Somehow it seemed too good to be true. Waffles with Beckett. Hashbrowns and Red Bull with Coco. Remy and D.O. in the house while I’m still in my slippers and bathrobe, sleeping off last night’s Jamesons.

The idea of a Red Sox game — an honest to joe, live Sox game — occuring at 10:05am was at once the coolest and most horrifying thing I’ve had to wrap my head around in months. Would the lads go down as easy with my Count Chocula as they do with my Guinness? Could I conjure the strength to repel myself off a wall after Pedroia Ks with two men on and two out in the sixth? More importantly, once the game was over at 12:30pm or so, what the f–k would I have to look forward to for the rest of the day?

Well, Mother Nature took care of all that. Today’s game has now been pushed back to 12:05, and though I’m no Pete Bouchard, I can tell you that the sound of rain and wind against my windows makes me think it could start even later than that.

Folks, I have my heart set on seeing Beckett pitch today. To the point that I’m willing to head out to the Park with my squeegee to assist by any means necessary. Just so you know, Red Sox management. I’m here for you.

Stay tuned. And stay dry.