By mid-game, last night's Florida-fest threatened to be another Timberland to the groin. Another evening of watching helpless as the Rays pummel one of our starters, our offense gets slapped down with a wave of the "mute" button, and Raymond, the Devil Rays mascot, feels up our lady. After Alex Cora grounded out meekly with two men on in the bottom of the fifth, I chalked this one up to Tampa Bay and turned my attention to a stale bowl of Wheat Thins.

But then it all came together. Starting with a four run sixth. A home run from Manny. A double from Nixon. A timely Wily Mo hit with the bases loaded. Again, a timely Wily Mo hit with the bases loaded?! Screw this noise, I thought, putting down the arsenic. We could be on to something.

And we were. In what turned out to be a truly 2004-esque effort, our boys pushed in nine runs across the last four innings. And the bullpen made it stand, with Foulke delivering two solid innings and The Papel-Bot simply showing up, administering three blistering strike outs, then receiving the appropriate accolades. The guys makes it look so easy, I almost wondeer how long 'til he hits the mound in his easy chair and smoking jacket to dole out the punishment? Man, I am savoring the thought of seeing him on the mound in a one-run ninth against our friends from New York this week. Like, to the point that it's almost surpassed that fantasy involving Eva Longoria, four pairs of wax lips and a church choir.

Okay. Enough horse crap. It's Schilling Standard Time.

The law of averages dictates that Wily Mo Pena is, at some point this season, going to stop unleashing pure, unadulterated suck by the barrel. You heard it here first, folks: It's gonna happen.

It's better to be in first place in September than in April. Really, who needs the pressure?

This scoring only six runs over the last 27 innings is clearly just a funk. The boys should be snapping out of it any day soon. Or perhaps we're just saving 'em up for the big New York series. That sound right. Yeah.

Schilling is fine.

Beckett? He's fine, too.

Wakefield will win his next 15 starts.

Mark Loretta going 5-for-36 over the last 8 games? A fluke.

No, that shirt doesn't make you look like Mick Hucknall. Now get out there and mingle.

It will all be better once Roger gets here.

Of course I don't miss Bronson Arroyo and his 4-0 record, his 2.34 ERA, his 30 strike-outs or his friggin' 0.92 WHIP. Why would you even ask that?

Hits -- like wins -- come in bunches. And there'll be sh-tloads here in due time, buddy. Just you wait. You'll see.

That girl from Blossom: Not entirely un-hot.

Got off a plane at Logan last night around the third inning -- roughly the time I imagine Theo was phoning Los Bros Hendricks to cement that Roger Clemens deal -- so I missed much of the carnage. And the optimist inside of me figures that the latest outings by Schilling and Beckett were blips on the radar; events we'll point back to during the 2006 Rolling Rally and say, "Heck, remember those nights we thought a massive chunk of flame and death was hurtling toward the earth?"

This morning, sadly, it's the pessimist in me who's seized control. Yeah, he's kicked the optimist in the jimmy, gagged him with a Calvin Schiraldi T-shirt and tossed him in the closet. So now I'm stammering around the place, asking, "what if Josh and Curt hit the skids for an extended dance mix of a summer?" Who do we turn to in those troubled times? Lenny DiNardo? The Wakefield-Bard Experience? The lumber of Wily Mo and Mikey Lo?

It's just one of those moments, folks. On the bright side, Beckett didn't get kicked around like this during his first Red Sox start -- something that would have had the Samaritans Hotline reaching out to AccounTemps to handle the overage. And if we wipe out the Yankees in two games at the Fens next week, I'm sure I'll be laminating my A-Gon posters and ordering a box of Delcarmen shirts.

Right now, it's torment. But as Beckett himself says, his next pitch will be his most important.

We move on. We move up. Long live Youk.

What is it about having Tim Wakefield on the mound that makes the offense shut down? The only run, and the only bright spot of the night at plate, came from a Wily Mo long ball. The rest of the guys checked their bats at the door and cranked the suck-o-meter up a notch. Seriously, is this some sort of team prank? Did Wake make the rounds with all of the players' wives? Shit.

Whatever it is, Bard is in on it. Four passed balls last night. And not all of them were the nasty knuckler. At least one was a belt-high pitch that inexplicably bounced off the top of Bard's glove allowing runners to advance. Even mild-mannered Timmy was showing signs of frustration. Mercifully, this one turned into a blow-out or there would be legions of Sox fans heading to Cleveland with pillowcases full of doorknobs to teach Mr. Bard a hard lesson.

Today, we get the good Josh. As long as we don't get into a plunk-fest (more likely this weekend with the D'Rays), I like our chances. The bats need to snap out of the funk (Byrd has an ERA of 9+), Tek needs to be behind the plate, and Beckett, Timlin, Foulke and Papelbon will take care of the rest.

After this, off to the baseball Hell of the Trop. Indoor Florida baseball, catwalks and Leatherlung. And a weekend sweep.

Curt Schilling: Mostly I pitch, you know, get batters out. Sometimes I take the younger guys out for a leg of lamb and give them a few pointers. How to pitch inside, when to throw the high heat, how to steel-coat your balls, the basics. Paps and Beck, those guys listen, they get it. Some of the others, they need some private lessons, if you get my drift.

David Ortiz: I hit the ball, man. You know, that's what they pay me for. Somebody pitch to me, I hit the ball hard. After the game, I eat. You ever see the spread? Shit.

Manny Ramirez: I do what I want, man. I check out different hair styles, do-rags, wrist bands. I have the look. Not that Johnny Damon shit, I'm talking about the look. Oh, and I hit homeruns. You remember back in the day? Pitchers would walk Jimmy Rice and pitch to Dewey? Every time, Dewey hits a homerun. Like Papa Jack taught me, somebody gotta pay. They wanna walk Ortiz? Pay now or pay later, man. That's how I roll.

Kevin Youkilis: I do what the team needs. I play first, I play third, I get on base. During homestands I go around the park, tighten up any loose screws on the seats, repaint the section numbers if they're fading, I like to help out.

Jon Papelbon: I strike people out. I save games. I keep the ladies happy.

Willie Harris: I, uh...interface with the people? Well, somebody has to hit ninth, right? Did you see the ball I almost caught last night? And a couple more hits and my average will be over a hundred! OK, I'm just keeping the spot warm for Adam. But I've got people skills!

Flipping through the channels last night and I get all caught up in NESN's rebroadcast of Clemens' 20-K masterpiece against the Seattle Mariners from 1986. Suddenly, I'm a wee lad in West Roxbury, toiling away on some homework, listening to this bugger on the radio, and spazzing out with every K, running downstairs to shriek to my dad, "Hey! He just struck out another one." It was an amazing bit of baseball theater, and the harbinger of great things to come for El Rocket and the 1986 Red Sox.

Hell, I'd been a fan before. You had to be in my family. If you wanted to eat, you rooted for the Sox. And if you didn't, God help you. I recall my dad giving hell to Uncle Hector, a lifelong Tigers fan, at a family barbecue. "You like the Tigers so much, why don't you get Mark Fidrych to cook you a steak?" he'd scream, waving his tongs like a man possessed and flinging loaded plates across the yard. When you came to visit, you came correct, sporting your Sox hat or windbreaker, or you didn't come at all. So it was in my blood. I was born with it. But it wasn't until that night in 1986 -- watching Roger stomp all over the mound like General Goddam Patton -- that I officially fell in love.

For that stretch of two and a half hours, Roger was Iron Man, all jets blazing and lasers firing and Spike Owen grabbing his own balls in disbelief. Okay, yeah, it was the 1986 Mariners, featuring Owen and... Phil Bradley! And it could be argued that the toughest thing Roger had to do was keep himself from busting a gut at the sight of Gorman Thomas squeezed into that hi-day-ous Seattle uniform. But watching him on that mound again, looking like a skittery high-schooler and throwing like some blasted machine, I remember just how incredible it was to have this guy around. Not to mention the off-the-charts nostalgia factor. Look, it's Steve Lyons in centerfield! And Sammy Stewart in the bullpen! And Monty as your color man! And, holy crap, Sean McDonough had hair!

Looking back, that it all ended in tears and unopened champagne and bloody knuckles and broken glass and Ron Darling is beside the point. Any years that were shaved off my life by that World Series meltdown were restored tenfold in 2004. Bottom line is we got to see one of the game's greatest pitchers in the defining year of his career, and also got a taste of the badness of ass to come. Remember when he won the MVP and Henry Aaron said pitchers shouldn't be eligible? Clemens said he wished Hammerin' Hank was still playing, so he could crack him in the head. You might call that disrespect. I call it freakin' hilarious.

Oh, and while we're stepping into the wayback machine, allow me this one indulgence. No one ever believes me when I explain to them that in 1986, on the heels of that inexplicable Monkees revival, some geniuses decided to launch The New Monkees! Forget Davy, Peter, Mickey and Mike. We've got Dino! Larry! Marty! And Jared! It didn't last long, but someone deserves a congressional medal of honor for uploading a shitload of New Monkees clips to YouTube. Check this video to the never-played-anywhere "Boy Inside the Man." Or try "Carlene." Or "The Corner of My Eye." Or my personal favorite, "Whatever It Takes" -- which is a textbook piece of 80s pop. Seriously, when visitors from another world ask us what music sounded like in 1986, just play this. They'll understand. Oh, and the New Monkees didn't just sing. Like their predecessors, they acted! In comedy bits! Here, just watch an episode of their show. I'll be in the bathroom, freebasing Pixy Stix.

And with that, I'm off to New York, handing the keys to Denton for the next couple days. See you Friday. Go Sox.

You know that scene in Star Wars where Luke and Leia and crew bust ass out of the Death Star toward the Millennium Falcon, stormtroopers blasting away at them and Ben Kenobi's empty cloak still smoldering on the floor? That's kinda how I picture the Sox leaving Toronto yesterday; Vernon Wells and Frank Catalanotto chomping their heels, everyone making a mad dash for the safety of their airplane, and Terry Francona having a quiet consultation with a couple droids in the back row.

Honestly, though, after Saturday's pasting, it was nice to escape with the W. Now we don't have to suffer through the dreaded "off day" with thoughts of a four-game losing streak dancing in our heads.

Even though we knocked in three runs in the first inning, I didn't have a good feeling about this one until the bottom of the sixth. The Jays are pesky f--kers, and with one out and the go-ahead run on first, and Keith Foulke entering the game, I envisioned every worst case scenario my brain could conjure, from a three-run homer to Dick Van Dyke jetpacking his way onto the field to man-hug everyone in the bullpen. But Foulkie came through, striking out Adams and getting Catalanotto to pop out. Just like that, magic.

It didn't hurt that the offense came up big as well. A first-inning home run from Papi, who will soon be voted onto Mount Olympus. Two hits apiece from Lowell and Youkie. Hell, even A-Gon chipped in with the bat. Man, that's like finding a freshly-iced chocolate cake behind your sofa.

So tonight, we rest. We regroup. We prepare to enter the land of Coco. Oh, and set your clocks for the Yankees. One week from tonight.

Dear Mr. Francona,

What the f--k are you doing? You have an unproven lefty starter going up against a team that eats lefties for brunch. How could you counter that? How about with some offense? Not this crap:

Willie Harris .143
J.T. Snow .125
Dustan Mohr .192
Alex Cora .143

Did you learn nothing from 2005? There are no throw-away games in Major League Baseball. Every game counts. When you end up losing the division or the wild card by a game, yesterday will be the reason why.

I don't want to see that Cora was 1-2 against Halladay in little league or that Lowell and Gonzo needed a blow. We need wins. Matt Clement today. How about we put a few major leaguers in the line-up and get him some frigging run support? Four losses in a row is not acceptable.

I know you're disappointed that Hazel Mae doesn't do the post-game interviews anymore, but you need to get over that. Tina's not that bad.

Take a deep breath before you fill out the line-up card. Youk belongs at first, Lowell at third, Gonzo at short. If Stern has to stay in Pawtucket, give Wily Mo centerfield. Seriously. And how about El Capitan behind the plate? Off day tomorrow Tito. Then back to Schilling on Tuesday. Do the right thing. We have worse pictures than this to use if you keep screwing up.

A game in which Manny hits two home runs, Papi knocks one out as well, and Beckett's on the hill? Man, that's a game where you just park your arse in front of the telly with a steak and an onion loaf and let the good times roll.

Or so I figgered early on.

I am respectfully submitting last night's game for your consideration as "worst loss of the 2006 season" thus far. That was just brutal. And while some might point to Beckett's plunking of Aaron Hill as the beginning of the unraveling, what stands tallest in my mind is that absolutely horrific call on what looked like a strike out of Troy Glaus by Keith Foulke in the twelfth. I mean... dayam.

Worst of all, as is the case with any extra-inning game, there's a greater time investment involved, making the final curtain all the more depressing. That's four hours of our lives we won't be getting back.

If there's any silver to be mined from last evening, it's that El Bencho led Baltimore's charge over the Crankees.

Actually, it was Blogger, sophisticated piece of machinery that it is, that swallowed things up good, forbidding me entrance this morning, and reducing me to posting today's rant in yesterday's comments section. For those of you who appreciate the full "post format" reading experience, I'm happy to present it here.

Swept up in the whirlwind of walk-off homeruns, game-saving catches and Rene Russo strolling around the Fenway green, I've been feeling like the President and CEO of Feel Good Inc. But a loss like last night's is kind of a slap back to reality. It's waking up and finding myself back on an assembly line, rolling sleeves of Necco Wafers. A reminder that there are some concerns which could be chomping at our heels come August. I mean, a 6-4 homestand? How can that be? Didn't we kick the Mariners' collective arse but good? Didn't the Rays implode right before our eyes? Didn't Schilling just turn everyone around at the front gate, explaining that by virtue of his feather-light ERA and general badness of ass, there was no real reason to actually play the game he was scheduled to pitch, and that he's simply taken the liberty of assigning himself a W?

Bottom line is while the pitching has been spectacular -- and even sweet Timmy has put on a much better show than his 1-3 record would indicate -- the hitting has been pretty weak, eerily reminiscent of the 2001 model, where if an opposing pitcher could get past Manny, he could basically sleepwalk past the likes of Chris Stynes, Mike Lansing, Brian Daubach and Troy O'Leary. Kevin Youkilis has been an offensive surprise, but, as Bob Ryan points out in his excellent piece in today's Globe, do we really want to be relying on Youk's bat all year?

Last night, in the ninth inning, I started to get that 2004 vibe. The Sox were down, 5-1, but the chipping away began. With one out, Manny gets a single. Then Lowell gets on base, thanks to the 428th Ty Wiggington error of the series. Then Willie "Who?" Harris laces a hit. And it's bases loaded and fans screaming and people from Hyde Park to Marblehead wearing holes in their carpets pacing back and forth. A couple key hits away from pandemonium in the stands and a 7-3 homestand.

But it doesn't happen. Nixon Ks. Tek flies out. I open the bottle and swig prodigiously.

Tonight, we get Beckett vs. Burnett. Strap yourselves in, and watch for Geddy Lee, typically seated to the left of your screen in the Rogers luxury box.

Note to NESN, #2881-B: During games such as last night's, when the proceedings become so one-sided that an opposing team's hopes just dissipate into the Kenmore air like sausage steam and stale beer mist, even the most die hard Sox fan might find him or herself wandering over to FOX or the Spanish channel. Here's where you can keep them engaged. Put the game in a tiny box in the upper right hand corner of our screens, and just give us Kelly the Ball Girl in full frame. Mic her up -- christ, she's already on the NESN payroll -- and let her chat with some of the folks sitting around her, give some commentary about the game, tell us what's going on in her life, and so on. I mean, she's become an integral part of the Sox community, yet there's still so little we know about her. For example, what's her phone number? And can I have it?

Even better, link her up to Remdawg and Don O and let the three of them riff mercilessly on the proceedings. God knows Rem and Don look forward to these blowouts so they can flex their thespian muscles (as last night's bizarre Larry King bit illustrated). Turn it into an improvisational theater bit and I guarantee the ratings will hold, even as the Sox unload can after can of beatdown.

On a serious note, the Gods of Karma seems to have an ownership interest in Major League Baseball (wasn't it 2003 when the Sox unloaded on the Florida Marlins with 20 runs one night, only to lose an excruciating game the following evening?), so I won't tempt them with any egregious D-Rays bashing. Suffice it to say that last night, our pals from Tampa Bay looked woefully out of sync, as if some of them were channeling a baseball game happening in an alternate universe. The Sox, meanwhile, continued to tear it up, with the offense delivering a seven-run third inning, and Schilldog, while not quite as sharp as previous outings this season, striking out seven and holding the Rays to one measly run. Our Man Curt is 4-0. The Greek God of Walks (3-for-4 with a home run) has been reborn as the Greek God of Kicking Y'alls Azz. Mike Lowell continues to deliver at the plate. And Adam Stern, likely Pawtucket-bound tonight, made another SportsCenter-friendly catch.

But the potential for drama exists tonight. We have Wakey pitching, so things can go either way. And the Rays counter with Scott Kazmir, who Schill accused of throwing at several Sox hitters. Could this be the night that Rudy Seanez's ultimate fighting skills are put to the test? Stay tuned.

We're 14 games deep and I've already had three near-heart attacks.

That's like half my entire 2005 total. And, eerily enough, it seems like this is going to be the norm.

No easy listening this year, punks. No Kenny Rogers [the singer, not the tool] patting you on the head and turning down the covers. No soft-boiled egg and neatly-trimmed stack of wheat toast waiting at your breakfast table. No bluebirds and fuzzy puppets and Matt Lauer forming a conga line up your driveway. This year's edition is all Red Bull and bacon and nicotine and lightning bolts. It's balls-in-the-meatgrinder torment, keeping your pulse pounding until the final cataclysmic moment. It's Dave Mustaine and Trent Reznor and James Hetfield screaming in your ears and dragging you out of bed because the frickin' game's only in the eighth inning, you weiner, and anything -- and we mean anything -- can happen. So don't just assume your boys have won or lost, sit your ass down in front of the f--king TV and see it unfold.

Seriously, I can't recall another season that packed more drama into the first couple weeks. Between the one-run nailbiters and walk-off homeruns and balls-out saves and diving catches, I've already pushed my blood pressure well out of the safety zone. And it's only April? Sweet Melissa! Imma need a counselor to get me through it all.

Two days after a tight, one-run victory and one day after The Mark Loretta Patriots Day Extravaganza, we get this fantastic bit of drama -- a one-run affair through the first six, until all heck broke loose and 10 runs scored between the seventh and eighth. Not to mention the fact that it was the D-Rays in the house, so we're already expecting anything from a Joey Gathright roundhouse kick to gunplay in the outfield. And it all came down to a spectacular holy-crap-did-he-really-catch-that? snag by Adam Stern to seal the deal. Before you could even wrap your brain around what was happening, Papelbon was pumping his fists and "Dirty Water" was in the air. Just like that, it's "pass the smokes" time.

I mean, how friggin' close was that catch? Even watching the replays, my eyes had to have a sit-down with my brain to explain -- with the help of a sliderule and pie-chart -- that, yeah, motherf--ker, the ball actually landed in his glove. It didn't bounce up or glean against the soft bed of green beneath it. And after about, oh, a half-hour, I finally believed it myself. We won. Again.

Does it even make sense? I know 2004 changed the rules, but I still feel biologically programmed to expect the worst. As the ninth inning progressed, and Papelbon loaded the bases, I could almost hear the talk show blather. The kid's finally lost it. Cracking under the pressure. Can't win 'em all.

But somehow, against every law of nature, it seems as if we are winning them all, in the most hair-raising, gut-wrenching, squeeze-the-last-droppa-sweat-from-yer-body fashion. Best record in the American League (We're up here, Johnny!). And Manny's starting to hit. And Youk is being fitted for his cape. And Schilling's going for win number four in less than twelve hours.

I'm already expecting another heartstopper. And I'm cool with that.

Attention Kevin Youkilis:

What can I say? I'm sorry.

Ever since it was reported that you'd be taking over first base duties, I've led a one-man campaign to smear your good name. The bat would go dead, I promised. The defense -- even though a fancy hat rack might prove an effective upgrade over Kevin Millar's glovework -- would be deplorable. It was time, I thought, to climb upon JT Snow's shoulders and let him carry us into the promised land.

But, like so many other things, I was wrong. Your suck factor has been ridiculously low, you've made a respectable showing atop the batting order, and you've been flashing some serious leather on this homestand. Most recently, you've wormed your way into my heart by single-handedly resuscitating a game that, for all intents and purposes, was lying cold on the floor. Hauling your prodigious ass down the first base line, you injected more adrenaline into this city than the twenty-two thousand marathoners ambling up Heartbreak Hill could ever hope to. Within the blink of an eye, you turned it all around. Before we even knew what was going on, there was hope. There was opportunity. There was... Loretta.

Seriously, not since the 2004 ALCS have we pocketed a game that seemed more out-of-reach. We were toast. Toast, I say. Mere inches away from having our nuts stepped on by the likes of Carl Everett, Roberto Petagine and Everyday Eddie Guardado. Then Youk legs one out, and we've got the tying run on first. And when Loretta stepped to the plate, I'll guarantee there wasn't a single mind that wasn't focused on the guy standing behind him in the on-deck circle. Listening to EEI, I kept trying to push positive mojo through the speakers. "Just stick yer goddam face in front of one, dude... take one for the team!" Anything to get on base and let loose the terror that is Ortiz.

Turns out, Loretta worked out just fine, belting a walkoff homerun and officially ringing in "bats--t time" in the stands. And if ever there was a moment for Joe and Jerry to say, "screw the FCC" and cut loose with a "Holy f--king s--t! We won", that was it.

Ten hits from the top five in the lineup. Two home runs by Papi (come clean, Red Sox front office... this guy's an android, right? I mean... he's gotta be). A respectable fill-in start by Lenny DiNardo. Manny showing signs of emerging from the quagmire. Julian Tavarez and dugout phones co-existing peacefully. Thirty-six thousand people drunk with love, hugging strangers, and screaming for a dude named Loretta. It was The Game of this short season. And it was a good day.

And thanks to Dover and Josh Blue for performing emergency play-by-play in yesterday's comments for a couple fans who couldn't access any online gamecasts. Come get us, Bud Selig.

The 2006 Red Sox notched their 4th one-run victory of the young season. The winning formula? Beckett, Timlin and Papelbon. Along with Curt Schilling, these guys are on their way to something special this year. Schilling and Beckett are both 3-0. Papelbon has 6 saves in as many opportunities. Timlin has pitched 4 innings and has a Bluto Blutarsky ERA of zero point zero.

Until the early injuries heal and the big bats come to life, the Sox will need every bit of pitching they can get. The Patriot's Day brunch game will be a call to arms. DiNardo will pitch in place of an overweight, ineffective...I mean "hurt" David Wells. He is likely to go only 80-90 pitches before the depth of the bullpen will be tested.

Trot Nixon should be back in the line-up in place of Wily Mo. Pena has struggled in right defensively. At the plate he's been OK, but hasn't shown his power yet. Nixon, by the way, has a career .400 average against Seattle starter Gil Meche. David Ortiz is .444 lifetime. It would be a good way to start the day by getting to Meche early and giving DiNardo and crew a lead to work with. You hearin' that Manny? The defense has been nice, but the $160 million was for your bat!

Starting Tuesday, the D'Rays are in town. Always a good time.

...and only two regarding yesterday's game:

1) When did Tito begin taking hallucinogens? I mean, when he constructed that line-up, did he plan on equipping each of his batters with a howitzer each time they stepped to the plate? Stern, Cora, Ortiz, Manny, Youk, Snow, Pena, Bard and A-Gon? Sweet Fancy Moses, Tito, my neighbor's ferret could have told you that attempting to score runs with that line-up would be like trying to tie a knot in a stream of urine. That was three hours of my life I'll never get back.

2) How many of you knew that it was over when we couldn't plate a single run after loading the bases with no outs in the second. All of you? I thought so.

3) Who thinks we've seen the last of David Wells in a Sox uni?

In other news, the former pride of Northeastern University, Carlos Pena, signs a minor league deal with the Crankees.

See you at 2:00pm, Beckett Standard Time.

Such a curious thing, this 2006 Red Sox team. Last night's offensive hero, Alex Gonzalez, began the evening hitting .167. Manny Ramirez looks like a guy who can't find his ass with both hands whenever he steps to the plate (now checking in at a most un-Mannylike .200). Mike Lowell, who I previously feared would be the official team albatross, is absolutely crushing the ball at Fenway. The Mighty Wily Mo Pena is, as Men at Work once sang, "six foot tall and full of muscle," but reduced to spare change whenever he takes a bat in his hand. And Curt Schilling has been reborn as the heart, soul and fury of the team.

After two games in which our starters got slapped around like a fat kid in a monkey suit, the Schill Dog reasserted himself as the Prince of Route 109, striking out seven -- including a critical punchout of Ichiro with the tying run on third in the sixth. His ERA is a paltry 1.64, and in last night's incredibly non-ankle-friendly conditions, he got more bad-ass as the evening progressed. When can we finally say it's not a fluke? When can we finally admit the dude's back in the saddle, calling the shots, lovin' the ladies, and bringing the pain?

All I know is it's early Saturday morning. We've got Timmy on the hill this afternoon. Then it's hurry up and clear away the f--king Easter ham, Ma, because it's Beckett vs. Washburn.

Tune in. Turn on.

Seeing a Sox pitcher get whapped around like a sick bunny for the second night in a row can be disconcerting. And when the Jays put up that six-spot in the second inning, I reached for my dogeared copy of "Better Living Through Punching Yourself in the Nuts."

Reflecting on the entire game, however, although it was ugly to be sure, I walk away a happier man. After Wednesday night's loss, I lamented the lack of a killer offense, the absence of the spice that defined Sox teams of the past couple years, which would fight tooth and nail to overcome even the most staggering of deficits. But last night, we put up five runs over the last two innings, and at the very end, we had the scenario we wanted: Ortiz at the plate representing the tying run. Sure, he flew out on the first pitch, but the point is we had the chance -- a chance that, about two hours earlier, seemed about as likely as Scarlett Johansson showing up at my place to use me as her personal bacalounger.

That said, it's gonna be a long, frustrating summer if Wells, Clement and Wakey can't find some consistency, or if -- God forbid -- Schill or Beckett hit the DL for any length of time. This is a team that, at least on paper, was designed primarily to prevent runs, not score them in great bunches. And with every run the opposition scores, I find myself asking how A-Gon or Wily Mo are gonna help us get that run back.

Alright. Enough looking back. We press on. The Mariners are in town, and we have Schilling tonight to get us back on track. Then Wakey on Saturday and a big-ass Easter Sunday Smackdown between Jarrod Washburn and Josh Beckett.

Oh, and if the Sox get steamrolled tonight, let me be the first blogger to claim the title "The Long Good Friday" for tomorrow's post.

There are those who pointed to David Wells' refusal to run the "line o' high fives" with his teammates during Tuesday's introduction ceremonies as a brazen display of his contempt for this team and his desire to go play somewhere else. I had a different theory. See, with his start against them a mere 24 hours away, I figgered Wells didn't want to give the Toronto hitters any insight as to just how healthy and nimble he was following his off-season surgery. Seriously, I chalked it up as part of the Boomer Strategy.

After last night's besting at the hands of the Jays, I now realize it mighta just been that the guy was really tired. Or silently protesting our government's Rwanda policy. Or preoccupied with Subway's new line of staggeringly pretty meat sandwiches.

Whatever the case, it was just an ugly display from start to finish. And while I sat there and watched it unfold, a part of me thought, "Well, seven runs is steep... but we can pull it out." Then I realized that we've got a different set of sticks up there on offense. Over the past few years it seemed that no game was ever truly out of sight. A 7-4 deficit in the seventh inning? Feh. A pittance, I would say. But this year? I'll admit; I was worried.

And, in the end, the fears were somewhat justified. We plated nothing through the last three innings, and an awful lot of folks were left swatting at air. At the top of the order, Youk and Loretta went 0-for-10. Tek and Manny went 0-for-7. A-Gon continues to shine defensively while checking in at .148.

But so early in, we embrace the positive. Nobody got shot. Also, Pena, apparently tired with knocking balls out of the park with his glove, delivered his first Red Sox home run. Papi and Mohr went yard as well. And Mike "I hit doubles like you mortals can only dream about" Lowell collected another two-bagger.

Eh, what can you do but move on. And so we do. See you tonight for Lilly vs. The Emancipator.

* * * * * * * *

Bonus Batter: Some worthless observations and opinions after watching Tuesday's home opener.

-- Understand: I ::heart:: tradition. And the Boston Red Sox are a team steeped in tradition. So tradition is and always will be part of the opening day ceremonies. But, that said, how many times are we going to cart out the likes of Bobby Doerr and Johnny Pesky and Yaz and Slim Jim Phantom and Wally "Billy" Yates? Listen: All you need to get everyone in a silly-ass mood is cue up the last fifteen minutes of Faith Rewarded. Play that on yer jumbotron and the good times will most definitely roll. That's all the ceremony I need. And if you feel the need to bring in some personalities, just have Dave Roberts come out to the mound, wave, then head back inside. Instant five minute ovation. Then play ball.

-- That knocked-down-by-Loretta, picked-up-by-A-Gon, thrown-to-Youk double play was the coolest thing I've ever seen that didn't involve Jessica Alba.

-- Speaking of Youk, I have to give the guy the love for his opening day performance. Not only two hits, but that fine over-the-shoulders catch.

-- Two appearances in and I'm ready to enlist as Presdient of the Josh Beckett Appreciation Society. But the guy who's got me totally revved for the 2006 season is Schilling. I mean, we expected Beckett to be nails; Schill was more of a question mark. It's only been a week, but the fact that these two guys are a combined 4-0 with a 1.61 ERA is bloody magical.

-- Congrats to my Uncle Mario who wins the annual family "when's Trot goin' down?" sweepstakes. For the record, I had next Tuesday.

-- Adam Stern still looks to me like he should be a character in a John Hughes film. Not a main character, mind you, but perhaps the main character's best bud who's prone to mischief and once got a smoothie from a nun.

-- Lowell's 4-for-4 showing helped ease a lot of my concerns, but it also conjures memories of Tony Clark's home run during Fenway Opening Day 2002. Dude went on to hit 2 more over the course of the season.

-- Ortiz got the loudest applause during the introductions, but unless my ears decieve me, Kapler seemed to get the second loudest. And I'm fine with that.

-- I'd like to be the 3,482nd person to officially point out that more than a week into the season, Bronson Arroyo has two more home runs than Manny Ramirez. Sorry, I just think that's the friggin' funniest thing ever.

Opening Day at Fenway. Magic and anticipation swirl about in the warm spring air. This is one of baseball's finer moments.

And the Red Sox fulfilled the expectations of the packed house with a solid 5-3 win over the trendy-pick-to-compete-for-the-AL East Toronto Blue Jays. Josh Beckett started out a little shaky with a 36-pitch first inning but settled into his live-wire, bundle of emotion self for the next six. Foulke and Papelbon did what they've been doing for the first week of the season, closing out the last couple of frames.

At the plate, Mike Lowell stepped out of the time machine to go 4-4. Big Papi, he of the new long term contract, hit a solo-shot insurance run to the delight of the crowd, and probably the front office as well.

On the other side of the coin, whoever had game 7 in the "when will Trot get hurt" pool, you're a winner. Two starting outfielders hurt, and the depth of the team will be tested immediately. Wily Mo Pena did not exactly wow the fans at the plate or in the field. He was unable to come up with a fly ball against the bullpen wall, resulting in a two-run homer. And he looked bad at the plate. Again. Have some patience with Wily Mo, he can play the game. He filled in for Junior Griffey last year in Cincy and did well.

Defense ruled the game (Wily Mo aside) with a great play by Loretta to start a double play, showing his ups to knock down a line-drive. The bounce conveniently went to Gonzalez and Youk finished the play with a nice stretch at first. Speaking of Youk, the man was a web gem last night! He made a great basket catch on a foul ball that landed him on ESPN.

All in all, it was just what you'd like to see every night. Seven strong from your starter, set-up and close. Good defense and plenty of offense. Spring is here. Baseball is back. All is well.

The picture is for the ladies!

For the past ten years, Fenway Opening Day has been my Christmas. It's a holiday. It's a holy day. It's a day no work is done. Because we don't want to fill our minds with such frivoloties as marketing plans, focus groups and direct mail campaigns. Not when there's a blue sky, green grass, lemon yellow sun and ice cold beer lined up in clear plastic cups. Not when the crowds are milling about at 9:00am, gripping their pennants and scorecards and fully-posable Daryl Irvine action figures, and the smell of weiners and sausage and fried food hangs like a cloud from West Roxbury to Revere Beach. Not when we've endured shot after shot of the infield and grandstands covered in snow, a curious device employed by the local media year after year, as if to torment us into thinking that today will never come.

There was a time when I made the scene in person. Like when Manny swatted that three run dinger in his first at bat for the hometown crowd. Or when Mo Vaughn crushed a gopher ball from Heathcliff Slocumb [fancy that!] into the right field seats, punctuating a riotous ninth inning comeback. Or when Jose Offerman went 3-for-3, prompting me to pose the musical question, "Mo who?" We got there early and we stayed until the bitter end and we screamed until our tonsils said "f--k this" and simply snapped themselves off and strolled away. And we never paid to park... just ask my dad, who endured my endless rounds down Huntington, up Brookline, and across the secret Boston Latin School sidestreet, forever in search of that elusive Fenway Opening Day freebie.

About four years ago, tickets got harder to come by. But it was still an event. We moved the TV into the "big room." We set up the chairs to look like rows of cheap seats. We splashed beer on the walls and smashed cigarettes on the carpet and tossed the celebratory Pedro Martinez beanie baby around like some sacred totem ["Don't f--king touch it! You'll jinx us all!"]. And we consumed more meat than most third world denizens will choke down in a lifetime. And we watched the postgame. And we talked about it and analyzed it from every angle and wondered if Tony Clark's homerun was a fluke, or the shape of things to come. And we dreamed big. Because that's what you do on Fenway Opening Day [capitalized, naturally, because it needs to be].

Today, sadly, marks the end of an era. My job beckons, and I must answer its clarion call. I'll be in a sterile office building when Josh Beckett takes the hill this afternoon, seated at a desk surprisingly void of beer stains. But I'll have Joe and Jerry with me. And while my eyes may gaze blankly at the spreadsheet on the screen before me, my heart and mind will be on Yawkey Way. Section 16. Row 7.

My name's Red. And I hope you enjoy today's game.

Deceptively beautiful. Fluttering towards the batter begging to be hit, only to dance away from the bat at the last second. It is the knuckleball. And it's master is Tim Wakefield. In a chilly Camden Yards he left a gang of Orioles frustrated and perhaps a bit sheepish. Because the knuckleball doesn't just make you miss, it taunts you. The fastball beats you with it's power, the curveball dazzles you with it's sweeping arc, the changeup tricks, posing as a fastball then darting away. But the knuckleball beguiles you. Like a butterfly it dances toward you, slowly, harmlessly. And as you walk back to the dugout, it whispers to you.

For a pitcher, the knuckleball is just as dangerous. It is a fickle mistress, unwilling to be controlled. Consecutively, it can drop two feet in front of it's intended destination and skip past the catcher, then refuse to dance at all and be sent to the bleachers like some weak fastball. That was the case in Texas, leaving Wakefield the only Red Sox starter with a loss and Josh Bard the target of a Nation's anger. Not so in Baltimore yesterday.

Wakefield harnessed in his best pitch and led the Sox to a 4-1 victory over the Orioles. It wasn't the complete-game, one-hit shutout, ten strikeout control he's capable of bringing. For that, conditions must be perfect and the knuckleball a bit more submissive to the desires of the pitcher. But it was a step in that direction. Sixty-three of his 93 pitches were strikes, just 5 hits and 2 walks over 6 innings with 4 K's and a single unearned run. Oh, and no wild pitches or passed balls.

Not only is Wakefield redeemed, but so is Bard. So wrongly accused of making Wakefield look bad, when in fact it was simply the knuckleball's brazen disobedience making them both look bad. Bard, along with fellow newcomers Snow and Loretta helped out with the bats as well. Not to mention Adam Stern, picking up where he left off in spring training with a couple of hits and 2 RBI. It had the "everyone contributes" feeling of a certain 2004 team. The bullpen continued to shine: Timlin in the 7th, a little Foulke music in the 8th, and Papelbon in the 9th.

And now comes the absolute buzz kill of an off-day during a win streak. Not just any off-day but the interminable day before the home opener. As if a Fenway home opener isn't enough, this one features Josh Beckett. Who better to feed off the electricity of the Fenway Faithful and transform it into an emotional display of raw power and desire to win? It should be magical.

Welcome home, Red Sox. Welcome home, baseball.

First things first, yesterday's game was played in Baltimore, right? At Camden Yards? Because unless it was just a souped-up NESN trick, it seemed to me like the crowd was almost 100% pro-Red Sox, cheering after every Baltimore strike out and roaring at every Sox hit. It almost got to the point of embarassment, really. Like where you feel so bad for the O's, you want to drive over to the park in person to dish out hot roast beef sandwiches for Miggy, Conine and crew.

Nevertheless, after Friday's 14-run stompathon, it was good to see another old-fashioned nut grinder. One of those everything-hangs-on-every-pitch games where you clutch onto your precious, slender lead like Roger Ebert straddling the last cheesecake on the dessert cart, and pray to God and Sonny Jesus that when the final out is recorded, you'll still have it secured in your grip.

Thankfully, we had Schill on the hill to make it happen. Man, I know he's only two games in, but giving up a scant three hits over seven innings, dude looks like he's back. Further, he looks like a man possessed out there, his eyes a bit buggier and his hair a bit wilder than it seemed over the past couple years (toss a Sox cap on Doc from Back to the Future and you're halfway there). Maybe it's the presence of a couple young studs in Beckett and Papelbon that has him strapping on the guns; a desire to show the kids who's boss. Maybe it's the personal need to erase the messy epic that was his 2005 season. Whatever the case, Schilling is on, and if he stays that way throughout the summer, the good times will most definitely roll.

And while our offense only conjured 7 hits, they came from some inspiring places. Like Manny continuing to get himself into "destroy all" mode with another couple hits, one a wicked rocket off the right field wall. Tek had a couple doubles, knocking in the winning run. Hell, even Youkilis' bat played a key role -- a sentence we hope we'll be reading with greater frequency as the season progresses -- plating the first run of the game. Wily Mo, on the other hand, look like someone trying to bring down Saturn, swinging furiously but catching only air in his two at bats. Had he ever connected, though... holy god.

So today, we have the promise of sunshine in the Boston area. And Timmy on the hill against the craft Rodrigo Lopez. And the Yankees 1-4. And the hometown opener just two days away.

Let's roll.

Especially when you get 14 of 'em. Throw in 16 hits and you've got a shitload of baserunners and an old-fashioned Friday night beat down. No sense in going through the numbers but suffice to say it was a good team effort.

I know the season is only 4 games old but I can't lie - I love looking at this...

Boston 3-1
Baltimore 2-2
Tampa Bay 2-2
Toronto 2-2
Yankees 1-3

Two questions for Mr. Francona:

Why leave Clement in when he was clearly out of gas? What is the obsession with having him finish the 7th inning? The win was in hand, it was his first outing of a long season, and his stats are skewed by garbage time runs. I'm watching you, Tito.

Why didn't Wily Mo get in the game? Don't tell me we're going to let this guy rot on the bench. I know we have great starting outfielders and Stern deserves a shot after his spring, but this was a blowout - what better time to everyone an at-bat or two?

In AAA, Wells got knocked around - 5 innings, 7 runs, six hits. Not sure it means anything...

Saturday brings us Schilling. You have to like the 2006 model, not just for his gem of a first start but also for the cheerleading from the dugout when Beckett and Papelbon were pitching. He should mow through the likes of Nick Markakis and David Newhan.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got an intervention to attend at Red's house.

Some worthless observations after watching the first three games of the season.

Josh Beckett + packed house at Fenway is gonna equal unstoppable awesomeness.

I'm definitely digging Tina Cervasio, NESN's new Sox onfield reporter. Not so much that I'm ready to put away my Kelly the Ball Girl posters and wood carvings, mind you... but still digging her nonetheless.

One of the best things about the start of the Sox season? You know how you felt when you were watching Wednesday night's game, and after Papelbon shut 'em down, the NESN cameras showed Beckett pumping his fist and jumping the railing to the dugout steps? That feeling, right there? That's it.

Everytime I find myself wanting to hate on Keith Foulke, I just slap Faith Rewarded into the DVD player, and remember just how critical he was to one of the greatest months of my life.

At 1 for 10, Manny's starting up a little slow. But that means all holy hell will soon break loose when he does flip the switch. I like when holy hell happens. So this will be good.

Without a Sox game last night, I ended up watching the Orioles/D-Rays, courtesy of Comcast MLB Season Ticket's free preview. During a break, they showed a house ad for the Orioles, encouraging fans to get out, buy some tickets, and support the hometown team. And when Kevin Millar's mug comes onscreen, telling people to come on down to Camden Yards, I blink a couple times and say, "What the f--k is Millar doing hawking Os tickets?" And then I remembered. Despite his relatively short tenure here, it seems weird to see El Bencho in another team's uni.

Write this down: Hero of the 2006 season = Matt Clement.

See you at 7:05 for the ultimate battle for first place.

Wow.
Josh Beckett mowing down batters. Fists pumping and attitude flowing. Schill in the dugout, watching like a proud father, animated, smiling. An absolutely giddy RemDawg in the booth. Timlin in the eighth...Papelbon in the ninth? Yup. The torches have been passed, friends. Welcome to Red Sox Nation. Good things coming our way.

1) "It's only April" - Last time I checked, a game in April counts as much as a game in September. Remember 2005? We had the same record as the Yankees but they won the division? I don't think we want to go back and look at how many early games we lost in ass-aching splendor that could have given us the division.

2) "He had good stuff" - Yeah, right. Case in point: last night. Wake had shit. He was bouncing balls 2 feet in front of the plate and the-guy-who-isn't-Mirabelli just couldn't handle them. Don't get me wrong, I love Tim. He is truly one of the good guys, just ask anyone at the Jimmy Fund which player is there the most. Tim Wakefield. The reality is he just doesn't pitch well in that stadium.

3) "We have to tip our caps" - F--K that shit. This team is built to win, not to play nice-nice when they get their asses handed to them. Sure, they'll run up against a hot pitcher or a bunch of hitters in the groove, but save the cliches for a win, OK?

4) "It's a marathon, not a sprint" - This little gem is generally saved for the inexplicable "resting" of key players at inopportune points in the season. It's just as long a season for the other team, and they seem to always have their stars playing. Take a little advice from Sam Elliot in Roadhouse: "I'll get plenty of rest when I'm dead" - well, he did have a knife stuck in his neck a few minutes later, but you get the point.

All in all, we got a good old-fashioned shellacin' last night. I'm not buying into the theory of pitching Wake between Schilling and Beckett to break up the two fast-ballers. How many times are these guys going to throw in the same series during the year? I say pitch your best arm when he's available. This isn't chess club.

Finally, why put a Manny picture up? No idea, it kind of looked like he was working on a new "Dancing With The Stars" crossed with the "monster" in Young Frankenstein trying to dance. And we know he's just off to a slow start, but when he heats up, God help opposing pitchers. At 8:05 we get our first real look at Josh Beckett - I'm calling for a big win. See you there.

Dude. The Red Sox are going to win the World Series.

Alright, maybe that's too bold a statement. Let's just say they totally went above and beyond my wildest expectations in the first game of the 2006 season.

First, we had the Schill-dog giving up a measly 5 hits over 7 innings and looking more godlike than gimpy for the first time in some time. Okay, one of those hits was a two-run homer by Hank Blalock, but the guy hit 96 on the radar gun and located his pitches quite nicely, collecting five Ks and walking only one batter.

Second, we had Covelli Crisp, who went 1-for-5, but made a couple tremendous snags in the outfield, including this spectacular bit of backhanded goodness off a Laynce Nix bullet in the ninth. Guy also gets around the bases like he's jetpack-propelled. Not since Pokey Reese's 2004 inside-the-park job at Fenway have I seen a Sox player motor like that. And his charming post-game interviews are only the icing on the cake. This guy's gonna be the Mayor of Boston by August.

Third, we had Papi. Who just shows up, punches the clock, belts three hits including a two-run homer, then grabs his sack lunch and moseys out into the sunset, as the closing theme music to The Incredible Hulk lilts softly in the background.

We also had some big hits from unlikely places. Mike Lowell, who during his first couple at bats looked every bit the smacked ass we feared he'd be, conked a shot to left field in the eighth. A-Gon, who more or less went 0-for-spring training, picked up a couple hits.


We also had Theo and crew making nice-nice with Roger Clemens, dragging out secret weapon #452-B (AKA Rocket's pal and former drinking buddy Al Nipper) and generally doing their best to lure the dude back to Boston for another go-round. Though I'm never one to underestimate the sheer prickitude of the Hendricks Brothers or our friends in the Bronx, hearing Roger talk, you'd swear Boston is about the only place he's considering. I'll admit, I'm all caught up in this.

It wasn't all cupcakes and handjobs, though. Keith Foulke is apparently still stuck in 2005 form, and the two hits and one run he gave up might have been worse had Crisp not handled Nix's wall-bound shot. Kevin Youkilis, who gets no love here at SG, went 0-for-4, the only starter without a hit.

But these, for now, are minor details. Our boys are back. And everything is right in the world once again. Tonight, we get Wakefield. Tomorrow, we get Beckett. Let it roll.

PS: If you've got Comcast, by all means indulge in the recreational drug that is the free weeklong preview of MLB's Extra Innings.

Out and around: DLowe got spanked in his opening day start for the Dodgers, giving up 8 runs over 5, but freakin' LA almost came back. Nomar sat out with a muscle pull. Hmmmm. El Bencho got a couple hits for the Os, and it's worth checking the replays to see him hauling his ample ass around the bases. Bellhorn struck out in one pinch hit appearance for the Padres, while Roberts went 1-for-4. Oh, and HEL-LO Tina Cervasio, NESN's onfield reporter for the Sox games, whose favorite piece of clothing, according to her NESN bio is "this one pair of ripped Seven jeans".


"Hi, Red."

"People will come, Ray.

They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past.

'Of course, we won't mind if you look around,' you'll say. 'It's only twenty dollars per person.'

They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it; for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers, and sit in shirt-sleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game, and it'll be as if they'd dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick, they'll have to brush them away from their faces.

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.

Oh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come."


* * * * * * * *

Now click here for the audio magic.

Does it get any better than that? Seriously. Does it?

And does anyone actually say the word "baseball" better than Jones in that speech? It's as if we've been saying it wrong all these years, forgetting that it's actually two words, splendiforously tied together. Honestly, I'd support any bill that says for the rest of our lives, whenever anyone uses the word "baseball", Jones' pronunciation should simply be superimposed over it, via some advanced computer chip thingee secured in our brains.

I'mma start a movement, my sisters and brothers. And that movement is the "Terrance Mann for MLB President" movement. Sure, he's a fictional character, which means he'd be tough to secure for most of the important union meetings. But, as a fictional character, he's also likely to be 34% more effective than Bud Selig. And that's gotta count for something.

Better yet, get James Earl Jones to portray Terrance Mann full-time, and be the de facto commissioner. Gotta be a better gig than those Verizon ads. He'd just travel from park to park to recite this masterpiece. Shaking hands, laughing that booming laugh as he pulls on his suspenders. Telling kids to put down the drugs and pick up a baseball. I can see it. And it's beautiful.

It's opening day, folks. Stay home. Watch baseball.

Sure, it's only Cleveland versus the White Sox. Not the big Tampa Bay - Boston rivalry, but it is baseball. Real, live, counts-in-the-standings baseball. C.C. Sabathia dueling Mark Buehrle.

And in just over 24 hours, a Nation is reborn with Red Sox opening day in Texas. And the six-month love affair begins again...

Ladies, you had your chances. You won't have my besotted arse eyeing you deviously from across the bar anymore. Same goes for you, TiVo. Though you tempt me with Kellie Pickler and episodes of the new Doctor Who, I'm afraid I've little use for them.

Beginning Monday, I'll be spending most of my free time with Remy.

No hard feelings. See you in October.