Kenny Rogers is angry. I know this, because I saw videotape of him trying to rassle a balding cameraman about half his size. Then he went and gave the videocamera a couple good kicks, because it's a videocamera, and it's got to pay for its sins. Plus, it may have been in cahoots with those f--king Gatorade coolers that The K Man had to "straighten out" a couple days ago. Hey, if I recorded crap like "Planet Texas," I guess I'd be pretty upset too.

Gary Sheffield is peeved as well. Seems someone mentioned that the Yanks were considering shipping him across town to the Mets for Mike Cameron. Shef says if that is the case, he's "not going." He also said "F--k Brian Cashman" and "Imma shoot someone in the foot." Actually, he didn't say either of those things. But I could imagine him saying them.

Me? I'm happy as hell. The Red Sox didn't get swept by the Indians. Mirabelli and The Bell went back-to-back. Olerud [man, do I love watching him bat], Manny, Damon and trot each had two hits. And Wakey gave up five hits and two runs over seven innings. Johnny's hitting streak is now at 16 games. And Mike Timlin got his first save since April 2004. And Schilling looked sharp in his PawSox start last night.

And how are we rewarded for all these positive vibes? An off day. Isn't it time some enterprising young person developed Virtual Remy, which would allow me to enjoy the Dawg's banter on nights when no game is scheduled?

They're going to kill me, these bullpen peoples.

In 2005, every pitch from Keith Foulke has been a top-down, balls-out ride on the Holy Christ! Express. No lead is safe. No out is guaranteed. When he is on the hill, the diminutive become the Bunyanesque.

In the 2004 playoffs, the guy was nails. Remember that strike out of Tony Clark to end Game 6 of the ALCS? Any other year, any other pitcher, Clark strokes a game-winning homer. Simple as that. But not in 2004.

This year of title defense has proven quite different, sadly. Suddenly, we're channelling the ghosts of Heathcliff Slocumb, John Wasdin and Ron Mahay.

Last night's game started out ominously enough, with Cleveland putting up three runs before we'd even downed our first beer. And suddenly Grady Sizemore's punk-ass comment about coming to Boston to "repay the favor" was becoming eerily prescient. But then the sixth inning happened, and the Tenacious O kicked in. And in a ruthless, relentless display, the Sox uncorked six hits and plated five runs. When the dust settled, it was the Injuns on the business end of an 8-5 score.

At least until the Keith Foulke Show in the bottom of the eighth. Instantly, he let in two runs [charged to Timlin] before finally closing the inning and sending us to the ninth with a precariously slim 8-7 lead. In the ninth... dudes, so we even want to talk about it? Just a depressing, balls-in-the-meatgrinder kind of inning, as Foulke gives up two walks, three hits, and five runs -- the bulk of them coming on a line drive grand slam by Travis Hafner that had the entire city scratching its collective head, wondering what in f--k hill they'd just witnessed. I still don't believe it actually happened. Did I dream it? Perhaps I did. Must be the drugs. Of course, had the umpire been watching the game going on in front of him and not some other, alternate-universe game on a tiny TV transmitter lodged in his brain, Foulke might have gotten a few of those calls.

I don't believe I'm being Johnny Downer when I say that this was the most disheartening, spirit-flushing, take-your-foam-hand-and-stick-it-up-a-horse's-ass loss of the 2005 season. The kind of loss that had me actually dialing sports radio just for the opportunity to vent. To rage against the bullpen machine. To shake my fist at imaginary ghosts and say, "Back, Slocumb, you virulent pest! Back into the past where you belong."

Anyway, I still man the good ship Happiness, so I say file it away, move it on over. We'll get 'em this afternoon.

Also: Aaron Boone and Johnny Knoxville... separated at birth?


Lastly, I'm not a football fan by any stretch... but this is clearly tantamount to World War Three.

'Round this time last week in Cleveland, the Injuns had won nine in a row and were rolling to the point that the local Arby's chain was briefly considering "Wear Your Cap Like C.C. Sabathia" Night. Then the Sox showed up to chloroform the win streak, pillage their souvenir stands, and take the name of Andre "Thunder" Thornton in vain.

So it should come as little surprise last night that, with the Sox riding a seven game streak, the Sons of Eric Wedge [or "Wedgies," as we like to call them] were looking to dispense a bit of "street justice." And they did, with Kevin Millwood limiting the Sox to three measly hits. It really wasn't pretty at all... particularly a bizarre play in which a Grady Sizemore shot took a weird bounce-like-thing off Trot's glove and over the fence for a two-run homer, prompting Tito to drop this gem:

"When stuff like that happens to Trot, I don't go ask him. He'll wring somebody's neck."

Not much to say after a buzzkill like that. The only highlights were Aaron Boone getting plunked by Arroyo [now if he could just knock Grady on the coconut...] and Damon running his hit streak to fourteen games. We shake it off, we come back tomorrow, we wish for better things. That's how we roll.

Don Orsillo: The magic is back, and when I say "the magic," I mean the Sox applying a generous helping of beat-down on opposing teams. With yesterday's victory over the Phillies, the Sox go 6-0 on this road trip, taking their twelfth win in thirteen games. It's all over. Get the champagne out now, people. We'll see you in October.

Jerry Remy: Well, Don, it's too early to predict such things, but the Sox are finally playing like World Champions. They took an early 7-0 lead, then saw it slip away, but held on to get the 12-8 win. Timely hitting was the name of the game. What a road trip for the offense!

Don: F--k that noise. Bellhorn getting three hits including a homer? David Wells thumping around the bases like The Rhino from the old Spider-Man comic books?* Manny reclaiming his seat next to Zeus on Mt. Olympus? There are larger forces at work here.

Jerry: The single by Wells was perhaps the most surreal thing I've seen all season. It was as if, for a brief moment, the NESN feed was being controlled by David Lynch. Everything just seems to be falling into place for the Red Sox, and it'll be great to see the reception they get tonight at Fenway as they begin their homestand against the Indians.

Don: Arroyo at home against the Injuns? Feh. Let's talk starting rotation for the Division Series.

Jerry: The fact that the Sox will play the bulk of the second half of the season at Fenway bodes extremely well. They've been playing great there, and there's no better place for them to try to keep this win streak alive.

Don: Also, who is that hot chick on the Ford Mercury ads we've been running? Dude!

Jerry [removes headset]: What the heck's gotten into you?

Don: Sorry. I'm just trying to "keep it real."

Jerry: Keep it real? Listen, just shut up and follow my lead will you? I'm tired of carrying your ass.

Don: Sorry. Sorry.

Jerry: And would you please put your goddam pants back on?

Don: But... it's so hot.

*Props to Mr. Russo for the Rhino reference.

Papi launches one to the sixth ring of Saturn. Wakefield gets his knuckle mojo on. Manny hands "Last Month Manny" his passport and suitcase and even gives the f--ker a ride to Logan, heralding the return of "Classic Manny." Mirabelli snags his pitcher the lead with a three-run homer. And Johnny Damon busts with what has to be my favorite quote in some time, describing the players' off-day activities:

"Guys heading off to other cities, no one has a clue where to find us," he said with a wide smile. ''That's how the Sox need to roll."

Meanwhile, l'il Petey Martinez returns to the Bronx and beats the Yankees.

And this just in:


It's going to hit 97 degrees in Boston today, the first of a string of swamp-ass days. But, man, it feels like I'm floating in a pool of iced Pabst Blue Ribbon.

We were born into this hot, sticky quagmire. Told from day one to expect nothing but heartache and silver-toed boots to the nuggets. Our grandfathers rolled out the anatomically-correct dummies [hold your Jose Offerman jokes, people], sat us down, and used one of those gradeschool pointers to indicate precisely where the stress-induced tumors would sprout, and the trajectory they'd take around our organs with every passing season. Our dads, far too hip for anatomically correct dummies, simply took us for long strolls in the forest, explaining that boys were boys and girls were girls and if Bucky Motherf--king Dent had never been born, we'd all get free ice cream. Forever.

And we believed it. And we watched the ball spin through Buckner's wickets like some demented gerbil and saw Aaron Boone launch that Tim Wakefield bloopie into the cold New York sky. And we agreed that until someone exhumed the Babe or fished his f--king bass guitar and trombone from the bottom of the Atlantic or went back in time to explain to Hollywood that Caddyshack 2 was the mother of all shit ideas, we'd just have to wallow in the torment, never knowing the wet kiss of victory or the feeling of tickertape on our naked balls.

And then, right before our eyes, a goddam miracle.

And it wasn't just an, "Oh, by the way, here's your answer to 86 years of pain." It was all holymotheroff--kinggod and tearing out your hair and changing your pants after every inning because we were weaned on failure and everytime the rollercoaster screamed down the hill, we were certain it was going to jump the track. Because that's what the Red Sox do to us. They find the most horrible, excruciating, Kiss Meets The Elder-kind-of-bad ways to siphon our hearts from our chests. So we watched in sick fascination, wondering how they were going to do it to us this time, and we couldn't go to bed or flip the channel because we knew that we were on the precipice of some new bad thing -- 2004's answer to Buckner and Bucky and Boone -- and we had to be there to witness it.

But there was nothing but good. Mad hot good, like the single greatest comeback in the history of the sport. And against the team that so often fired the arrow through our championship aspirations? We'll take two of those, motherf--ker, so package that shit up at once. And by the time we even understood what was going on, we were jockeying for position on the parade route and watching Alan Embree and Mike Timlin on the Tonight Show.

So there we were. World Champions. In our lifetime.

And I'll admit, ladies and germs. It left me fat and happy.

The 2005 season had been an oddity thus far to those who know me best. An oddity because after a particularly harrowing loss, I wasn't punching out windows. Or running from a Police cruiser down the VFW Parkway. In short, I was too high off the fumes of 2004 to get all hot and bothered when Foulke and Embree shat a game away or Edgah grounded into his umpteenth double play with the winning run at third. My eyes were watching the games, but my appetite for destruction had been curbed.

Then I watched Wednesday night's game. And it all came back to me. The fingers on the chalkboard tension. The hands clenched in prayer. The kicking over the nacho bowl when hope looked lost. The dropping to the knees when Olerud went yard.

It was, at least in my fevered head, the single greatest game of the season, and it stirred up the passion that had been all too content to hang in the past.

So here I am again. It is 2005. I am screaming. I am jumping. I am slapping my nuts with a banjo. The Red Sox are one half game out of first place. And on a night they sit idle, the Yankees and Orioles take it in the shorts. Tomorrow night, the first beer pours at 7:05 as our boys take on the Philadelphia Phillies.

It's good to be back.

Seven innings in the books and the Sox are trailing 4-2. They've struggled against a tough lefty, and Alan "Jet Plane" Embree (his ERA is 7.47, it works for now) and the bullpen let the tie slip away. They've got a makeshift line-up in, with Damon banged up and Trot sitting out against Lee. Cleveland has, statistically, the best bullpen in the AL. And they've got the Indians right where they want them.

With two out and two on in the eighth, back-to-back singles by Olerud (who led off the seventh with a homer) and Mueller get the Sox even. In the ninth, a couple of unlikely heroes steal the show. A lead-off triple (OK, it was a double with an outfield error) by Payton, followed by a double by Edgah!, and an eight pitch ninth by Foulke put this one in the "W" column and complete the sweep of the Indians, the first at the Jake since, you guessed it, 1999.

With the exception of Varitek, who was absolutely horrible at the plate (but, come on, the guy has been a beast all season so give him a break), the TEAM played well once again. And that is becoming the theme of late. Contributions from all around, at the plate and defensively. And do not for a minute discount the ability of Mark Bellhorn to turn the double play. It was a factor sorely missed during the Todd Walker era.

And so we find ourselves 11 games above .500, 13-7 in the month of June, with a nice 9-out-of-10 streak going. In the standings, Baltimore's lead has slipped to a very thin one game, while the Yankees one-inning win streak was halted by the Rays and they are 4 behind us.

A few quick notes:

Bob Wickman is fat. Not portly. Fat.
Pedroia had a double in his PawSox debut.
Off days are better after a win than after a loss.
I miss Ellis Burks - he was on a pre-game interview on WEEI - he is still the man.
Roger Clemens is not human. He won again.
Coco Crisp is a cool name.
Did anybody recognize the title of yesterday's post?

And now, for a short time, I leave you in the capable hands of Red. I have no idea what he has in store for you, but I'm sure you won't be disappointed. I leave bright and early Friday morning for Aruba. 5 days of beaches, gambling, excessive drinking, and general civil disobedience before I'm deported back to Boston. I expect to be cheering for a first-place team when I return.

So you're the Cleveland Indians. You've got it going on, having swept three consecutive series against the Giants, Rockies and D'Backs, by a total margin of 61-29. You haven't lost at home since May 26th. In short, you're feelin' it. Enter the Boston Red Sox for a three game series. Your manager is eager to test the mettle of his players, knowing he has been winning against poor teams. Three hours and forty minutes after the first pitch of game one; bad, mind-numbing baseball, all of your streaks are over. But hey, these are the World Champion Boston Red Sox and you battled. You competed. You did alright. Shortly after the start of game two, it suddenly becomes very clear just why they are the champs and you are 10 games out. Your starter, who was once the next big thing until injuries ravaged his career, pitched with all the poise, accuracy and savvy of a rattled rookie. He forget to check on runners, couldn't get his location, and worst of all forgot David Ortiz will place in the top five in MVP voting for the second year in a row. And your team paid for these sins, starting a new streak; two losses in a row.

But you're not the Cleveland Indians, and if you're reading this, you're most likely a Red Sox fan. And that is a good thing for many reasons. First, Bronson Arroyo is on your club. Not the post-suspension Bronson who couldn't get it together for a few starts. The old Bronson. High leg-kick, sweeping curve ball, you know the guy. Yeah, he's back. You also have a 3-4 hitting combination that provides enough power to light most third-world countries (PC term = "developing countries"). Combined in their last 10 games they are 27/81 (.333) with 9 HR's and 29 RBI. Like last season, those stats are split almost exactly in half between the two. And you have Trot Nixon, the one-man highlight reel, who saved the bullpen from further criticism with an outstanding leaping catch against the wall in the ninth inning.

Last but not least, you have RemDawg. In a game that is pretty much out of hand in the eighth with not much to talk about, Remy keeps it real. Last night, he read from the sports page of the newspaper. Sounds dumb, but if you saw it, it was pretty funny. A couple of other observations - did anyone see Papi goose someone at the end of the game when they were walking out of the dugout? And is it just me, or are all of the pitchers starting to represent by wearing the Matt Clement chin-rug? And finally, I may have to skip the Sox game tonight in favor of Yanks-Rays. Lou Pinella is not the type of guy to let a 13-run eighth inning go lightly, and Kazmir is wild anyway. Could be some fine entertainment.

You know how you watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre* and you sit there knowing that Leatherface is coming out of the goddam hole in the wall any minute and you watch these unsuspecting, half-naked teenagers wandering around not having the faintest idea of what's about to hit them so you scream at the TV and say, "Just drop that shit and haul ass outta there, for chrissakes." That's how I'm starting to feel about the Red Sox bullpen [and Alan Embree in particular]. They're out there. These dangerous, dangerous people. And we know that at some point, Tito's coming out of the dugout to summon them and unleash the horror. So we sit there and cover our eyes and even though we're on the good side of a 9-4 lead, we know that once these guys come into the game and start working their magic, nothing is safe. [Exempt is my man Timlin, who pitched 1 and 1/3 scoreless innings and who you just know could easily slip into one of the Chainsaw movies playing the "friendly but slightly demented" mechanic who helps the kids out by defeating Leatherface, but not before copping a few quality feels.]

But why dwell on the negative? The Sox have won seven of eight, are just two games outta first place [the Os and Yankees both lost last night]. More significantly, David Wells has now gone six consecutive games without a loss.. and still has yet to get caught walking pantsless through Daisy Buchanan's. Meanwhile Damon and Varitek continue to make their case for admittance into the Legion of Super Heroes.

In short, unleash the happy. Summer's here, and the Sox are rolling.

*My preference is for the recent remake, which features R. Lee Ermey and myriad gratuitous Jessica Biel ass shots. In short: Greatest! Movie! Ever!

So after paying $300 for seats [to one of the city's more "reputable" scalpers], you sit your ass down in Fenway's section 16, and then scan the line-up. What the? No Caveman? No Manny? I just paid some long green for the friggin' John Olerud Show? And the day after a shut-out, no less? But then you find that the offense is back, with Jay "Deliver Me From This Evil" Payton leading the charge. And The Emancipator is on his game [does any of our starters get better run support than Honest Matt?]. And suddenly it's okay to be out three large, because the Red Sox have slipped into "summertime mode," and there's no place better to be on a sunny afternoon -- save perhaps Jessica Alba's apartment.

Regarding Clement, if someone told me last winter that he'd be representing the Sox on the hill at this year's All Star Game, I'd have had them scanned for hallucinogens. But he continues to make things happen, unlike, as Chris Snow points out in today's Globe, two other pitchers formerly on the Sox' "must sign" radar:

Pavano is 4-5 with a 4.53 ERA, a year after going 18-8 with a 3.00 ERA. Radke is 5-6 with a 4.20 ERA, a season after submitting an 11-8 record with a 3.48 ERA. Pavano and Radke are tied for the league lead in something, though that something is hits allowed, with 114.

So tonight we head to Cleveland. And if you ever wanted to hear Cleveland's Ben Broussard singing U2's "With or Without You," man, do I have a CD for you. Also featured: Coco Crisp rapping, Aubrey Huff crooning John Michael Montgomery's "Letters from Home," and Omar Vizquel singing the Goo Goo Dolls' "Broadway." Why spend hard-earned cash on LSD when this kinda stuff is floating around? Thanks to Matt for the tip.

And while you're at it, respect Mueller, Tek, Damon, Foulke and even Millar. Last night was the definition of a team victory. Everyone in the lineup had at least one hit. 5 of the 6 RBI came with 2 outs. Decent pitching from the starter, decent middle relief from Myers and Timlin and one of Foulke's best outings of the season in the ninth to get the win.

But back to Bellhorn. Might I add the much-maligned-of-late Bellhorn? Hopefully not after last night. A great bare-handed play to get a runner at first. Another great play deep in the hole between first and second. A timely two-out blast into the Sox bullpen to get the team on the board. And even beating out a potential double-play ball in the ninth to give Damon the chance to win it, which of course he did.

Jason Varitek. How much more can this guy do for the team? He makes all of his pitchers look good (except Wake, but hey, he's a knuckler). He blocked the plate in a clutch situation in the eighth to put out a runner and keep the game tied. On a pretty good throw by league-leading outfield assist man Ramirez, by the way. He put down a key bunt in the ninth to set the table for the Damon heroics later. And he's hitting .322 with 11 HR's.

Mueller had a double and a triple and has raised his average to .284 while playing a steady third base. Renteria also had a triple. Nixon and Manny added a hit each while Papi had two. And Kevin Millar (who some of you may have noticed is neither my favorite player or my favorite personality on the team) had one of the finest at-bats of the season in the ninth. An 11-pitch effort where he fouled off a tough pitches, spraying the box seats with blazing line drive fouls, finally winning the battle with a double that would lead to the winning run.

We've now been through the starting rotation without a loss and find ourselves back to Wake tonight. As long as Dougie is behind the plate, all will be well. The bats are here to stay I think, and the O's can hear our footsteps and feel our hot breath on their necks. Great to be a Sox fan, ain't it?

The Pirates are in town tonight, which means it's time to sing the praises of my favorite Pirate ever, Willie Stargell. Dude hit 475 home runs. Helped the Pirates win the World Series in 1979. But more importantly, he wore that hat. The cakebox hat. And he didn't just wear it, he fostered the cult of the cakebox hat, giving his teammates li'l stars when they did something good ["Hey, Kent Tekulve! An entire west coast trip without a single hooker! You get a star!"] and encouraging them to affix said stars to their hats. And the other team would come out of the dugout and see an entire team of guys in cakebox hats with stars and they'd say, "Well, f--k my ass, get the camera!" And in their haste to laugh and poke fun at the cakebox hats, the opposing team would often find themselves on the business end of Stargell's size 13 cleat. Because in his mind, there was no half-steppin' to the cakebox hat. And there isn't. Just look at the goddam thing!

Yes, folks, it's the Boston-Pittsburgh classic. Tonight at 7:00pm.

Oh, anyone looking for a good laugh can come on out to the Barnes & Noble in the Stallbrook Plaza in Bellingham tomorrow [Saturday, June 18] where Denton & I will be attempting to sell copies of Surviving Grady from 11:00am to 1:00pm. Makes a great dad's day gift, especially if Dad's a "drinkin' type." Stop by and kick us in the goobers.

Lastly, here's a question for a Friday. What do you think is the biggest obstacle to the Sox repeating as World Champs in 2005. No, no, I'm not dwelling in the negative, just curious as to what you feel is that one thing that must be changed/recitified/eliminated before the Sox can even begin to think about another World Series appearance.

Hint: It's not cakebox hats.

First things first: I didn't see any of last night's game. Instead, I was careening 37,000 feet above the earth, praying to any deity I could think of to get me home safely to my wife and kids. And amid disgusted looks by my fellow flyers at my choice of the three-way Cincy chili for lunch, I pondered the fate of my beloved Sox. Finally, terra firma. I kiss the ground at TF Greene and run to the nearest television, and to my delight, see 6-1 in the eighth. That told me the two things I was hoping for: the bats stayed somewhat hot on a cold June night, and my man Bronson had returned to pre-suspension form.

Driving home, I was able to hear Foulke make quick work of the ninth inning, striking out the side after allowing a flare single. Not a save situation but still more positive mojo. After the game came a bonus - an interview with Dave Ortiz. I don't know why, but that deep, powerful voice that is somehow so gentle and filled with an underlying happiness, laced with Dominican accent, soothes me. I want to hear him read Shakespeare aloud or perhaps the Gettysburg Address before a Clement start. Even better, I would like him to read me a bedtime story as I drift into the sleep of the righteous fan whose team has just swept.

And what a sweep. The Red Sox outscored the Reds 23-4 in the series. The Red Sox starting pitchers combined for just 13 hits and 4 runs in 22 innings. Oh, and 22 strikeouts. Throw in Wake's gem that kicked off the current winning streak, and you've got 4 wins all anchored by the starting pitching.

And back to last night's starter for a minute. Remember that kid in high school, kind of scrawny, but still a wiseass? You always thought he'd get his head dunked in the toilet regularly or that you'd find him hanging from a locker by his underwear, but it never happened. And even when the stoners or the jocks got on him, he never backed down, always wearing that I-know-something-you-don't-so-f**k-off look on his face. And inevitably there'd be a throwdown, and everyone would find out what it was he knew - usually some form of martial arts or boxing - and nobody found it out harder than the guy who finally pushed things too far. Arroyo is that kid, grown up. And what he knows that the opposing sluggers don't expect by looking at him, is that he can get them out. His secret weapon is his sweeping curve ball and his pinpoint location. And when he is on, batters find out about him the hard way. Last night to the tune of 8 K's.

Friday, we start the weekend with Wade Miller pitching against Pittsburgh. This is a series that should prolong the building momentum. If you're going Sunday, you may want to hang on to that broom...

Manhandled. Shut down. David Wells takes the hill and the Cincinnati Reds scamper away like a pack of frightened Ring Dings. A 7-0 victory. Wells pitching no-hit ball for 5 and two-thirds innings. Manny clocking a home run for the third straight evening.

Revenge. Yes, we're tasting it. Can't you feel the ghosts of 1975 dissolve with every victory? Never mind the fact that in '75 I wasn't old enough to piss standing up. This is for Jim Willoughby, man! And Bernie Carbo. And Yaz. And that guy with the glasses. And El Tiante. And Fisk. And Yaz. Hells, yeah, I mentioned Yaz twice. Don't think for a minute that I don't understand how Yaz, feeling slighted, could have 16 guys show up at my front door in thirty minutes and beat me within an inch of my life. He's Yaz, goddam it, and he's like Major League Baseball's Frank Sinatra. When he walks in a room, the vodka is poured, the steaks are carved, there's a reserved chair at the blackjack table and a couple twenty year old waitresses [including a "spare," if ya read me] are standing by, ready for a little "dugout frollicking" as it's frequently referred to in the police reports.

But back to the present. Dare I actually say that things are starting to look good? Sure, it still seems to me like l'il Edgar just wants to start crying every time he comes to the plate. But it would appear that Manny's getting back on track. And Millar's bat is starting to show signs of actually existing, whereas previous performance might have lead us to believe the Kevster simply ambled to the box with a plate of fried shrimp or a pack of crayons. And Wells, god love him, has thrown two fantastic games back-to-back, and has yet to pass out on the mound or take out his plums mid-game. So we're happy.

What's the secret behind all this recent goodness? Well, we're back home for one thing, and everyone knows that Fenway mojo is strong. But I also look to the power of Jim Rice's beard. Ever since he went all Uptown Saturday Night on us and got that thing recalibrated as some sort of "wide-ass 'stache and chinstrap" combo, the vibe has been decidedly upbeat.

And we will look to the power of the beard again tonight, as Bronson Arroyo takes on the villanous Aaron Harang. And if there was ever a name that begged to be co-opted by a Swedish prog-rock band, it's "Aaron Harang."

See you tonight. And bring your broom.

Congratulations to Captain Jason Varitek and family on the birth of their third daughter yesterday. They named the new addition Caroline. Interesting, even "sweet" you might say.

On yesterday's game there are two ways to look at it. The first: The Red Sox beat up on a bad pitcher as we know they are capable of doing. And "Honest Matt" Clement was able to shut down a good-hitting line-up, like he's done all but once or twice this year.

The second viewpoint, which I happen to firmly believe, is that we are finally starting to see the 2005 team. Not in their level of talent or hustle or their attitude, but in terms of the ever-elusive team chemistry. 2003 gave us "Cowboy Up" and it worked. 2004 saw a bunch of "Idiots" take the field, and take home a World Series. What about this year? Nobody mentions Cowboy Up and at least two pitchers have severed any ties to being "Idiots".

That is because the 2005 team is neither of those. Players have come and gone, for better or worse, and I believe what this team has been struggling with is their identity. No, I don't think this is why Manny is batting 60 points below his career average or why Embree continues to put balls up in the Monster seats or why Keith Foulke has struggled. But I think it is a factor, and with a renewed team spirit, good things can, and will, happen.

Renteria has been contributing more, not just getting a few hits to improve his average, actually contributing. Manny may have found his groove with back-to-back homerun performances. The Mirabelli-Wakefield reunion was huge, I don't care what anyone says, that was a big part of Wake's personal struggles. Damon and Tek have been stellar all season and continue, but now Payton, Mueller and Millar are adding hits and RBI as well, and things just get easier.

I expect very soon we will have the 2005 battle cry. I don't know what this year's mantra will be or who it will come from, but I sense it will be a galvanizing force not just for the team but for the fans as well. Particularly for those who have forgotten last season already and the power of Believe and Faith. I think we will continue to see more dugout shots of the players' antics that we love to see. And I think we will see more winning. Lots more.

Just when I thought I'd rather drink the sweat off a gorilla's nutsack than see another Tim Wakefield start, the guy comes through in a huge way. Last night, before a national ESPN audience, Our Man Timmy channelled the powers of Niekro and executed Secret Goatee Maneuver #173, which involves seven innings of spectacular knuckling, and limiting the Cubbies to a paltry four hits. And to our friends at The Department of Homeland Security, you can rest confident that this is the last time we'll be mentioning Secret Goatee Maneuver #173.

It was also good to see Manny make a bid for busting out of Lukewarm Villa [coming this fall to Univision!] by launching one out of Wrigley Field. And Robo Damon simply continues to shock and amaze, reading TV scripts and shooting commercials with one hand, going 3-for-4 and missing the cycle by one measly single with the other. He is like Ted Nugent, minus the horrible singing but with astute leadoff hitter sensibilities. Also, Johnny was never in the band "Damn Yankees." You have to respect that.

The start of something big, or just another in what will be a long line of impressive victories that highlight lost series? We'll see things a bit clearer tonight, with The Emancipator squaring off against Eric Milton. Yes, Cincy's back in town... let the 1975 World Series revenge mojo run wild!

So what did you do this weekend?
Well, instead of watching the Sox drop another to Chicago, I did my part for the George Lucas Retirement Fund and went to see Revenge of the Sith.

What did you think of it?
Understand: I hated Phantom Menace. Refused to see Attack of the Clones in the theater, instead catching it in various chunks on HBO. And while I still think none of these new flicks is anywhere near as entertaining as any of the first three, I did like Sith. The dialogue is ass, the acting just a few steps above a high school production of Grease, but there was something almost religious about seeing all the various plotlines drawn together to set the stage for A New Hope. Also, it had Natalie Portman, the hottest woman ever assembled. And, yeah, because I am a complete nerd, not just one of those faux nerds you've been reading about in the New York Times, I spent the wee hours trolling through the Star Wars Trilogy DVD boxed set to make sure most of the stuff "checked out." And it did, though one gaping hole seems to be why Obi-Wan didn't recognize C-3PO and R2-D2 when he ran into them in A New Hope. After all they'd been through in Revenge of the Sith, the droids don't even warrant a "'sup dudes." Of course, Obi-Wan is older, and old people forget things. Also, they drink a lot and steal your tax forms. As if you didn't know that already. And while a lot of people had their knickers in a twist over Lucas' decision to add Hayden Christensen to the finale of the Jedi DVD, I dug it the most, and thought it framed everything together pretty nicely.

So, to recap, my favorite Star Wars films are, from favorite to least favorite:

Star Wars
Return of the Jedi
The Empire Strikes Back
Revenge of the Sith
Attack of the Clones
Smokey and the Bandit III
The Phantom Menace

Oh, and just to keep with the Star Wars vibe, this is the greatest thing in the history of the internet. Just have your speakers turned on. And thank SG publisher Larry Young for bringing it to my attention.

Dude, what about the Red Sox?
I got out of the theater just in time to hear the "almost" comeback in the ninth. And today we have Wakefield going. A New Hope, anyone?

Screw you.

Seriously, a 2:20pm start for today's earth-crunching, baseball-lover's wet dream of a match-up between the Red Sox and Cubs?

I know it's Wrigley Field and the afternoon game is as much a part of the park's mystique as that crazy-ass ivy on the walls and the image of Steve Bartman being hung by his nutsack over the left field corner, but come on. This is prime time viewing. This is drop your goddam shit and get your ass on the couch at once time. This is an extension of the magic that was the 2004 season and you're f--king it up for me.

This isn't just another game. This ain't no weenie roast of a swing through Pittsburgh or Atlanta. This is the goddam Red Sox playing the goddam Chicago Cubs in goddam Wrigley Field. I don't just wanna watch this game, I want to dress my TV up in a cute wig and a tight little black number and actually attempt to mate with it while it's broadcasting the game. I want to set up an elaborate series of video surveillance equipment so I can some day show future generations that the Red Sox played the Cubs and I was there [albeit in my living room] to watch it happen.

But I can't. Because of that 2:20pm thing. For I have a cruel mistress that I call my job and unless I want to spend some long, hard nights wondering where my next few meals will be coming from, I am bound to do her bidding. And today, her bidding dictates that I'll be sitting in a meeting for much of the afternoon. No sneaking out my office window to catch an inning or two at the local. No EEI audio streaming on my laptop. No painting one side of my ass with the Sox logo, and the other with the Cubs logo. [Wait... I may still do that.]

Bad enough my boss already gets half a man [as did, for that matter, every woman who's ever dated me]. Now I gotta spend this afternoon struggling to keep my focus while I sit and wonder how Manny looks in the left field of Wrigley, and imagine Damon running headlong into the brick wall.

Because, you see, I won't be able to watch it. Bastards.

ADDENDUM: F--k god almighty. To think I almost wasted a sick day for that horseshit. Although am I the only one who thought it was cool that Maddux belted a homerun?

He may be old. He may be fat. But the dude throws strikes. David Wells went 8 strong innings, shutting out the Cardinals, and walking no one for his third straight start. 94 pitches, 74 strikes. That's bordering on ridiculous. Only 4 walks in 60 innings all year. I think this is the David Wells Theo had in mind. There was one point when Wells thought he had a strikeout on an 0-2 pitch but it was called a ball. He stared in, shook his head, laughed to himself, then got the guy on the next pitch. And probably took a dump on umpire Field Culbreth's car after the game.

The bats looked a little more alive. Jason Varitek continues to tear it up without being noticed. Ortizzle hit one out, as did Edgah! Mueller's average continues to creep up, and he made a very nice bare-handed play at third. Note to Francona: do not, under any circumstances, play Millar in left field. He looked like a little-leaguer out there, or maybe a ballerina, as he spun himself dizzy trying to track down a fairly routine fly ball. And Keith Foulke...never mind.

Today, we have the dreaded off day before playing day-ball at Wrigley tomorrow.

Remember how you felt after Game Seven of the 2003 ALCS? Throat all knotted up. Dry heaves at the office. Senses dulled. Blood heated. Lungs filled with slaw. It hurt, and every day that passed made it hurt just a little more, no matter what our shrinks told us. It was all bad all the time, and we shook our fists at the heavens each night, denying the existence of God... as if Avril Lavigne's career wasn't proof enough. And we spent every day that winter crafting Aaron Boone voodoo dolls and salivating at the prospects of the 2004 season, when we'd get a chance to return the bitch slap.

I gotta figure that's how the Cards and their fans were feeling during this most recent offseason. I mean, we simply dismantled them in the World Series. Scoring early and often. Shutting down their offense. Teasing them with the very idea of getting into a game, then sending Ortiz out to hit 'em upside the head with a sack of meat sandwiches.

So now they're unleashing a torrent of beat down on us. And they've been waiting for this moment since October, scratching these dates onto their calandars and counting the hours, minutes and seconds until they got another crack at us. Monday night, it was ugly. Last night, it got even uglier, with hit batsmen, Suppan gettin' all stingy with the hits, and Edgah looking very much the lost puppy, grounding into his third and fourth double plays of the series.

Meanwhile, Pedro comes dangerously close to a no-hitter, and the Yankees lose again to the Brew Crew.

The night could have been perfect. The 2004 World Series rematch. Edgar Renteria returning to the field where his last at bat ended that very World Series. But the only way the night would have turned out perfect is if the skies opened up after Renteria acknowledged his standing "O" and washed the whole ensuing mess away.

Renteria should have worn the number 643 as he bounced into two double-plays, also booting an easy play in the field. Wakefield looked bad, 7 hits and 4 walks in 5 and two-thirds. Varitek looked like a blind man trying to play catcher. Three passed balls, and I know there's a Queer Eye joke in there but I'm too lazy to find it. Add that to just 4 hits from the offense and it equals a loss.

It was one of those games that felt like it was over before it started. Yet, if you're like me, you continue to watch, too weak to change the channel, instead hoping for a power outage or temporary blindness. 'Cause there was nothing good to see in that game. But tonight, we get Jeff Suppan, and that is usually good to heal what ails us. Against the Illinois Rail Splitter no less. I like our chances.

And of course, there is always solace in looking at the standings and seeing the Yankees under .500 after their 8th loss in 9 games. Randy just can't get it done. And the "patient" NY fans and media aren't happy.

As Abraham Lincoln once said, "For those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they like."

Dearest Thaddeus.

This is Red, the man your parents, for some inexplicable reason, have entrusted to guide you through this life if, God help us, anything ever happens to them. I hope this note finds you well, on the day that you graduate from pre-school. Having once graduated from pre-school myself, I understand that this is a magical time, and I hope that yesterday's ceremony [which, from what I understand, was to feature the guy who writes those Arthur books and a cake shaped like R2-D2] was everything you had hoped it would be. Also, I hope that the official Bill Mueller jersey that I sent you to commemorate this special day was to your satisfaction.

You may have asked why I wasn't able to make the ceremony in person. Well, of course, I was planning on attending. But then I received a call from "Wild" Bill MacKinnon, an old college cohort who just happened to have an extra ticket to yesterday's game. Now, while I'm all about education and was very excited to hear that you were selected to perform your celebrated marionette version of "My Favorite Number is 6" at the ceremony, I felt the game had to take precedent.

And I'm glad it did. After all, it's not every day that OC comes back to play Fenway Park. Sure, the sun was a little rough, but I got to see Ortizzle come through yet again, continuing to haunt the Angels to the point that I'm certain several members of the team simply remove their pants and assume "the position" whenever Papi steps into the batter's box. Someday, they'll be erecting a statue of this guy in Fanueil Hall, and I'll be more than happy to bring you 'round to get a good look at it.

And then there was that great catch by Jay Payton. And more evidence that Millar's bat might just have a few hits left in it. And good christ, the outfits on those three chicks from BU sitting in front of us. Also, the bullpen went 2 and 2/3 innings without giving up a run. After Saturday's debacle [or, as your Dad will most likely remember it, "the day Red put his foot through our new plasma"], this is good news.

All in all, it was a great day at the ballpark, young Thaddeus. I only wish you could have been there as well, but, you see, Bill only had one extra ticket. Hopefully, you received the various text messages I sent you from my comfortable perch in Section 16. You can be certain that, if I wasn't at the game, I would have had a front-row seat to your graduation ceremony. Sure, I would have been listening to the game via carefully-concealed headphones, but what the hell does it matter, anyway? Christ, this is pre-school. You've still got middle school and high school and college and I'm sure I'll make at least one of those ceremonies. Just see what you can do about having them on an off day. Or maybe in the winter. You want to pull me out of my air-conditioned home and deny my Constitutional right to enjoy a full day's supply of Remy and Orsillo? Christ almighty, get over yourself.

Yours,
Red

PS: Yankees lose again. How long until Steinbrenner kills Cashman? I mean like really, actually shoots him?

Anyone care to guess what the Red Sox record for the last 30 days is? If you guessed .500, well take your prize, Jaspar. The eerie similarities to 2004 continue, and I tell myself that's a good thing 'cause we won it all last year. Right?

Bronson Arroyo looked once again like the guy who went a stretch of nine months without losing a decision. Six solid innings and you turn the keys over to the bullpen. As long as the bullpen doesn't include Alan Embree and Matt Mantei, that is. Embree didn't look like he was going to get out of the seventh. I think OC took pity on him and grounded out as a gesture of goodwill towards Boston. And Mantie, well, let's just skip that part.

Here's the big story. Second inning, Sox trailing by a run, Nixon on second. Millar, at the plate with one out, works the count to 3-0. In the minute or so I had to think about all the possibilities of Millar actually swinging on the 3-0 pitch, this is what I came up with:

grounds into inning-ending double play
pops up
lines out to first, Nixon doubled off
hits a broken-bat screaming line drive that hits Nixon in the elbow, ending his season, while the shattered bat flies into the Sox dugout impaling Manny, also ending his season and any hopes of fathering any more children

But when Kevie Green Light swung and that ball was in the air, I was willing it to go out. It didn't, but it went high off the wall and scored Nixon. And in doing so it may have put Millar's swing back on track. He homered in two of his next three at-bats. Whether it was the Olerud factor (last year he seemed to heat up with the threat of Minty) or something he found in his mechanics, or that he's just getting hot, we don't care. Just keep it going. Like last year.

Another rubber game today with Wade Miller on the hill in what will be a steamy Fenway park. Then we get the abomination of inter-league play and face off against the Cardinals. Remember those guys from last year? Me either.

Johnny Damon, I'm sorry I ever doubted you. Sorry I ever thought that your wedding and book signings and TV appearances and banjo tour of Finland with Mike Nesmith could knock you off your game. Since this season began, you've been one of the most consistent producers in a team rife with inconsistencies. You've successfully balanced the primal urge to hang with Drew Barrymore and the dudes from AC/DC with a winner's mentality that has you barrelling headlong into walls and getting the key hit when we need it most. Like last night's bases clearing double that turned a game that was just "alright" into one that was "super f--king holy sh-t!"

Grow your hair, shave your beard, get a tattoo of the cast of Hee Haw across your back. Just don't stop being the fella you are. Because we like having this guy around, we do.

Also, I dig the missus.

Oh, and... check it.

Anything can happen. That was the goddam mission statement of the 2004 Red Sox season. One minute we're watching our boys go down three games to none in the ALCS, ready to self-administer the hornet enema, and the next we're playing grab-ass with Manny, Foulke and Bellhorn all the way down Boylston Street. And it seemed that in practically every game of that fabled postseason, Ortizzle was carrying us on his mighty shoulders. Even when we wanted to throw in the towel, he'd shout, "F--k that noise," reach his beefy mitts through the TV screen, and slap us around until we started understanding that there were greater forces at work here. All the tears and extra innings and bloodshot eyes were tantamount to otherworldy heroics, and more often than not, Big Papi was the guy making it all happen. Just ask Tom Gordon.

Anyway. Yesterday. We're toast, right? Cooked. On the verge of losing 3 of 4 to a team that has not one but two guys named "B.J." And there's something un-American about that. So we're crucifying Foulke and shedding a tear for The Emancipator, who misses out on the chance to go 7-0. And as the ass-end of the ninth rolls around, and Damon leads off by flying out, we're penciling this in as a loss. And one of the more spirit-crushing losses of the season at that. Then Bellhorn gets on base, but Youk strikes out, and we know it's over, so we start thinking about that sandwich we left in the fridge last night. Or that girl we haven't called in a while. Because it's time to do something other than watch baseball, as this afternoon fistfest is most surely about to end.

But then Edgah lays down a totally f--king sexy bunt, right down the third base line. And we're hanging up the phone and putting away the chips and watching Ortiz come up to the plate with the game on the line and we say, "no way." We used up all our get out of jail free cards last October, and there's nothin' gonna change the outcome of this game. So would you please just end this charade, this pointless tease, and let us get back to our miserable lives and short stack of cold cuts?

But Ortizzle isn't listening. He runs the count full, pulling everyone in the goddam Nation to the edges of our seats. Then in one cataclysmic moment, he tears the cover off the ball, sending it hurtling into the centerfield bleachers and transporting us all back to those blurry, never-ending autumn nights.

And, as if someone somewhere was scripting this stuff, trying to interject a little more October magic into the first few days of June, the next two series will see the Sox squaring off against the Angels and the Cardinals. Booyah.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some leaves to rake up.

Oh, and in the midst of this whirlwind, the Yankees get swept by the Royals, with Kevin Brown, Randy Johnson and Carl Pavano all failing to get a W against the worst team in baseball. It won't be long until they're back on top... but for now, this is just kind of amusing.

Is it just me or is this season becoming hauntingly reminiscent of last year? Not that it turned out so bad in the end, but at times, getting there wasn't easy. Remember the queasy, burning sensation in the pit of your stomach that got worse depending on the scheduled starter for the night? The dull ache behind one or both eyes that you swore was a brain tumor, but the pain mysteriously disappeared on the morning following a win? The inability to sleep despite walking around like a zombie all day? The almost-impossible-to-suppress urge to slap the face of anyone wearing a non-Red-Sox shirt or cap? And the crackwhore-like desperate cravings whenever there was an off day? Yeah, all of that is back.

Johnny Damon: Last year, the guy was a one-man stupid-human-trick highlight reel. He made a living running full tilt into any wall he could find. Once he even caught the ball he was chasing. Last night, he was sporting 4 new stitches and some bumps and bruises from another futile attempt to move an immovable object that was in the way of a catch. Which he didn't make. Welcome back, Crash.

Dale Sveum: He had to hire Mr. T as a bodyguard (Did you think that was Dmitri Young hanging out with him all that time?) after his disastrous run of misjudging the speed of Red Sox baserunners and the strength and accuracy of any opposing outfielder's arm. Yup, the human windmill's been spotted again, just once so far, but you can always feel his presence nearby can't you?

Tim Wakefield: Untouchable for a stretch of games, homerun derby pitcher for the next few. Guess which one he was last night? Geronimo Gil...'nuff said.

Kevin Millar: El Bencho. The right-handed Brian Daubach. The rally killer. Mr. LOB. E-3. The Karaoke Guy. Cowboy Up. He is a man of many names and many different facial hair styles. But he's not hitting. Or fielding. Yes, he played himself out of a similar lengthy slump last year, but do we really need to wait for it to happen again? You had me at El Bencho.

Still, we forge ahead. The Yankees have put two former aces up against the Royals, and twice Goliath has fallen. It seems their Tino-powered hot streak is in the past. And today, we place our faith squarely in the hands and chin-hairs of Matt Clement. Who better to right the ship then someone with no 2004 Red Sox history to repeat? And what should be a tradition before every Matt Clement start, I leave you with a quote from Abraham Lincoln. "Leave nothing for tomorrow which can be done today." Like winning.

Four innings deep and it looked like a replay of Monday night's game. Nothing doing offensively, with each successive Sox at-bat about as alluring as a Counting Crows boxed set. Just keep it away from me, mister. I don't want to know about it.

But in the fifth inning, it all starts to click. Mueller walks. Bellhorn singles to center. Then John "Yeah, I wear the helmet to bed, what's it to you?" Olerud belts a double. And Edgar smacks a sweet single to left. Then Papi gets in on the fun. And before you know it, the Sox have plated four runs and my place becomes a goddam multimedia center, with one hand calling up scores from around the league on the laptop while the other dons the foam "Remember us? We won the goddamn 2004 World Series" hand. In other words, it was happy time again last night. And save a scary moment in which Damon went noggin-first into the bullpen wall [no doubt prompting at least a few front-office dudes to consider passing an "All Olerud, All the Time" mandatory helmet rule], it was one of the more enjoyable games of the 2005 season thus far.

Heck, things are getting so good, Damon's already being quoted as telling Tito to make sure he's in the line-up tomorrow. Tough as a bag of hammers, that dude. 'Course, if I was spending my nights alongside Mrs. Damon, I'd probably feel like I was dipped in silver as well. Or something like that.

Some passing thoughts:

I'm waiting for the announcement that Curt Schilling will not pitch another game in 2005. And I must be honest; it doesn't scare me.

Another amazing catch by Trot last night. Is it just me, or has The Nix already accumulated a season's worth of "holy shit" plays in just a couple of months? I'm waiting for the play in which he jumps up to catch a sinking line drive, flies directly to the beer garden behind the home plate grandstands and buys a round for the crowd, then zooms back to the grass just in time to glove the ball, then throws out the runner tagging from third. You know this is going to happen. It's just a question of when.

No home run from Sammy in over a month? Que pasa?

I want a custom horn for my car. And that custom horn will be, quite simply, the voice of Jerry Remy as he says "Buenos noches, amigos." Because I want to drive down the strip along Revere Beach and hear that greeting bellow from the hood of my car as I surreptitiously press the horn down, over and over again. I dream big, folks. Big.

All of this and the Yankees take it on the chin from the Kansas City Royals? As that kid says in Animal House, thank you, God.