We are coming in to the final weekend of the 2005 season. Three games that will decide whether the first, crisp weeks of October will be spent watching baseball or playing Connect Four with Uncle Mort.

It will not be easy listening. It will not be "family friendly" viewing.

It will be thorns-around-your-plums nasty. It will be waking up at 3:00am with heartburn. It will be "I really shouldn't, but, yeah, a few more shots of Jaeger sounds like a good idea."

What tips the scales in our favor, however, is David Ortiz. Papi-San, as the Japanese worship him, is single-handedly pulling the Red Sox into the postseason. And watching him is second only to "breathing" and "TiVo-ing Stacked" on my list of Favorite Things to Do.

Attention New York: You will be in the House of Ortiz tonight.

And you cannot stop him. You can only hope to contain him.

It's not over.

Not by a longshot.

It seems that way. Really, it does.

But it isn't.

I will admit this: After last night's sick, sick showing, I really want to wrap my legs around a quarter barrel of Stroh's, pierce a vein with the spigot, and let a cool wave of knock-out juice take me out of this misery.

But I can't. And I won't.

Because it isn't over.

It doesn't look great, mind you. Because in losing to the six-feet-tall-and-bulletproof-when-they-play-us Blue Jays, we've lost a game in the standings to the Yanks, who won. And when there are only four games left in the regular season, every contest is as serious as a heart attack.

But last night? Sick. For me, the most excruciating moment was watching El Bencho come up with the bases loaded and two out in the third, and pop out weakly to right, swinging at the first pitch.

At that point, with the score 5-1, you could see the writing on the wall, and I turned my attention to the Yanks-Orioles game, which I really didn't need to, because, you see, it was the Orioles playing the Yankees. In other words, a game that didn't even need to be played. Just give New York the W and let's all hit the town for Jell-O shots and Skee-Ball.

But the Indians lost, so we maintain a tie in the Wild Card hunt. And tonight we have The Emancipator on the hill. And if we have to place our faith on the shoulders of any Sox pitcher not named Wakefield, it must be Honest Matt. Esepcially since the Yankees are rolling out the 9-0 Aaron Small [say that again with me: "the 9-0 Aaron Small"] against Baltimore's Erik Bedard. So you can kinda get a feel for how that game's gonna go.

We don't want to head into this weekend's Yankees series needing a sweep. Not that we couldn't pull it off. I just don't want to have to. A win tonight is critical. Absolutely critical. Hell, I'm going to christen it the single most important game of the 2005 season. Tonight. At Fenway. Clement vs. Downs.

Because it's not over. Not yet, anyway.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm heading out to buy ten thousand marbles.

As quickly as we embraced the warm and fuzzies of another Wakefield gem leading to a win, frustration and bitterness took over in the nightcap. And they looked a lot like Terry Francona and Curt Schilling.

If the baseball gods conspire to end our one-year reign of happiness, we will all look back on last night's game, along with a few others, as the reason. Quite simply, this was a very winnable game. In my opinion, it is the specter of "The Bloody Sock" that lost this game.

Too often this season, Curt Schilling has been looked upon as a superhuman entity, expected to perform with the same effectiveness as last October. The reality is, it is because of last October that he cannot meet these expectations. Unfortunately, Terry Francona is one of the many who refuse to acknowledge this.

We have seen Schilling brought back too early only to perform poorly. We have seen him inserted into the closer role, costing the team wins. And we now have him back in the rotation, performing like a third or fourth starter - which is perfectly fine all things considered, but expected to be the ace.

Last night may have been the worst example. Schilling gave us six good innings - not great, not ace-like - but good enough. He started the seventh having already thrown close to 100 pitches. He allowed a single to the ninth hitter in the order, Aaron Hill. Then he inexplicably begins throwing to first base, holding on Hill who has 2 steals. Looming on deck are Catalanotto and Wells, 9-for-18 and 6-for-15 respectively against Schilling. I'm not Bobby Cox, but nor am I Grady Little, time to go to the pen. But Tito chooses to stick with Schill for both batters who own him, and pays the price as they get back-to-back singles to tie the game.

Curt's mouth may never tire, but his arm does. Call it loyalty, hope, friendship or worship, it cost us the game.

And on to the pen. The lefty specialist comes in and walks the only batter he faces. Bradford gets out of the jam he inherits but creates a new one in the eighth. Hanson "we won't put him in a situation like that, we just won't" is brought in and gives up a run on a sac fly. The other Chad starts the ninth and walks Hillenbrand. The same guy who struck out seven times yesterday. A double and a hit-batter later and in comes Gonzalez. He gives up a sac fly insurance run.

Tito, this is the playoffs. Nobody named Chad is allowed to pitch unless we are either winning or losing by 8 runs. Papelbon is available. Always. And please answer this: Why do you refuse to let Manny Delcarmen pitch.

Dear God:

I don't ask for much. Okay, sure, there was that thing with The Pussycat Dolls and forty metric tons of Bisquick. But on the whole... not a lot.

So I must pose the question: Why do you take such delight in tormenting me?

I mean, this week is already the single most important week of the 2005 Red Sox season. The week that will more or less define my mental and physical well-being for the next half-year. And you pick the day of the first game of this particular week to kick it Noah style? Not cool.

Now, you've not only erased any dreams I harbored of watching Schilling and the Big Handsome go at it a la Godzilla and Rodan, you've also set me up for what will surely be an excruciating Tuesday. A pair of games to be played -- one during normal business hours, for feck's sake -- which can mean double the ecstasy or two times the agony. Christ almighty, when I think of how creative Tito might get with the line-up for that second game...

I notice you also allowed the Yankees game to be played, and it seems they left Baltimore's pants around their ankles yet again. You might think this will break me, but it won't. It'll only make me stronger. More defiant. More convinced that our boys can pull off two wins in one day.

That said, according to the Yankees, as Chris Snow informs in today's Globe, our season may already be done:

The Yankees, in a letter issued on or before Sept. 19, notified suite holders of 2005 postseason ticket information. The memo's opening line?

"The New York Yankees are entering the post season for the eleventh consecutive year."

Feh. I think I'll tune in today anyway.

Also, thanks to Joshua Glenn for the interview in the most recent Boston Sunday Globe.

It's getting darker earlier. There's a hint of chill in the air [though possibly not today in Boston, where the Gods of Muggy are still pulling the strings]. It's the last week of the regular baseball season. And the Red Sox and Yankees are tied for first place.

Goodbye, sleep.

My neighbors see what's going on. They see me and ask things like, "How 'bout those Sox?" But they're asking the way a neighbor asks things like, "Still plan on building that ferris wheel in your front yard?" or "Say, what are you doing with all that plutonium?" Things you ask more out of fear than general curiousity. They see that look in my eyes. They see the stockpiling of cheap beer and liquor. They see the tanks of propane -- enough to keep the grill whistling long past the final out of the World Series.

More significantly, they see the monster. That thing inside of me that surfaces every year 'round this time. That loud, horrible, uncontrollable thing that I become when every game, every pitch, every deep long drive to left center has seven months of investment hanging on it. When every strike out could be the last one of the season, so you'd better make damn sure it's not your bat doing it. Where everything else in my head packs up and moves a few steps to the right, because baseball will need a little extra space.

It's the single most important week of the season. It's must-win, take your vitamins, have an extra slab of meat with your eggs time. It's coming back home to Fenway, where the grass is greener, the air just a bit sweeter, and everything just seems to go our way.

Ready? Alright.

Here we go.

One hundred and fifty four games, over thirteen hundred innings, and the Red Sox are dead even with the Yankees in the AL East. Eight days remaining to decide the winner.

Yesterday was evidence of why I still believe the Sox will capture the division and keep the Yankees out of the post-season.

Clement pitched just well enough to keep the Sox in the game, Wright did not do the same for the Yankees.

Mueller made a great play at third and the Red Sox played error-free baseball, turning three double-plays in the game. The Yankees committed two errors leading to three unearned runs.

Renteria came up with a clutch broken-bat hit to drive in the winning runs. A-Rod flied out harmlessly with two on and two out. On a sidenote, that at-bat is more evidence why Papi should take home the MVP award over A-Rod.

Today we get Wells versus Maine, they put Wang against Towers (in their final home game). Wells admitted he's pitching hurt, but look for the bats to pick him up and get him a win.

[Upstairs in the Cashman home, "Brian the Brain" fumbles through boxes in the closet.]

Cashman: Honey, where's my headwarmer?

Mrs. Cashman: It's in the blue box.

Cashman: Ah. [Reaches for box and opens it up.]

Headwarmer: F--k yeah! Autumn already!

Cashman: It's not really that cold out. I just want to be careful.

Headwarmer: Sweet, sweet freedom. Hey, got a smoke?

Cashman: Not in the house, Headwarmer.

Headwarmer: I've been in a goddam box for six months, you dink. I need a smoke. Or maybe you'd like me to tell the missus about your "magic mitten"?

Cashman: Alright, alright. [Drops cigarette into box.] Just keep it down.

Headwarmer: [Lights up.] So tell me. How are the boys doing?

Cashman: We're... we're doing alright.

Headwarmer: First place, I assume.

Cashman: Of course.

Headwarmer: I like the sound of first place, Bubee. How many games between us and Boston? Six? Eighteen?

Cashman: Er. One.

Headwarmer: [spits out cigarette.] One? Yer fecking kidding me.

Cashman: But we've got them on the ropes. They're on the way down.

Headwarmer: Didn't we have this conversation last October? After Game Three it was, "We got 'em where we want 'em." Then it was "Well, maybe tonight we'll get 'em." Then, "Surely they won't beat us at home." Next thing you know, Steiny's jibbling your balls with some barbecue tongs.

Cashman: Jibbling?

Headwarmer: Nevermind. What's your ETA on the Red Sox elimination party? You know I plan on inviting that chick from Smallville this year. My God, that ass...

Cashman: No later than next Wednesday. It's a done deal.

Headwarmer: And how are the arms looking for October? Can't wait to see that Pavano kid work his magic.

Cashman: Um. Yeah, well, there are some thing we should talk about.

Headwarmer: Great! Let's pull an all-nighter. I'm gonna need some notebooks, a pen, your Red Sox scouting reports, some Billy Squire CDs, a large jackhammer to drown out the sound of the Billy Squire CDs, and a couple Hostess Fruit Pies.

Cashman: Oh, for christ's sake, it's ten o'clock at night. I'm not going out for Hostess Fruit Pies.

Headwarmer: Okay, fine. Just don't come crying to me if I accidentally happen to slip over your face and fuzz-pack your nostrils whenever the Fox Sports cameras are on you.

Cashman: [Thinks for a beat.] I'll go get the pies.

Headwarmer: Good. And make 'em cherry, you queen.

Dudes. With all due respect, this is not the way you fall out of first place.

You're supposed to go down swinging. Teeth gnashing. Veins bulging. Fists bleeding. Trot's fist having to be forcably extracted from Jorge Cantu's gut.

See, when there's this much at stake, when someone's trying to knock you down, you've got to get all Chumbawamba on their asses and stand your bloody ground. You don't go gently into that good night, you've gotta rage against the machine. Make them earn that win. Stick it down the front of Papi's trousers and dare them to come a-fishin' for it. Slather it with Boomer's drool and toss it in the corner, defying them to pick it up.

You don't just put on a bowtie and bend over like it's 3-for-1 falafel night at TGIFs. You start bustin' heads and crashing through walls and using every last ounce of your strength to slap that bat against the ball that. much. harder. Don't just casually roll out of that throne atop the AL East. Make someone drag you out of it, Conan style, and don't stop until you hear the lamentations of their women.

Because when it's all said and done, when the crowd has gone home and the moon has come up, you want to be able to point to your battle scars and say, "I gave it everything I had."

But letting the D-Rays scam you up for five runs and six hits in the eight inning? Not good.

This was just a sick, sick loss, exploiting some of the worst features of the 2005 team: the penchant for errors, the sketchy bullpen, and the suddenly glaring holes in the line-up. Christ, this used to be an offense that gave opposing pitchers plenty to wet their pants over. Now, with the exception of Manny and Papi, there are far too many easy outs. In the seventh, when Hyzdu whiffed with the bases loaded to end the Sox' seventh, I could feel my soul being sucked from my body. And it wasn't cool. [Also, I'll give Tito the benefit of the doubt and assume he was out on a popsicle run when Hyzdu came to the plate. Otherwise, why does Hyzdu hit with the bases juiced and Tek on the bench?]

This game also gave us a poignant snapshot of the gorgeous tragedy that is Manny Being Manny. Sure, dude belted a home run and drove in one of our four runs. But he also dogged it to first base when he might have been safe [as the first baseman got pulled off the bag on the throw.] Also, I have a feeling in my gut that Wilford Brimley could have gotten to Cantu's shot in the eighth with greater facility than Manny.

Eh. Whatever. A half game out is no real reason to fret, I guess. But the fact is the Yankees have turned it on when it matters most, winning nine of ten and getting some alarmingly good stuff from Big Handsome. It's time for our boys to decide how much they really want this thing, and adjust their level of play accordingly.

Let's think about it tonight, lads. And come out swinging on Friday.

Also: Happy Birthday, Dad.

When the lead in the AL East slipped to a tenuous half-game, everything changed. All of the beauty and magic of last October were forgotten. Wives across Red Sox Nation began hiding sharp objects and nailing open garage windows. The people you'd seen just days ago at the supermarket or dry cleaners who nodded and smiled were now glaring at you, mouthing something that looked a lot like a death threat. And yes, people began using the "C" word. It was panic time.

Last night was a reminder to us all. A little wake-up call. Summer is over, fall is upon us, and that means playoffs. That means no more cruise control; every at-bat, every swing, every play could be the one that sends you home early. So you better bring it, and bring it hard. And they did.

Ortiz: 4/5 with 2 homeruns and 4 RBI
Manny: 4/4 with 2 homeruns and 3 RBI
Trot: 4/6 with a homerun and 3 RBI
Tek: 4/5 with 2 RBI
Schilling: 7 innings, 2 ER and 7 strikeouts

And the list goes on. It was a relentless onslaught the likes of which we haven't seen in a while. And it was exactly what we needed, when we needed it.

I remain calm. Sure the Yankees won again, but it took everything they had to hang on. Meaning Rivera pitched again, and honestly, how much can he have left? I stand firm on my belief that the division is ours. If I learned anything last October, it was faith.

Perhaps the most refreshing part of last night's win was the dugout shots. Edgar, Manny and Ortiz chillin' out in the late innings. Yes, I even saw some head-rubbing. Good times. They need to stay loose and play loose, and there will be more games like last night. Perhaps the Kevin Millar team meeting just took a day to kick in? One more game, one more win, and the guys get a much-deserved off day. Hang on tight.

Without faith, nothing is possible. With it, nothing is impossible.~Mary McLeod Bethune

An infuriating loss. But one that leads me to the following conclusion:

Edgar Renteria will be the hero of the postseason.

Write that down. Store it away in your Trapper Keeper or breadbox or whatever household device you feel worthy of such prognostication. But do it now.

I say this only because the law of averages dictates that the massive amounts of "suck" that have been oozing from every pore of his body as the Sox barrel down the stretch run have got to, at some point, give way to nothing but goodness. Slick plays, the occasional airborne snare, a timely hit or two. So when I toss an ice cold Hamm's at the TV screen, as I did last night after watching Edgah err yet again, allowing what proved to be the winning run to score -- I do it more out of love and concern than pure anger.

A turnaround has to happen. Edgar is a good player. We know this. We also know that he is far, far better than his league leading 29th error would indicate. Some of it has to be chalked up to the adjustment to the madness that is Fenway Park. Seriously, has there ever been a guy who seemed more terrified out on the Fenway green than l'il Edgah? Dude looks like he'd rather be nose-deep in Charles Durning than endure another hail of boos from the crowd. I'm not expecting him to get all Spiderman on us and start scaling walls, but Jesus, even Mike friggin' Lansing would dive for a ball every once in a while, and he was made entirely of wood.

There were some positives to be extracted from last night's game, of course. In his major league debut, Craig Hansen looked stellar, working 97-mph heat and getting me all hot and bothered for what next year might hold. And, of course, more magic from Ortiz, who went 2-for-4 with another home run and 4 RBIs. Suddenly, Papi is like that big freakin' dog in The Neverending Story who let people flop on his back as he flew them to crazy and exotic lands [just work with me, people]. His badness of ass is unquestionable, his hugeness of heart is remarkable, and his respect for the game in this magical Barry Bonds era is admirable. Also, looks good in a Kangol.

Bottom line: My feeling is that seeing our AL East lead sliced to a measly one-half game will bring out the best in everyone. Beginning tonight.

Because, really, it has to.

Sometimes, after particularly spirit-crushing Red Sox loses, Red is visited by the Ghost of Butch Hobson. Yesterday, another such sighting occured, and we present the transcript here as evidence:

Red [watching game]: Seven runs over 1.1 innings for The Emancipator? Sounds like gin time to me.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Wanna hook me up, too? I'm feeling a bit parched.

Red [falls over couch]: The Ghost of Butch Hobson! Harbinger of all things bad concerning the Red Sox! What are you doing here?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Just checking out the game. [Points to Red's sandwich] Hey, got any more of those kickin' around?

Red: We're settling into the stretch drive. Where every game is more important than the last. We're a measly one and a half games above the Yankees. And now you show up. So this can't be good.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: No, no. You misunderstand. I'm just here to hang out. Just wanted to see how you're doing.

Red: How I'm doing? I'll tell you how I'm doing. I'm getting dangerously close to kicking it October 2004 style, you hear? I'm not sleeping, barely taking in three squares a day. With Cleveland busting so much ass, I'm starting to think the only way we're getting into the postseason is by winning the AL East. And it's not exactly soothing my nerves, you see.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: You overestimate the opposition. Sure, Clement chewed bag today. But the rest of the starting crew's looking frighteningly pretty. Even that Wells character.

Red: October's coming up too soon for my taste. We need another month. More time for Edgah to find his glove and bat. More time for Tek to get into an offensive groove. More time for the Schill-Dog to get born again hard.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: More time for Lynn Jones to get a license for his proposed Moustache Rides booth.

Red: Ick.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Ah, it's just something they'll be working on this offseason. So as we slide into the final weeks of the season, you're feeling a bit... anxious, eh?

Red: I spent the first half of the season in the post-coital glow of a World Series win. The last several months have been spent catching up with the 2005 team and wondering when the first place lead is gonna evaporate. It hasn't yet, but it's so close. Too close. My god, imagine a four way tie with us, Anaheim, Cleveland and New York? A round of playoffs to see who makes the first round of playoffs? I don't think there's enough Jaeger in all of Chelsea to get me through it...

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Oh, and too bad about Ortiz getting hit by that pitch. But I hear broken wrists only take a few months to truly heal.

Red: Er... what are you talking about?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: Huh? Isn't this Thursday?

Red: No, it's Monday. You're saying Papi's going down with a season-ending injury? My god... it can't be.

Ghost of Butch Hobson: [Checking calendar on his Blackberry.] Damn, it is Monday. Hey, forget what I just said.

Red: You can't just leave like that. What's gonna happen to Ortiz?

Ghost of Butch Hobson: [Shuffling toward front door] No, no. I've already said far too much.

Red faints.

No, he's not busting out his new dance moves or cowering from a rabid mouse. He's getting hit by a pitch with the bases loaded in the bottom of the tenth inning to preserve the Red Sox game-and-a-half lead in the AL East. It was the most bizarre ending to a game since Eddie "Wheels" McGinty got an inside the park homerun on a dropped third strike in Little League.

But, as they say, a win is a win, and ladies and gents, we needed this one. Wakefield pitched his ass off again for nine innings and the Yankees hung on to win 11-10. If the good guys don't pull last night's game out, we would be starting the day with the thinnest possible lead of a half game.

Tonight, we get Arroyo vs. Haren, and both those boys can pitch. What we need is a breakout game for the bats. Other than Ortiz, who continues to defy odds, logic and the laws of physics, not a lot of offense lately. In Toronto this afternoon, we have the unlikely matchup of Chacon vs. Chacin. Let's hope for a lot of scoring to further decimate the Yankee bullpen. Rivera may have to start pitching lefty if they keep needing him every night. Why do I think he'd still be effective?

Fresh batteries in the clicker and loosen up the thumbs, we also have BC versus Florida State in the ACC inauguration at the Heights tonight. Not a good night to be my wife.

If you're going to Sunday's game, do stop by The Souvenir Store [the one right across from Fenway Park on Yawkey Way] where Denton & I will be signing copies of the epic saga SURVIVING GRADY: A JOURNAL OF UNHEALTHY RED SOX OBSESSION DURING THE GREATEST SEASON EVER from 11:30-2:00. Come on by, point and laugh, make a comment about our shoes, then kick us in the jimmy. We need it.

I'll admit I fell asleep before last night's game ended [thanks, Amstel!], but as the calendar grows shorter, a win is a win is a win, and we'll take it, even if it comes on a HBP. Papi hits another home run and unless the Yankees discover how to make Kryptonite baseballs, I can't see anyone stopping him. They can only hope to contain him.

Tonight, it's Arroyo vs. Haren in the battle of the guys who look they should be playing the Middle East club after the game.

First things first, big thanks and sloppy kisses to Mike Miliard for his most excellent interview with me and Denton in the latest issue of The Boston Phoenix. You can pick up your copy today or read the article online.

Now, onto last night's game. Because there was a game, although cleverly disguised as a nut-kicking contest.

After Curt's performance in New York last weekend, I was expecting "all ass chewing, all the time" from my man. I wanted to see him put on the full Chuck Heston in Planet of the Apes, showing up in a mangy beard and tattered clothes, screaming madly toward the visitor's dugout about how he'll never forgive what they did to Landon, and firing 96mph heat down the chute. One after another. A firestorm of torment unleashed with extreme prejudice until Nick Swisher finally drops to his knees and cries out, "Please, God, return this beast Schilling to his proper place in Hell, where he can no longer practice his diabolical magic. And while you're at it, could you fetch me a last name that doesn't make me sound like an extra from The Nathan Lane Follies?" I figgered by the sixth inning, he'd be embracing his inner Kamala, the Ugandan Giant, sitting on someone's head while Papi and Manny ride motor scooters around the bases, the left field scoreboard click-clacking as the runs just pile up.

Alas, didn't happen. Instead, Oakland plated two runs before Schill could record one measly out. And it just kinda spiraled from there.

It didn't help that our offense was shut down by the handsomely-named Joe Blanton. The juggernaut simply couldn't get things rolling, going down one-two-three in the second, third, fifth and eight innings. With our pitching being what it is, this is a team that needs to hit. Lots. When we don't do that... most nights, we're not gonna pocket the "W."

So here we stand. Losers of five of our last eight. Our lead in the AL East down to a slender one and a half games. Kelly the Ball Girl still not returning my calls. Wally the Green Monster caught pantsless in a Back Bay motor lodge.

It's coming down in pieces all around us. Normally, in the aftermath of such a game, I'd be applying a fine bernaise sauce to my cargo pants and heading down to the Franklin Park Zoo [oh, like you've never done it]. But I cannot despair. For one thing, we've already stood at the edge of the pit and stared into the fire. And things worked out pretty damn nicely as I recall. Secondly, my wildest shaving fantasies have finally been enabled by the good folks at Gillette. No more three blade slumming for this white boy.

See you tonight at 7:05 for the comeback. Soundtrack by Timmy Wakefield.

Oh, and thanks to our internet pal Ariel for the photo [note:NSFW].

Everytime I look at Gregg Zaun, all I can think is that the poor guy's a man out of time, far better suited -- stylistically at least -- to the 1970s. With that windswept, Wolverine 'do and sideburns, can't you just see him hitting alongside the likes of UL Washington, Jim Bibby, Boog Powell and Dennis Lamp? Or at least playing bass in The Electric Light Orchestra? I sure can.



Is it just me, or is David Wells a little less effective when the billboards behind home plate at SkyDome are displaying fast food ads? I swear he was cruising right along until that friggin' "Mr. Sub" banner came up, then he started giving up the bases on balls. When that "Pizza Pizza" one flipped up shortly thereafter, I figured the game was lost, and was just counting the seconds till he served a gopher ball. Thankfully, a Royal Bank of Canada ad slid up next, and all was well again.



For sheer balls-against-the-cheese-grater annoyance, I never thought anything could beat those Foxwoods commericals shown during Sox games on NESN. Then I met Marty, the singing USRV man. We need a version of this ad where someone sneaks up from behind, spooks the horse, then clubs Marty with a pair of stocking filled with pudding.



Wouldn't you just love to slap him? Sadly, my concern over Kapler's busted tendon prevented me from putting my foot through the TV screen whenever Hillenbrand came to the plate. It was a sad way for The Hebrew Hammer's season to end, especially considering his emancipation from the Japanese league, and I wish him a speedy recovery. Man, could we use a shot of Jay Payton right about now.


Lastly, this Halloween, I'm going out as Superman. Perhaps you've seen the costume:


Back home tonight for a big series against Oakland. Time for everyone to follow Papi's lead, and sound off like they've got a pair. Are you listening, Edgah?

Several years ago, before he became known as a plagiarist and story-maker-upper, Mike Barnacle used to write a column for the Globe. When he couldn't find a story to steal or make up anything racially motivated or heartwrenching enough for his column, he would write one entitled "I Was Just Thinking." Since the game sucked out loud and I don't want to write anything about it except I MISS OC and FOULKE SUCKS, I felt compelled to steal Barnacle's title and bore you all with the miscellaneous crap that floats around in my head.

Jim Steinman is one of the best songwriters nobody ever heard of. He wrote everything on Bat out of Hell for Meatloaf. Steinman did put one album out (yeah, I said albums - they're made out of vinyl and played on turntables, predecessor to 8-tracks, cassettes and CD's - God, I'm old) which Meatloaf later recorded many of the songs for Bat out of Hell 2. "the angels had guitars even before they had wings"

Dead Poets Society is a great movie and Robin Williams is a great actor. Who would have thought Mork from Ork would ever become a legitimate actor?

My older brother used to have a can of Billy Beer sitting on his bookshelf. I used to wonder how the brother of the man elected to run the country could be such a backwards redneck. Today, I wonder the same thing, minus the brother part.

If you've never seen The Official Ninja Website before, take a few minutes to check it out. Funny stuff. Goofy and childish, but funny. "I love ninjas with all of my body (including my pee pee)." That's funny.

If you haven't noticed, I kinda have "a thing" for Jennifer Love Hewitt. I call myself a fan, others use the word obsession. Semantics. Anyway, she'll be back on a weekly series called "Ghost Whisperer." I'll have to clear my normally busy Friday nights for this.

I hate winter. I hate the cold. I hate the short days and the snow and slush and long commutes it causes. And it's coming. Where did the summer go? But I do love the fall. Foliage, cool nights, fireplaces, Halloween, football, the World friggin' Series. If we could only skip from say, the end of October, right to Christmas, then to the day pitchers and catchers report, that would work for me.

OK, back to the matter at hand. Two-and-a-half games is not enough. We need wins. To get those wins we need timely hitting, defense (you hear me Edgah?) and pitching. We need Wells to come up big, ya know, like someone was messin' with his cake. I'm talking about a complete game. I'm talking about strikeouts, lots of 'em. I'm talking about Wells plunking Hinske and seeing if Hinske has the sack to call him out like he did to Foulke. We need a statement game, we need glove sandwiches and weggies all around. We need Boomer.

"Greetings opponents! Might I put my foot in your ass?

Great! Thanks!"

Right around the time the Sox were flipping the auto-pilot switch on Saturday, I heard that voice in the back of my head again. Not the one that tells me "Yes, Jessica Alba will eventually receive all those letters and vials of blood you've been sending her and idenfity you as her soulmate." No, I mean the one that watches an offensive steamrolling and says, "No, no, no. Save some of these precious runs, my friends. Lock a few up in yer bats for another day when they're harder to come by."

And wouldn't you know, twenty-four hours later, the Sox can't buy a bloody run, going down 1-0 to the hated Yankees, and losing again to Big Handsome.

Having been to the mountain and drank from the precious, gold-encrusted cup that was last year's ALCS victory, I can't let myself take this too seriously. I can't start punching walls and driving my car into fruit stands. This is a bump in the road. All will right itself this evening. Is that the 2004 in me talking? I'm not sure.

My only gripe is that Timmy Wakefield, a man among men [just ask Mrs. Wakefield] and possibly one of the most selfless dudes to ever wear a Red Sox uni deserved the win. That he lost it on a home run by Giambi, a known cheater who's likely juicing again, is like having your nuts tapped with a hammer.

In the end, we didn't get swept. And my biggest fear was coming in to Yankee Stadium and getting swept. We leave with a three game lead intact, and head for Toronto, home of the world's hottest beer girls and Geddy Lee in the luxury box. Meanwhile, the Yanks head to Tampa Bay, where one can only hope they assume the full "Ned Beatty in Deliverance" position.

Before settling in to watch the Red Sox-Yankees finale, take a moment to remember what happened four years ago today. There are constant reminders: everytime you go through an airport or fill up your gas tank or watch the news, but those fade into the annoyances of the daily grind. I mean take a moment to remember the images and the feelings from September 11, 2001. It isn't pleasant but it is necessary.



Days like yesterday just don't come around often enough. Crystal clear blue skies. Manny finding the homerun swing. Seventy-seven degrees with no humidity. Curt Schilling, bigger than life on stage in the Bronx, shutting down the pinstripes and shutting up the crowd. These are the days you wish you could bottle up and save for mid-January when you've just had a three-hour commute through slush and snow and masses of drivers with IQ's under 100 and pitchers and catchers are still a month away from Florida. But you can't, so you just enjoy it.

Fact: Curt Schilling was born in Anchorage, Alaska. Now, I'm no Steve Buckley or any kind of baseball historian, but how could I not know that? I know Jerry Remy wears a 33" inseam and Mike Timlin likes a splash of Tabasco sauce on his eggs in the morning and Jonathan Papelbon wears socks to bed at night but I didn't know Curt Shilling was from Alaska? Shame on me.

Today, Wakefield looks to throw a handful of dirt on the Yankee coffin that Schill nailed up tight yesterday. Friday, the pressure was all on New York. The Sox played pathetic baseball and suddenly the pressure was on them. Schilling and the bats returned the favor, and now it is once again on the Yankees. The Red Sox can, and will, play loose and confident today. I predict a Millar homerun, something I have never done before. That's how good I feel.

It is not impossible, just highly improbable, for lightning to strike twice in the same place. So when Papi stood at the plate in the eighth with the bases loaded and two outs, facing Scott Shields -- the same dude he'd launched a game winning homer off on Tuesday night -- my first thought was, "No way he's gonna do it again." And it's not that I'm negative. It's just that years of watching the Sox clutch furiously at handfuls of sand that just slip out of their fingers have conditioned me to expect the worst. So, in a way, my saying that he's not going to do it is, in fact, a way of trying to trick the gods of baseball into letting him do it. As if they'd hear me and say, "Screw this Red bastard. Let Papi launch one to the roof of Crossroads Pub."

But. Yeah. Didn't happen. Instead, he stood frozen by the third strike, and a little piece of me died.

My uninformed analysis, as formulated from the comfort of my easy chair, is that they could have won this game. In the eighth they had two on, nobody out and the guys you want coming up coming up. But Manny hit for Graff and struck out, continuing his freefall spiral. Then, after Damon walked to load 'em up, Edgah struck out with a goddam exclamation point, followed by the aforementioned Papi K.

Grief quickly flipped to anger in the ninth. Here, we get the bases loaded again and with two outs, Tito goes with a rusty Petagine over Alex Cora, who tripled last night. Petagine proceeds to strike out on three pitches -- at least one of those swings looking like his eyes were fixed on a game taking place in an alternate universe -- and the lights go out. I'm sure that somewhere there's a little scrap of paper with figures and factoids that say Petagine's the guy you want to live or die with in that situation [lefty on righty, yeah, yeah]. But, man, did he step on my nuts.

In the end, we can only tip our caps to Byrd and the Angels. And look forward to seeing them again in October. Maybe.

Now. On to New Yawk. And this little team called the Yankees. Are we stepping on their throats, or letting them back in the race? Your predictions for this weekend's series go in our comments section.

If last night's 6-3 victory over the Angels were a movie, it would be Return of the Jedi. If it were an album, it would be Zooropa. If it were one of Tommy Lee's wives, it would be Pamela Anderson. Each quite good in their own right, yet not as altogether smashing as their predecessors -- The Empire Strikes Back, Achtung Baby! and Heather Locklear. And, let's face it, it's tough to beat any game that features a walk off home run from David Ortiz and Eric Frede accidentally launching spittle at Papi's face during the post-game interview.

Tuesday night was a taste of pennant fever on an autumn-crisp evening and it's the sort of thing that makes you want to call Bud Selig and just say, "Dude. Just shut it down now and start up the playoffs." Because we're ready.

Seriously, nothing short of carting out Hazel Mae for a seventh-inning rendition of "The Boots Are Made for Walking" could have slathered more awesomeness on last night's game. Not that it would have been a bad idea, mind you.

Still, while not as stop-yer-heart dramatic as Tuesday night's game, last night was a win. And a win against a Potential Playoff Partner, so we'll take it. It also allowed us to keep 4 games up on the Yanks, and I want as big a cushion as allowed by the FCC before we head into the Bronx tomorrow.

We had Arroyo going 8 innings and, being true to his Arroyo-ish nature, he looked positively sketchy over the first two before finding his happy place for the next six. His overall performance was so nice, in fact, we're willing to overlook the fact that during the post-game he looked like he'd just stumbled in from a photo shoot with Velvet Revolver.

We had Papi getting another big hit, driving in a couple runs. We had El Bencho dropping more home run science. Even l'il Alex Cora knocked in a run with a triple to the triangle. And, man, I loves me some hits to the triangle. Sure, I dig the home runs, the Monsta shots off the Coke bottles, and the screaming drives down the left field line that just die right out in the corner and set Dale Sveum into full flap mode. But whenever a Sox player rips one into that triangle, that's a thrill. And, unless your name is Ortiz, Ramirez or Millar, an easy three-bagger.

The only smudge on an otherwise excellent evening was the continued concern about Manny. Dude's bat has left the building and he's playing the field like a guy in a horse costume. Hey, if he's saving up for New York, I have no problem with that.

Tonight, The Emancipator goes for his 14th. Grab an ice cold Gettysburg and we'll see you there.

It is almost getting absurd. You need a big hit, David Ortiz is up, a big hit you get. The man is clutch. Fifteen of his homeruns have come in the seventh inning or later. With runners in scoring position and two outs, he is batting .385 and slugging .769: clutch.

It has been beaten into the ground that every team wins 50, every team loses 50, but it is the other 50 that count. Last night was one of the other 50. Playing a potential post-season opponent, trying to preserve the existing division lead, and trying NOT to waste nine of Tim Wakefield's best innings pitched all season, this was most definitely one of the other 50. And with one mighty swing, and perhaps his most brazen bat flip, the game was won.

The only thing better were the comments Ortiz made after the game. He expressed his frustration that he hit the ball THAT hard, but it still landed 25 rows shy of the "Red Seat." As if the 457 feet the ball traveled was not enough. It would not surprise me to see him put one past the Ted Williams mark this year. And it will probably happen in the ninth inning of a tied playoff game.

And the Yankees? Yeah, another loss to the Devil Rays. This one a painful blow-a-three-run-lead loss, topped off with the more painful error-in-the-ninth-scoring-the-winning-run, and finally, hang-the-best-closer-in-the-game-with-the-loss. Beautiful.

On a serious note, John Grisham reportedly donated 5 million dollars to the hurricane relief fund. Regardless of how wealthy a person is, 5 million dollars is an amazing display of generosity. As is what Curt Schilling is doing - sponsoring a family of nine to come live with him. We need more stories like this...

Yesterday, at least in the Boston area, was picture-perfect. Sunny skies, temps around 78, the city streets bulging with slightly buzzed college chicks. A game at Fenway? One that wasn't even scheduled? Hell, I look at it as a bonus. Something to keep my mind out of the gutter and my eyes off the women for a couple hours. Yes, a win would have been nice, but I just chalk it up to another one of those maddening Sox-encounter-rookie-pitcher-who-promptly-seals-their-colons moments and move along. Senator McCarthy was spectacular, and we must tip our hats. ::Tips hat:: Okay, now. A couple thoughts:

1. Schilling, I firmly believe, will be fine when it matters most. Dude has a flair for the dramatic and as Oliver Stone-ish as it may sound, I'm not above believing he's been holding off "flipping the switch" until this weekend's series against the Yankees. And by "flipping the switch" I mean, of course, from "Help, Aubrey Huff is chewing my ass" mode to "Take one of these home to your sister, Gary Sheffield!" mode.

2. A day without Damon is like a day without sunshine.

3. I don't fear the White Sox where the playoffs are concerned.

4. Kelly the Fenway Ball Girl deserves her own reality TV show on NESN. Christ, if they can dedicate 40 broadcast hours per week to the Silly Fisherman, they could certainly afford to give Kelly the love. Wouldn't even need that much. No writing staff, for sure. They'd just show Kelly waking up, having breakfast, going to classes, playing Texas Hold 'em with Wally, trying on halter tops, starting slumber party pillow fights, holding up banks along the South Shore. Stuff like that. Hell, I'd even offer to hold the camera. I mean, it's not like I'm not already following her every move, keeping ten steps behind in my trenchcoat with binoculars and digicam at the ready. Might as well try to make some coin off it. Heh, heh. Naw, I'm just kidding. Especially that part about the stalking. Heh.

Tonight, another PPP [Potential Playoff Partner] comes to town, in the form of the Angels. In Wakey we trust, tonight at seven. Holla.

Sean McAdams told a great story from the Red Sox clubhouse this morning. Members of the group Green Day were at Fenway taking a tour on Friday. They were hanging out with Johnny Damon when Kevin Millar found out who they were and wanted to go meet them. Being a huge country music guy, Millar knew nothing about Green Day. So he consulted resident music expert Bronson Arroyo. Bronson tutored him quickly, even teaching Millar a quick verse of a song. Millar goes over to the Green Day guys, puts his arm around one of them, and proceeds to belt out the verse Arroyo taught him, blabbering about how it was one of his favorite songs. Millar received some strange looks, then told the guys he had to go take BP. The song was Wonderwall by Oasis! Bronson punk'd him!

Some people believe in clubhouse chemistry, some don't. I am a believer and I think it is a huge part of this team, particularly when people are struggling. And last night, Millar went 1 for 4 with 3 RBI. God help me, I think I'm starting to like the guy. Red Sox pitchers got no help from their defense (4 unearned runs on 3 errors) but were able to hold on for the win behind 8 strong innings from Clement.

Today, we get the return of David Wells. I expect no less than 8 solid innings and Wells taking a piss in the Orioles dugout when he exits the game. The Yankees get red-hot Zito tonight on ESPN. Vegas has it even odds on Joe Morgan wearing a pinstripe suit for the broadcast.

Would you want to mess with this guy? I didn't think so. The Confederates tried. I doubt the Orioles will have any better luck. Clement has only given up 6 ER in his past 4 starts. And the bats? Oh, they'll be swinging tonight after being shut down cold last night.

Hey, did you think we were going to score 7 runs every night and win every home game?

Luckily, the Yankees were getting their lunch handed to them in Oakland. Leiter got only 2 outs before Oakland piled on 6 to chase him from the game. Final score: 12-0. Today they send Biggie Small to the hill. I expect more of the same as Oakland tries to keep pace with the United Anaheim Los Angeles Orange County Angels of the US.

Good times.

It's an embarassment of riches! It's El Bencho and The Magic Helmet... together at last! In the same line-up! On the same night! And they, like, totally carry the team, accounting for 5 of the Sox' 10 hits, with The Helmet blasting two home runs over the right field fence. Two home runs and muthafriggin' six RBIs for the Helmet last night?!? Man, that's six more RBIs than I knocked in, sitting on my ass eating Fritos and drinking Hamms and yelling through the walls to anyone who'll listen that no, I will not be turning down my stereo anytime soon, because when the Red Sox start rolling, I cue up the Foreigner. And it blasts blasts blasts until I damn well feel like shutting it off. So just deal. Or move. You could try that also.

Anyway, this was one of those games that gets me all hot and bothered for the stretch run. The crisp autumn air, the streets dark and empty at 7:00pm 'cause it's Remy Standard Time. These are good things.

And staying true to form, the starting pitching decides to put us through hell early, then let us down gently into the easy chair. Our Man Bronson looked positively pinata-esque during the first four innings, giving up two home runs and hitting two batters. But then he settled down, striking out four over the next three innings without allowing a run. And by the time Papelbon came in and struck out the side in the eighth, my mind was already wandering to October. And thinking about how this guy could be nails coming out of the bullpen.

All this and the Yankees lose. Man, that's like slipping on your favorite jeans and finding a twenty in the back pocket.

So here we are, people. Second of September. Winners of five in a row. Three and a half games between us and New York. I don't know about you, but I feel like pouring myself a tall, cold glass of Happy. And drinking freely.

See you at 7:05 for the Lenny DiNardo show. Oh, and Tito, don't be afraid to use Manny tonight. Boy can hit. Yes sir.

Haven't we learned by now that it's not going to be easy? That we're not going to wrap up the division in a neat little box sometime next week, so we can turn our attention to setting up the playoff rotation and working on our collection of rare Quarterflash recordings? This is the Red Sox, bubee. They're going to make us grind out each game like a cheese grater to yer underplums.

Case in point: Last night, for the second straight evening, a Sox starter appears to go tits-up after just a couple innings. This time it was Wakefield who got tagged for five runs by the third, including three home runs. But just as we're ready to count him out, dude turns it around and throws five scoreless innings. And something occured to me as I watched him strike out four D-Rays in a row: If the playoffs started tomorrow, I'd start Wakey in Game One. [Actually, I'd really like to start Bruno Kirby, that little fireplug from the first City Slickers movie. Tell me he wouldn't be an imposing figure on the hill. Not wearing a uniform, but a shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up to reveal alarmingly hirsute arms, and that moustache and New York accent in effect. "Hey, let's see you hit this one, buddy." Bam! Then he throws at the guy's ass. Oh, that'd be sweet. I don't let the fact that Kirby doesn't even play pro baseball deny me this fantasy. I never thought I'd see the Sox win the Series, either.]

Meanwhile, El Bencho becomes Great Mazinga, belting two home runs -- one a thunderous jolt off the Coke bottles -- and driving in three. Best of all, we got the post-game Millar press conference, during which he discussed his latest dye job and new shaving techniques. He also used the phrase "Holy Cannoli." Twice. I hope someone is taping these press conferences for an end-of-the-season compilation DVD. Seriously, between this and the recent Wells bit, how long is it until Tito starts transmitting his postgame comments via marionette?

Interestingly, prior to the game, Millar threw out the olive branch to fans who've been riding his ass, delivering another one of his "state of Red Sox Nation" addresses which, like those in seasons past, can be summed up as: "Sorry I've been sucking. Please don't remind me that I'm sucking. I'm working on my latest 'suck cessation' program and will keep you apprised of the results."

Look, we all know that it's not gonna be our pitching that pulls us through the postseason. There really are no "sure things" on the mound this year, no one we can point to and say, "Okay, in a four game series, we know we've at least got this game." What's going to keep us rolling is that offense. That relentless, pile-it-on-ya-like-deli-meat attack that -- especially with Edgah! pulling a Frampton Comes Alive and Mueller heating up -- just keeps. coming. at. you. If Millar can turn it on and be a part of the juggernaut, then it's all good times and bunnies and keg stands with Kelly the Ball Girl. I'd still prefer The Magic Helmet at first all the time, but I'm interested to see what El bencho brings tonight.

Speaking of tonight, if there's anyone who needs to channel their inner Emeril and kick it up a notch, it's Bronson Arroyo. Here's hoping he can take a cue from Millar and scrounge up a bit of that 2004 magic. And I can't wait for the press conference.