As always, whenever Red and I run into a question we can’t answer, we turn to SG Nation to provide a little gray matter and help out. Sometimes the suggestions we get are a bit disturbing (the Michael J. Fox Bobblehead Night comes to mind) but in general, our readers are pretty creative and helpful.
So, in partnership with TiqIQ, we are putting together the Fenway Park Survival Guide. TiqIQ launched this with another partner-site in Philly (thefightins.com) and Red and I think, with your help, we could put together thedefinitiveFenway Guide.
In order to encourage creativity (and quite frankly, so we don’t have to do any work) we are not restricting suggestions to mundane categories like “best hot dog vendor” or “cleanest bathroom.” We want it all, folks: the good, the bad, and the ugly. If you have an idea on how to make someones trip to the park better…or at least more memorable, throw it down in the comments. Parking tips, sections with the hottest fans, nastiest ushers, post-game party sites…we really want it all.
Red and I will get together with a coupla 30-packs and assemble the official “Fenway Park Survival Guide.” This should be good, eh?
The f#$k? Who are you and what are you doing in my broadcast booth?
Mister Cashman sent me. Said after last night’s loss to the Os it was over for you guys. I’m just here for one song.
The hell you are. Tell that pinhead to rewatch his 2004 ALCS DVDs. Meanwhile, the boys got a song of their own. Hit it, whitey.
::singing:: So if you give us a chance to remember…
The love we had once together…
Wait and see…
F#$kin’ time is all that we really need…
I’m praying you won’t say no. I mean to tell you…
Don’t let it end. Baby we could have so much more.
Don’t let it end. Honey please don’t walk out that door.
QUICK SIDE NOTE: “Honey” represents you, the fan. Not in a weird way. But you see where we’re going with this. Okay, back to the song.
Don’t let it end. I’m begging you, don’t let it end this way.
Don’t let it end. I’m begging you, don’t let it end this waaaaaaaaaaay.
No no no.
No nooooooooo no.
[Editor's note: For maximum effectiveness, cue the video below to 4:12 and follow along from here with the last few lines. It's like 3-D. For your ears!]
What will I do… if you say we’re through? I need you to stay.
Honey…
Don’t let it end…
This…
Way.
Cool tune. And you’ll have lots of time in October to work on some new numbers. Heh.
* * * * * * * *
And for the “full experience,” we offer the musical soundtrack:
Right about the time Felix Doubrant starting pitching BP in the eighth (whatever happened to “Bard in the eighth, Papelbon in the ninth?”), a big-boned woman starting tuning up her voice for the “wait’ll next year” anthem. Sure, it’s still a basic math problem that tells us the Sox could make the post-season: if the Rays play .500 ball for the rest of the season, the Sox could go 24-6 and it’s fireworks and rainbows and October baseball in Boston. The problem is, the Sox have to actually win games. And if they can’t beat Baltimore, it is most definitely time to calmly hang up the bats and gloves, fold up the freshly washed game jerseys, light up a smoke and hunker down for the winter.
I started the post below after the first inning of the shellacking Lester took against Toronto…but I just couldn’t pull the trigger. Not to go all “Brokeback Mountain,” but I just couldn’t quit on these guys. Sure, my faith was thin, Karen Carpenter thin, but I chose to keep right on whistling past the graveyard and sending the positive vibes out.
Time of death: Friday, August 20th at approximately 7:20PM
This past weekend pushed me to the brink. Pissing away Saturday’s game was bad. Watching Lackey on Sunday and just knowing he wasn’t good enough was worse. But it’s the Os, I told myself. Surely the Sox can sweep them and keep me clinging to my hope and my math. But I was wrong again because Beckett hasn’t been good enough this year either. So I’m calling it, probably a lot later than most, the end of the season.
Elvis has left the building, good night and good news, hasta la vista baby, say goodnight Gracie…
Sunday afternoon, long before I’d ingested whatever alcohol had me predicting a John Lackey triumph last night, I had the pleasure of serving as one of the announcers for the Jimmy Fund’s Fenway Fantasy Day. All I can say is that watching the game from the lofty perch of the announcers’ booth (not Don & Jerry’s booth, mind you, but the booth where the dude announcing the batters and whatnot sits), soaking in all that green and blue and the sea of seats below, does not suck. And the fact that there was a cute Fenway A/V girl assigned to watch over us and make sure we didn’t broadcast any “colorful” remarks made it even more enjoyable. Best of all, hearing my goofy cackle reverberate through the Park’s massive sound system was a thrill on par with the birth of my kids and the introduction of the Hostess Cupcakes 36-pack. So thank you, Jimmy Fund, for letting us volunteer our time and meager talents.
I snapped a few pics here and there as Denton and I wandered the booth and the surrounding halls, and I figgered I’d share them with you here, rather than waste anymore breath on that shitshow of a series in Tampa Bay.
For example, this is one of the computer screens in the announcers’ booth. TELL ME THAT IS NOT THE GREATEST WALLPAPER EVER:
I spent way too much time pouring over the booth’s CD library. For the record, I spotted the Monkees, Aerosmith’s “Honkin’ on Bobo,” the Best of The Human League (10 songs! Go figure!) and the monstrosity below, which I hope is only employed in the most dire of circumstances, like a 32-run rout at the hands of the Yankees or a rapidly approaching Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile:
Denton rocks the mic. Surprisingly, neither one of us fell — or were pushed — out the window.
The halls leading up to the broadcast booths and media dining areas are lined with awesome 2004 and 2007 propaganda. Nothing that fits easily into a pocket, sadly. Not that I’m that type of fella.
When you first head into the broadcast/media area, there’s a leather couch with a huge motherflippin’ framed photo of the Papelbot’s infamous Riverdance audition hanging above it. Anyone who says they wouldn’t want this f#$ker hanging over their fireplace is a lying whore.
Lastly, ladies, remember that Ken Coleman is always watching. Thank you.
Now that I’ve had time to flush last night’s loss out of my system (thanks to Mother Alcohol), I’m looking forward to seeing Lackey step it up for this critical game–far more critical to the Sox than the Rays. I’m not holding on to negative vibes; if I lived that way, the Sox would have [...]
Say it with me, Tito: Bard in the eighth, Papelbon in the ninth. Simple, right?
To quote Sting, that was “a humiliating kick in the crotch.” Clay Buchholz had pitched a freaking gem. Other than Longoria’s solid single in the seventh, Clay had only given up an infield hit and a broken-bat blooper. The only run [...]
I like to think of myself as a guy who “gets it.” That time my ex-wife went out for groceries and was never heard from by me again until that letter from her lawyer three months later? I figgered I did something to piss her off. And that time my boss informed me of a [...]
No, not “cut a hole in the box.” Get your minds out of the gutter please. Step one was to win game oneof this three-game series, and Jon Lester saw to that. Seven strong innings of two-hit ball while striking out seven. Bard in the eighth, Papelbon in the ninth. Didn’t we used to have [...]
“I know what they’re coming with,” Garza said, “and they’re coming with a lot to prove; everybody saying they’re out of it, they’re too far back. It’s the Red Sox. You can’t ever count them out. There’s guys putting up career years like (3B Adrian) Beltre and Big Papi (David Ortiz) is having a resurrection. [...]
Two games today, and if we can beat up on Seattle twice — something any self-respecting team looking for a spot in the playoffs should be able to do — then I’m a happy man. If we want October glory, we need Beckett and Lester to be reminded of what it means to be Beckett [...]
Some rights of this page's plain text stuffs are reserved for the author. Surviving Grady is in no way associated with the Boston Red Sox or Major League Baseball. Also, Ned Beatty will have nothing to do with us. Amalie Benjamin, bring me your love.
