You know how I get through the offseason?
Two words. Scarlett Johansson.
The way she laughs in Scoop. The way she smiles in The Prestige. That in-your-face opening shot of her impossibly awesome derriere which is the first thing you see in Lost in Translation — and, for my money, the best part of the whole film. Of any film, for that matter. Not that I’ve had it freeze-framed on my widescreen and taken 174 consecutive meals in front of it throughout the winter months. But if I did, well… I would consider it time well spent, wouldn’t you?
But now the guys are back. Tonight. Big Curt’s on the mound. And although I’m sure I’m taking years off my life by saying this, there are some things that are just more important than Scarlett Johansson’s ass. Actually, only three things. But one of them is the Red Sox.
I know it’s just a Grapefruit League game. We’ll get Curt for a couple innings, then a soft parade of wannabees from the local Kinkos. But the thought of seeing baseball — new, never-before seen Red Sox baseball — on TV again is just too much to resist. I gotta get the foam hand out of storage. Restock the liquor cabinet. Tap the keg of Maalox. Remind the neighbors and nearby women of this terrible, terrible thing that I become when under the infuence of cheap beer and Remy.
It’s been a good run, Scarlett. Well worth the carpal tunnel syndrome I’ve developed. But the guys are back. And I’m gonna need my space.