And this is how it is these days, people. Our boys have it down like flipping a switch. Beckett steps off the DL and back into our hearts, striking out seven over seven like he never missed a beat. Youkilis, who in third world countries is referred to as the mythical Eyaak (translated loosely as “he whose beard frightens small children and cattle”), is ripping things up with the bat, all the while looking like a deranged extra from Escape From New York. Manny’s in the zone and Lowell keeps the naysayers at bay with his hot bat and Dustin, when not writing letters to Santa asking to be three inches taller, is batting over .300 and becoming everybody’s favorite little brother. Tell me you couldn’t see him setting up a lemonade stand right in the basepath between first and second? Because I totally could.

Short of the 2004 postseason, I can’t recall a more enjoyable stretch of baseball viewing. To the point that I don’t want these games to end. I need Remy and DO doing the play-by-play at my breakfast table (“I think here you’re gonna see Red go for the Shredded Wheat. He’s been relying on the Cookie Crisp for a long time and I think he’s gonna switch things up this morning”). I want Tina Cervasio outside my office door, giving me updates on what sort of mood the boss is in and how badly I’ve botched the Williamson deal. I want virtual Eck on the GPS system, guiding me back home. Is it too much to ask?

It’s the best record in baseball and the closest team is 11.5 games behind us in the East. Meanwhile, the Yankees keep finding new and exciting ways to lose ballgames, with Aaron Hill of the Jays stealing home on them last night. All of a sudden, Roger Clemens showing up to pitch next Monday is like Aquaman showing up on the deck of the Titanic, except Roger won’t be bringing an army of telepathic squids with him. It’s almost too little, too late, man.

We’ve got Matsuzaka on the hill tonight and every day is like Sunday. As a wise man once said, I love it when a plan comes together.