On the bright side:
— Nobody got shot.
— Julian Tavarez kept his pants on for the full nine innings, as best I can tell.
— NESN didn’t interrupt the fifth inning to bring us “How to do a Testicular Self-Examination” starring Al Nipper and Dave Wallace.
— New FAA clampdowns = no carrying liquids onto airplanes = David Wells unlikely to travel with the team again this year.
— Suddenly we’re in elite company. Only the Pittsburgh Pirates and Cleveland Indians have been swept by Kansas City this year. That means we’re, like, only one of three teams to accomplish this! One of three? I think it’s clear who the real winners are here.
— We’re still only three games behind the Yankees.
Also, it’s probably important to save some of our angst for the upcoming week. I mean, if our boys continue this downward spiral, can you even wrap your mind around the horrors awaiting us during the Detroit and New York series? It’s enough to make me want to strap on a protective cup and just lock myself in a basement.
And we’ve still got to get through Baltimore. Even though we’ve essentially owned ’em this year, not to mention wrangled away their “secret weapon” Javy Lopez, the latest roadtrip indicates that we can take nothing for granted. Suddenly, we’re looking to Wells to be the stopper. And that gives me about as much comfort as a greasy hickey from the woman who played “Mrs. Roper.”
The optimist in me says, “dude. chillax. lotsa baseball to still be played. keep your head on straight and your beer cold.” But as I wipe the dust from my eyes and reflect on the past week, I think it’s safe to say that any team that loses 5 of 6 to the Drays and Royals is not a team that is “going places.” When I find myself longing for a Keith Foulke comeback special — if for no other reason than the fact that it might empower the club to throw Tavarez or Seanez to the Sleestaks — I know that something ain’t quite right. When the anchors of your staff come up short against the worst team in baseball, where do you find the solace?
Myself? I find it in a six pack of Strohs. And the knowledge that Remy and D.O. will be there to guide me through the darkness. And that dream of me and Kelly the Ball Girl sharing a tiny Italian villa (where every morning I’m greeted with news of a Red Sox win, and the Kelster making blueberry muffins in a thong-and-Ortiz-jersey combo).
This weekend, it’s on. It absolutely, positively has to be on. I’m talking Papi in chef’s hat and apron, turning Miguel Tejada on a spit while Wily Mo applies a fine bernaise sauce.
Because that’s how we need to roll.
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My Plea to NESN Ownership, Volume 492-B: Any chance we could get one game, just one game, in which Don and Remdawg broadcast in full KISS make-up? No explanations, no planned “theme night.” Just D.O. and Remy in greasepaint. Work with me here. This could be something.