say that as I washed my hands I used the mirror above the sink to watch the stalls behind me, in case a zombie nipped out of one to jump me from behind.

But I won't say I didn't either.

Always Be Closing

Keith Foulke continues to struggle to regain his 2004 form, and just like last year, hears the abuse from the fans. A sad state of affairs.

As far as I'm concerned, Keith Foulke will always be The Closer. When someone says 'Red Sox closer' and my brain goes into data retrieval mode, the name and image that my cerebellum coughs up is always that of Foulke. Yes I know that Jonathan Papelbon is having an amazing rookie season in that role, delivering more than we fans could have hoped for within reason. Yes, I know Keith Foulke will not feature as the Red Sox closer this year, and maybe never again. And I am thrilled everytime I see Papelbon stroll to the mound. Yet I still keep thinking 'he's keeping Foulke's seat warm.' And when someone else follows Papelbon as closer, well, I'll think of that person as keeping Foulke's spot warm. Some players just permanently implant themselves in your mind as the archetype of their position with your local nine. Nomar will always be The Shortstop. Petey will always The Ace. Foulke will always be The Closer.

When the Red Sox season came to an inglorious close last October, I was not ready for it to end. I understood they just didn't have the horses to go the distance that year, that they lost to a better team. I just wanted baseball to stay with me a little longer, to comfort me with its familiar rythms for a just a few more days before the cold winds truly began to blow. Rather than quit baseball and the Red Sox cold turkey - again - I eased the withdrawal with Red Sox 2004 World Series Collector's Edition. Seven ALCS games. Four World Serious games. I played them all over that first empty weekend. Sometimes I just had them on in the background, as if they were real games I was watching while I went about various household chores. Sometimes I sat and watched, putting aside the ironing or the dishes to focus on a particular at bat or a particular pitch.

I re-watched all of Keithe Foulke's outings over the 2004 postseason, and I still had trouble grasping what he did. I still do. For most of my life the script for the Red Sox in the postseason always came to a head with the pitching, exposed as the team's Achilles heel, usually in the late innings and usually in a dramatic and painful fashion. Flawed pitching. Not enough pitching. There's no need to go into details here; from 1967 to 2003 it was all variations on a theme.

2004 was different, and to be sure there were other contributors than Keith Foulke, but his postseason performance still seems to me the most improbable. Game Four of the ALCS alone beggars the imagination: two and 2/3 innings (50 pitches) of scoreless baseball. To be followed the next night by a further inning and a third, followed by yet another scoreless inning the next night. All told Foulke pitched six innings over five games, allowing one hit and no earned runs. And then there's his World Series performance...

As I said, I know plenty of others contributed to that championship run, but for me Keith Foulke was the linchpin. He didn't just change the script, he re-wrote it, with a big fucking exclamation point. No more late inning heartache.

As far as I'm concerned, Keith Folke will always be The Closer.

News of the Week

Red Sox executive Larry Lucchino responded to questions following Johnny Damon's departure to the New York Yankees:

I would acknowledge that this is a setback in terms of our short-term plans but to keep the faith. We will re-deploy this money intelligently. We will balance our long-term plans with our short-term needs. And we will find players who play for this team in center field, at shortstop, that the fans can be proud of and can take some sense of satisfaction that we're out building a competitive team.

In other news and in an eerily parallel situation, Captain Queeg responded to questions regarding reports of discord and confusion aboard the U.S.S. Caine:

Ahh, but the strawberries that's... that's where I had them. They laughed at me and made jokes but I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt and with... geometric logic... that a duplicate key to the wardroom icebox DID exist, and I'd have produced that key if they hadn't of pulled the Caine out of action.

Gone Baby Gone

Theo has left the Boston Red Sox. If your reaction to that is 'Theo who?' then feel free to skip the rest of this post.

Since the news broke on Monday, plenty of folks in the internetoblogisplace have put down some very pointed copy, analyzing and digging into the situation. Rather than duplicate their efforts, let me simply recommend the following pieces:

A Few Bad Men

Losers All Around

The Boston Phoenix Sox Blog

Prodigal son, departs

There's plenty more out there - you can check BSMW and Media Nation for a vast collection of links - but the above four are an excellent place to start.

My own thoughts and feelings on the L'Affaire de Theo have been all over the place, to the point where, like some others, I've had a difficult time getting anything remotely coherent into print. Trying to trace these thoughts is the mental equivalent of following a convoluted roadmap of shock, bitterness, cynicism and disappointment.

All of this - Theo's departure, the leaks and smears, the rumors of behind the scenes acrimony - is all too familiar to me. And being familiar, is also comfortable, in a sick sort of way. Like when your girlfriend breaks up with you seemingly out of the blue - you get that awful kicked-in-the-stomach-feeling but at the same time a tiny voice in your head is saying 'Well now, we've been down this road before, haven't we? Ain't no thing.'

Or maybe that's just me.

That being said, the loss of Theo is horribly, horribly dismaying to me. I had allowed myself to believe that the dysfunctional Red Sox franchise was a thing of the past, dead as the unlamented Harrington regime and as relevant as Haywood Sullivan. I allowed myself to believe that the new ownership had made a permanent change to the culture on Yawkey Way, that Tom Werner, John Henry and their compatriots had made a permanent break with the bad old days and would always steer the fortunes of the Red Sox in a rational, businesslike and efficient manner.

I was disabused of this notion yesterday morning. The first thing I heard when my alarm went off was a voice from the radio telling me Theo had declined the Red Sox offer. I pulled the sheets over my head and thought 'Wow. I haven't even gotten out of bed yet and already this day has fucked the dog.'

So I am disappointed, extremely disappointed. But I can't in all honesty see this disappointment as some sort of loss of innocence, or as some sort of betrayal of childhood memories. What the Red Sox ownership did over the past few days, well, that pretty much was the Red Sox of my childhood. From Pudge through Mo this sort of ownership gaffe was the Red Sox modus operandi. Even the sudden return to such idiocy shouldn't surprise me in hindsight, given what happened with Nomar and Pedro. It was the same old tactics - slime 'em on the way out the door.

However, where I do feel a great sense of betrayal and loss is in the role of the Boston Globe sports department in all this mess. Allow me to digress a moment...

In the late 80s and early 90s I lived in Baltimore, first attending school and then working (or looking for work as was often the case in those days.) For you youngsters out there, this was before the days of the internet, when if you lived beyond the borders of Red Sox Nation there was a palpable sense of being cut off from home and behind enemy lines. There were no message boards, blogs, streaming audio and the like to keep you in touch with the latest and greatest news on your team.

This was also a time when you could make a legitimate argument that the Boston Globe had the best spots section in the country. You had Bob Ryan, pre-Curse flogging Shaughnessy and of course, Gammons. And all that talent for baseball coverage, let alone Bruins, Celts and Patriots.

Well my dad, God bless him, took it upon himself to start sending me dispatches from home. Every Sunday he'd go through the Globe sports section, cut out anything baseball-related, and mail me a big fat envelope full of Red Sox news. And every Wednesday and Thursday I'd eagerly check the mail, anxious to get my monkey hands on all that baseball goodness. I'd rip open the envelope, sort out all the articles and then dive in, starting with Gammons' famous Diamond Notes column.

So suffice it to say I once had some very fond memories and a special affection for the Boston Globe sports section. But in the wake of this weekend's events all that is gone. Entirely.

Red Right Hand

On a gathering storm comes
A tall handsome man
In a dusty black coat with
A red right hand

He’ll wrap you in his arms,
Tell you that you’ve been a good boy
He’ll rekindle all the dreams
It took you a lifetime to destroy
He’ll reach deep into the hole,
Heal your shrinking soul
Hey buddy, you know you’re
Never ever coming back
He’s a god, he’s a man,
He’s a ghost, he’s a guru
They’re whispering his name
Through this disappearing land
But hidden in his coat
Is a red right hand
-Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Good to know, though, at a time when gasoline is nearly three bucks a gallon, that Ortiz says the ''MVP" chants that echo throughout the Fens when he comes to the plate are enough to fuel his ability to deliver the improbable, time and again.

''That sounds good," Ortiz said. ''It kind of puts you in a good mood, you know. When you walk to the plate in a situation like that and the crowd starts screaming like that, you feel like Superman. You feel like, 'OK, I can't let my people down, you've got to come up with something.'
-Big Papi

Needless to say, I consider myself one of the Tizzle's peeps, er, people. I'll be at Fenway tonight, hoping to see more of the improbable.

A Red Sox Moment

Though I have followed the Red Sox closely this year, as I always do, I have written little of the 2005 edition of this team. I do however, wish to make a brief point.

Certain words and phrases are inherently scary. Just to say them out loud is to feel a tremor of fear, to feel the hair on the back of your neck stiffen. Words and phrases like 'testicular cancer' and 'blind date' and 'sleestack.'

But is there anything more terrifying than the words 'closer by committee?'

That's scarier than clowns.

Foulke'd Up

Not that anyone cares, but I've now officially lost patience with Keith Foulke. Keith Foulke is not the new black. Keith Foulke is in fact the new Derek Lowe. He makes me cringe and whimper everytime he toes the rubber. In his care, three run leads vanish like candy at recess.

Big Papi Makes Me Smile

Is it spring yet?

Off the field, he made the Boston clubhouse fun again. Until he got there in 2003, it was made up mostly of growls, snarls and no-comments. Ortiz came, he laughed, he bellowed at reporters: "Nobody look at my nipples!" One time, he interrupted a press conference in Terry Francona's office before a game with Baltimore by poking his bucket-head in and declaring, "Don't worry. We're going to drink their beer and kick their ass!"

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.

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!

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.

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."