Further proof that the world makes no sense: Derek Jeter and Harvey Keitel (playing a sort of hybrid of his Mr. White and Winston Wolfe characters) starring in a commercial for Gatorade.

Honestly, I'da figgered Mr. White for a Detroit Tigers fan. But that's just me.

I've attended more Yankees elimination parties than I care to remember, but the AL East standings always seem to shake out the same way -- the Sox hanging one or two rungs below New York.

But this year, based on what we've seen from just one month of play, they look about as defanged, declawed and deflated as I've ever remembered them coming out of the gate. At least under Joe Torre's watch.

The starting pitching has been abysmal. The bullpen has been just as shaky. The great Mariano Rivera has a 12.15 ERA and not a single save to show for the month of April. And the offense that I figured would be good for 6 or 7 runs per game hasn't been able to keep the team from going 9-14.

Worse for New York, the latest rumors on Clemens say the guy isn't going anywhere but Houston.

Of course, as I've stated earlier, we've danced on the Yankees' grave more times than we care to remember, only to be shown up come late September. But what if they don't bounce back? What if Wang, Mussina, Pettitte and crew continue to tank it up? What if Rivera can't nail 'em down like he used to? What if Damon, Matsui, Abreu flounder all year at the plate?

It could happen. Sure, odds say it won't. But it could. Why not them, why not this year?

* * * * * * * *

Is it just me, or did Mientkiewicz seem especially pissy this weekend, complaining about balls and strikes and then, yesterday, barking after that strange play in the fifth where he tried to slide under Tavarez's tag. Turns out, according to the Globe, that the target of Dougie's ire was Cora:

"I went to make sure that Tavarez knew everything was OK and there was no problem," Mientkiewicz told a couple of reporters, including George King of the New York Post. "Then the peanut gallery stepped in. This is the same guy [Cora] that threw an elbow at me on the ground ball he hit to Jeter. And now he's telling me how to play the game right?"

* * * * * * * *

Thoughts and prayers this morning to the family of Josh Hancock. The Cardinals have put up a nice tribute page on their official site, including the perspectives of some Red Sox players. A former Sox prospect, Hancock made his first official major league start as a Red Sock in 2002. From Youk:

"It was kind of shocking when I found out today," said Youkilis. "It was really tough, just more of a shock. I'm still shocked right now. It's just a sad story. I haven't really heard what the whole details are of the whole thing. It hasn't really hit home yet. To all of his family and his friends out there, you just have to say a prayer for them and hope they handle it all right. The St. Louis Cardinals lost a good pitcher today."

* * * * * * * *

Rumors abound that David Ortiz will be on hand and participating in a Q&A at tonight's premiere of Rumbo a Las Grandes Ligas -- a documentary about baseball in the Dominican Republic that features Papi and Vlad Guerrero -- at the Boston Indie Film Festival. We don't know either way, but you can check the Festival's site here. Thanks to our man (and fellow Larry Young worshipper) Brad for the tip.

* * * * * * * *

Oh, the shirt? You can get one of those here.

I just felt that this needed to be said.

I have to sit here and wonder what would have happened if Lugo's smash had gone a foot to either side. Karstens would have stayed in the game, obviously, but for how long? It's a strong possibility the Sox would have tagged him hard, built up a lead, and put a hurtin' on the Yankee bullpen. But we'll never know. Lugo dropped him like a sack of potatoes and Kei Igawa came in to save the day. Wakefield got screwed out of another win. Coco got ejected after questioning why home plate umpire Bruce Froemming's strike zone was suddenly the size of Rosie O'Donnell's ass. All in all, a crappy day for the Sox. Not one of those games that really gets you fuming. The Sox ran into a hot pitcher, nothing more, nothing less. But I do have a few questions...


What's With Kei Igawa's Sunglasses?
We all know it was cloudy in the Bronx. Christ, we could see on television there was no need for shades. Yet Igawa kept them on until he was lifted in the 7th. Was this a fashion statement? Does Igawa fancy himself as the Asian Tom Cruise? The way he had hitters fooled, I have to think the shades were equipped with some high-tech laser that temporarily blinded the batters.

Where Did Youk Learn To Run The Bases?
Seriously, what was he doing? In the first inning, he kind of stutter-stepped...OK, he actually stopped on his way to second, eliminating any possibility of breaking up a double-play. Later in the game, he did the same thing running from second base. If Jeter had played it right, he could have easily thrown Youk out at third, cutting down the lead runner. And speaking of Youk, did anyone notice when he got up in the first that there was water pouring out of his helmet? Not dripping - pouring. I thought his head sprung a leak.

Why Didn't Manny Swing The Bat In The 8th?
After watching his 10-pitch at-bat in the first, I was thinking Manny was back. He was fouling everything off, waiting for his pitch. He never got it but drew a walk. But in the 8th? He struck out looking on 4 pitches, and never took the bat off his shoulder. He represented the tying run with nobody out, and just stood there like he didn't know what to do with the piece of lumber he was holding. This is the guy that hit .550 versus the Yankees last year. Why?

Why Does Torre Wear That Honkin' Watch?
I know, this has nothing to do with the game, or baseball in general for that matter. But did you see the piece of hardware Torre had on his wrist? It looked like something out a Bond movie. Or a Ronco commercial. "It slices! It dices! It tells time in 200 countries! Order now and get the hair dryer attachment free!"

So Tim Wakefield loses another game he pitched well enough to win. And worse, the Yankees get a huge confidence boost with a strong start and good pitching out of the 'pen. Is this all they needed to get on one of their ungodly rolls? Let's hope not. The rubber match features Wang against Tavares. My money's on Tavares to plunk Jeter or A-Rod and start a real donnybrook. And thankfully, it will be Remy and Orsillo telling us about it.

Amazing what you can find with Google. That's Tim Wakefield in the front and Doug Mirabelli over Wake's left shoulder in the back. Yeah, those are real guns used for killin' birds. Anyway, I doubt they'll be packin' today, but hopefully they won't have to against the hapless Yankees. It looks like the weather will cooperate again today and we'll have another ass-kicking to watch. Jeff Karstens brings his two-touchdown-plus ERA against the hot Red Sox bats. Now, I turn you over to the silky smooth voice (and oh, so punchable face) of Joe Buck. I miss RemDawg already just thinking about it.

Pettitte can't get out of the fifth! Mariano can't get out of the ninth (and was lifted for -- oh, the humanity -- Mike Myers)! Abreau, A-Rod, Matsui and Dougie pulling 0-fers! Daisuke rising above a bad inning and the angry mob of a crowd to get the win! The Yankees dropping their seventh in a row in their house at our hands! The NY press calling for Torre's head!

Let's face it, the only person who isn't smiling this morning is George Steinbrenner.

Oh, and probably Vladmir Putin. That sneaky bastard.

The 2007 Yankees, currently languishing in the sub-basement of the AL East, have become everyone's favorite punching bag, most recently knocked around by the Toronto Blue Jays. They've lost six games in a row and if they get swept by the Sox this weekend, expect George Steinbrenner to set loose an army of killer robots on Manhattan.

Seriously, though, there's probably nothing they'd like more than to bust out of their slump by burying our $100 million dollar pitcher. Can Matsuzaka hold down that offense? Are Papi and Manny back to being the one-two fist of death? Does Don Mattingly have the most punchable face in all of baseball.

The answer to that last question is, of course, "yes." For the others... we'll just have to wait and see.

With yesterday's SockGate, I wanted to re-post the original post I posted back then, when the event in question actually happened. So here it is, from October 2004. Re-live the magic. Er... yeah.


See the guy in the photo above? He has balls of steel.

Really.

They are steel.

The children he purports to have are not his spawn. Because his body does not create the chemicals necessary to produce offspring.

Because, as I mentioned, his balls are composed of steel.

Curt's testicles = steel. Like, the metal.

Sure, they're heavy and cause a bit of chaffing. Also, trouser shopping can be adventurous. But they serve him well.

Like in last night's ALCS Game Six. My man had his ankle taped up and shot to high hell with pain relievers and wedged inside a magic boot concocted by the good folks at Reebok. There was rain in the air, wet grass all around, and 55,000 people bearing down on him.

But then the balls took over, and he shut the Yankees down.

The absolute fantastic-ness of this event is impossible to overstate. Two days ago, he was a gimp. A horrific footnote [pardon the pun] to the 2004 season. A million dollar horse that went tits-up when we needed him most.

But then the balls took over. And he was literally a one-legged guy at an ass-kicking contest. And his cleat did find ample ass to strike. And he turned in a one-run-over-seven-innings performance with blood soaking through his socks and sweat coating his back.

It was simply the gutsiest thing MLB has witnessed all year.

On the flipside, we had A-Rod resorting to schoolboy tactics, blatantly knocking the ball from Arroyo's glove on a close play at first, then whining incessantly when he was called out for it.

Maybe God's finally paying attention. Maybe he sees what's up.

Suddenly, the impossible is possible. The economy will rebound. My boss will give me that raise and fit me for the company hovercraft. Angelina Jolie will return my calls. I will get a tan.

My head is spinning and my feet can't touch the ground and we know that this is a different team, because the old team would have given up a three-run jack to former Sox Tony Clark, who represented the winning run at the plate when Keith Foulke whiffed him and made sure we'd be up all night.

I can't sleep. Christ, I can barely breathe. There are blog entries to write. Blog entries to read. Message boards to lurk. Rem-Dawg post-game shows to watch.

And then there's my man Larry Young, who keeps it real on the west coast, whom I e-mailed what seemed a short eternity ago with one simple message: "When the Sox win it all, I'm flying to Cali and kissing you full on the lips."

Tonight, as the Sox romped on the field at the Stadium and the riot police held their ground, he sent his reply: "When do I pick you up at the airport?"

I dare not think it. I dare not speak it. But there's something magical going on. Maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of October can be vanquished once and for all.

And we owe it all to a set of metal onions.

Okay, that might be overstating things. But have you noticed how whenever there's a late-game comeback or dramatic twist or, as was the case last night, a spectacular grand slam, smilin' Eric goes all giddy, jumping up out of his seat to give his teammate the glad hand? Look at him in the far left corner of the photo above. That's a most happy fella. Sure, the guy doesn't play every day. But rather than bitch and moan about it, he just kicks back and gets his cheer on. And for that, we salute Eric Hinske.

Anyway, great game last night. It was impossibly frustrating early on as the Sox couldn't solve Adam Loewen; when Ortiz came up with the bases loaded in the third and dribbled one back to the mound, I swore the Sox would never score another run again in my lifetime. Then in the eighth, Lowell hits a ground-rule double that might have -- and I must stress might have -- scored Manny with the tying run. And again, I cursed the heavens.

But then Pena comes up big with the bases loaded, and suddenly everything turns on one swing of the bat. If someone told me before the game that Ortiz and Pena would both be in bases loaded situations but only one would deliver, I wouldn't have put my cash on Wily Mo. And it feels pretty good to be proven wrong.

So, to recap: a couple days ago, I made light of Wily Mo's inability to connect bat with ball. And last night, he unleashes a monstrous grand slam that propels the Sox to a 5-2 victory over the Os.

With that in mind, let me say that, man, I sure have a feeling that Matsuzaka's gonna tank it in the Bronx tonight.

Also: Reason to Miss Kevin Millar #844-B: When he came out last night with the magic marker blood stain on his sock, it was vintage El Bencho. I again implore the Sox front office to bring this guy on as a base coach when his playing days are done.

And Curt responds to SockGate on his blog today:

It was blood. You can choose to believe whatever you need to, but facts are facts. The 25 guys that were in that locker room, the coaches, they all know it. In the end nothing else really matters. The people that need to believe otherwise are people with their own insecurities and issues.

Hey, man, you don't need to explain nothing to us. You could show up at my house, set fire to the curtains, tear up my copy of Giant Size X-Men #1 and feel up my mother, and I'd just keep on refilling your Glenfiddich.

It looks like the rain in Baltimore will hold off long enough for Josh to go for Major League-leading win number 5. I'm sure we'll hear a lot from RemDawg and company about Sock-Gate, but let's hope the players are focused on increasing their lead in the AL East before round 2 with the stumbling Yankees this weekend.

New York will throw Philip Hughes to the wolves tonight in the Bronx. Hughes is just a couple months shy of his 21st birthday and reports say he may be shaving soon. Not the guy I'd want as a savior, especially when facing a red-hot Toronto batting order. A Yankee loss tonight would mean their worst 20-game start since 1991.

Enjoy!

A good game last night, featuring the Return of the Product, as David Ortiz and Manny Ramirez reminded us all that whan they're both on, they're the league's most-feared one-two combo. Their back-to-back singles in the seventh inning helped bust open a stalemate and helped propel Curt Schilling to his third victory of 2007.

But all of this was really background to another drama that unfolded, when Orioles broadcaster Gary Thorne noted matter-of-factly that Schill's infamous bloody sock was actually... painted. Even better, Thorne claimed this insider info came straight from the mouth of... Doug Mirabelli.

Today's Globe has a detailed piece on the controversy, which includes commentary from everyone from Theo ("I couldn't give two [expletives] about what was on his sock, I care that we won the game.") to Kev Millar ("It was definitely blood. He had some stitches there. It was a hell of an injury at the time. So I think that was more [Mirabelli possibly] messing with Schilling.").

I see the makings of a NESN special for the ages. I mean, the sock is in Cooperstown. Can't they just bust in on it, run some DNA tests or somethin', and determine once and for all that, yeah, this is blood and the Red Sox won the motherf--king 2004 World Series and would you please just get off this sh-t and move along. Get Willem Dafoe to host it, music by John Carpenter. We can work with this, NESN. Call me.

I don't need anyone asking me who I believe. Schilling is my co-pilot. Nuff said.

Oh, and Alex Cora goes 2-4 with a home run? See you in September, Dustin!

Curt Schilling and the Red Sox prepare to face the second place Baltimore Orioles tonight. Yeah, hard to believe, but true. I was hoping for some pregame quotes over at 38 pitches, but all is quiet over there. I guess Curt will let Mr. Splittie do the talking tonight.

The Sox were a rather lofty 15-3 against the O's last season, with Baltimore pitchers posting a 6.99 ERA against the Sox. The Orioles will go with Daniel Cabrera, much to the delight of the Red Sox. Cabrera is 1-6 with an ERA over 9 in his 8 starts against Boston. He lost all 3 outings last season versus the Sox.

Meanwhile, the LAST PLACE Yankees (I will enjoy it as long as it lasts) were rained out, so in the basement they will stay. Life is good.

Wow. That Wily Mo. Not a strong outfielder.

I know Manny's not a strong outfielder, either -- that "throw" he made after retrieving Lyle Overbay's double stands as testament to this. But I'm willing to overlook the occasional mental trips to Arby's because the guy's hell with his bat. Hell, I say.

But Wily Mo? After a week of watching this guy stomp around centerfield like he's chasing an ice cream truck and flail his bat like a smacked ass, I'm struggling to find The Upside of Pena.

As for Tavarez... well, with The Lester Rehabilitation Tour moving at full steam, it seems that Jools will be joining his pals in the bullpen soon. Though something tells me that his next start, tentatively scheduled for Sunday in the Bronx, will be a thing of beauty.

But, hey, you're gonna have these games. The ones where you just bend over and take it, Ned Beatty-in-Deliverance-style, then turn your attention -- quickly -- to the next game. And tonight, weather permitting, we've got Curt Schilling against Daniel Cabrera at Camden. You gonna bet against Curt? I didn't think so.

See you tonight.

I admit: when Jools Tavarez showed up on our doorstep, I only knew a couple things about him. He once punched a phone, and he served up that Mark Bellhorn home run that clanged off Pesky's Pole and effectively changed the course of the 2004 World Series.

But since he's been here, I must say, the cat's grown on me. At first -- especially after he decided to belt Joey Gaithright during a motherflippin' spring training game, I fancied him a sort of thug. But the more I see of him, the more I read of him, the more I think he's the cult hero I've been desperately searching for since Millar went packing.

Grabbing his teammates' asses during Fenway Opening Day. That rambling interview with the Globe where he said he wanted to get married so he'd have someone to do his laundry. The way he kept tap-tap-tapping Matsuzaka's shoulder during Sunday night's game as if to say, "listen, buddy, what I've got to say is f--king important."

I want more. I need more. And for my hunger for all things Tavarez to be satiated, the guys gotta start winning games. Because that will keep him around. For more.

So tonight, oh Gods of baseball, please give Jools the strength to outduel Roy Halladay. We promise, no phone shall suffer again so long as you let him stick around.

Well, at least Mike Timlin didn't get killed.

Seriously. On that hearty cracker back to the mound off the bat of Gregggg Zaun, I thought for sure we were going to be seeing a Bryce Florie redux.

But Timlin, whose reflexes are no doubt razor sharp from keeping his neighborhood free of wild boar, feral cats and Danzig fans, snagged the line drive before it could do any damage. In fact, I almost expected him to give the ball a fierce look, take a bite out of it like a f--king apple, then hurl it into space, cursing its brethren. Because that's the kind of sh-t I like to think Mike Timlin does all the time.

Other than that, this game was an absolute suckfest. A patchwork of missed opportunities, horrific plays and Wily Mo continuing to pick up his mail at the Mendoza line. Though I must say I'm enjoying Mirabelli v2007, and it's nice to see Mike Lowell carry a little sumthin' sumthin' over from last night's game.

Let's hope the bats come alive tomorrow night. Julio Lugo, please straighten out your ass pronto!

First off let me say that I like the Blue Jays. I think they have a phenomenal line-up and if Burnett and Halladay stay healthy, the pitching staff ain't all that bad, either.

That said, after watching this weekend's festivities at Fenway, I gotta believe that anyone who thinks that the Battle for the Planet of the Apes isn't gonna come down to the Sox and Yankees is living on the moon. Watching these teams tussle is like watching Arnold and Robert Patrick square off in Terminator 2. Blow off my head? Hell, I'll just grow another one. Knock down Jeter? Well, here's Abreu, A-Rod and Giambi for you to deal with. They just keep. coming. back. and every game comes down to the very last out.

While Friday night's game was the most dramatic, last night's was the bigger nailbiter. In the first couple innings, the Sox squandered some opportunities while the Yankees put up a deuce, and suddenly I'm thinking that it could become a classic case of a rookie pitcher handcuffing our line-up. But then the bottom of the third arrives and the game turns into a Tarantino flick as the Sox offense did everything but bring out the gimp to brutalize Chase Wright.

First Manny goes deep over the Monster(and, man, it looks like he spent the offseason working on his standing and admiring game. He clocked in at about thirty seconds of "look at that one go" last week at the Rogers Centre and this one was equally impressive), then Drew knocks one out the other way, clearing the bullpen. Then one from Lowell that literally left the Park in about five seconds, followed by a V-Tek smash that sent the crowd into a frenzy the likes of which I don't think I've seen since the Roberts steal.

It was a robust pummeling, so bad I almost expected to see Tavarez run out to the mound and kick Wright in the nuts and steal his bicycle. Because, really, that's pretty much all that was left to be done at that point.

All told, the best thing about this weekend series was that it turned into a coming-out party for those guys we've been not-so-patiently waiting on. Coco spearheading Friday night's comeback. Varitek pushing us into the record books with that fourth consecutive home run. Pedroia belting a couple hits and making key plays. Manny showing signs of being Manny. And Lowell -- who had two home runs and four RBI last night -- becoming every bit the offensive machine he was at the beginning of last season.

Okay, it wasn't the sharpest outing from Matsuzaka, but he managed to keep Abreu hitless and struck out 7 when the dust had cleared. And, he gets the all-important W.

With an impending trip to the Bronx later this week, I wanted this game. Because the pressure will be on the Yanks to return the favor, meaning if we win just one of those games, we'll prevent it from happening. Sure, that's setting the bar low, but right now, at this stage of the season, I'll happily take "we swept you on our turf, but you couldn't sweep us on yours." That said, I'll certainly pocket as many Ws as the guys can pull together, as I remember all too clearly how the 2005 end-of-the-season-standings stalemate went to the Yanks based on our head-to-head season record.

Oh, and best reaction to the Sox' four-homers-in-a-row goes to Theo:



And these guys:



Peace.

Not that Dice, jackass, Dice-K Matsuzaka. He's about to mow down some Yankees, gyro-style. Grab a bag of pork rinds and a sixer of Red White and Blue beer, it's on.

The Meat Man said it ain't bad. But he was talking about love and relationships or somethin'. We're talking about baseball. Not just any baseball - Red Sox - Yankees baseball. And when you go up 2-0 in a three-game series and you have Dice-K tossing against Chase Wright in Fenway Park, two out of three sucks. So how about we keep the bats swinging and bust out the brooms tonight?

Yesterday was another big April win. Becks didn't have his best stuff early, or maybe he was distracted by some scantily-clad fans on the first summery day, but it all worked out in the end. Beckett made it into the seventh and let the 'pen take over. New fan-favorite Hideki Okajima got a couple outs, old fan-favorite Mike Timlin got a couple more, then it's all Papelbon.

Big Papi provided some offense, but so did the much-maligned bottom of the order. Lowell, Tek, Coco and Cora went a combined 6-for-14. I'll take that any day and twice on Sunday. It looks like Coco might finally be getting comfortable as he added two more hits and stole a base.

Another beautiful day in Boston and another look at Dice-K tonight. If we can suffer through the inane commentary of Joe Morgan, we might have some fun.

Seriously, would they?

Not a chance.

So let's all be there at 3:55pm.

Side note: When did Red Bull become the official dugout drink? I've seen Coco guzzling them before and during last night's telecast, you could see Youk quaffing one after an at-bat. Don't they know that stuff can cause irritability, racing heartbeat and a mild appreciation for Maroon 5?

Beating the Yankees is a pretty awesome thing unto itself. Beating them at Fenway, on the first crisp, warm night the season's given us, when they've already pretty much written the game off as a W and have set their collective minds on the post-game spread and drinks at Daisy Buchanan's is simply the greatest feeling in the world.

Better than your first kiss. Better than finding a twenty dollar bill in the street. Better than finding a robot in the forest, repairing its leg, and becoming best friends with it.

For most of the night, it was the A-Rod and Andy Show. And watching Rodriguez effortlessly launch two balls out of the park while Pettitte kept our hitters in full nelson was an exercise in frustration. Save for a well-timed home run from Varitek, three hits from Drew and a nice ass-backwards-over-the-bullpen-fence attempt by Coco on an A-Rod homer, this was looking like one to simply file away and forget. The Sox were down 6-2, and looking ready for last rites. (Side note: Is A-Rod the most overly-animated guy in the majors? Seeing him wave his hands and shout to himself in the dugout after each at-bat... it's like watching some f--ked up dinner theatre production of Damn Yankees. I almost expect to see him working a hat and cane.)

But then the eighth inning came, and it was almost like someone uncorked a little of that 2004 magic. Ortiz gets a double off Mike Myers -- who, let's face it, is never gonna be the "Papi Neutralizer" they must've figured he'd be (I won't mention Tiz's "slide" into second base which took years off my life). Then Manny, in a fantastic at-bat, works a walk off Vizcaino from an 0-2 count. Add a fielder's choice from Drew and a single from Lowell and suddenly it's 6-3 and we're feeling it.

So in comes Rivera. But we've stopped fearing him a long time ago. And it's a pretty liberating feeling when you don't start wetting yourself at Rivera's very presence. And just to underscore how much the guy's become our bitch, what has been the weakest part of the order unloads on him: Tek drills a single and Coco, on the first pitch, skips the ball into the darkest corner of right field, getting a bases-clearing triple that ties up the game and sends the house into delirium. It's a scenario Covelli's probably replayed in his mind a bazillion times over the last couple weeks, and here it was, actually happening. The finishing blow, a pinch-hit single from the smokin' hot Alex Cora, put the Sox up 7-6.

But we weren't done doling out the frustration. In the top of the ninth, with the Papel-Bot unavailable, Japan's own Hideki Okajima was called upon to close out what immediately became the biggest game of the season. He gets Jeter on a ground-out, walks Abreu, then faces A-Rod, who represents the go-ahead run. And these days, you'd rather stick your nuts in an electric fan than face that situation. But Hideki-San comes through, jamming Alex with a fast-ball and inducing a soft liner to second as fellow countryman Matsuzaka and resident loon Tavarez cheer him on from the top step of the dugout. Then DH Thompson strikes out to end it. And sh-t, as they say, goes nuts.

It was a game that we didn't allow to get away, even when it seemed impossible to snatch back. And it serves as notice to the Yanks that the faces on this 2007 team may be new, but the never-say-die comeback spirit is alive and kickin'.

Was Roger watching? I certainly hope so.

Chapter 1 of the 18-part event that is Red Sox versus Yankees begins tonight. Get your ass in front of a TV, crack open a 40, and let's roll. It's not polite to keep the RemDawg waiting.

Folks, we know we're living in harsh times when, on the cusp of a three-night showdown with the Yankees, no less than Joel Piniero -- yes, Joel Piniero -- is going all "Warriors, come out and play" on us, calling for blood as reported in today's Globe:

"Everybody has been asking me 'Are you ready for the zoo tomorrow?'" said Red Sox reliever Joel Pineiro, who spent the first seven years of his career with Seattle. "I can't wait to get out there. I can't wait to go out there and beat up on the Yankees. ... The fans in Boston, they want us to rip their heads off."

Myself? I see it like that bit in Escape From New York -- no pun intended -- where Snake Plissken takes on Ox Baker in the death match. The Yanks are monstrous, a truly imposing opponent, especially now that Alex Rodriguez has OD'ed on awesomeness. But if we're scrappy and resourceful and Coco and Dustin and Tek can provide a couple nasty rabbit punches while the other guy's asleep at the wheel, we could make a show of it.

Bottom line: As the old adage tels us, good pitching stops good hitting. If it can also stop "f--king phenomenal, otherwordly hitting" then the Sox might just have something of an edge going into this weekend's series with the Yankees. We couldn't have stacked the deck any better, with Curt, Beckett and Matsuzaka set to roll. But we'll need every ounce of blood, sweat and vodka they can spare to shut down that offense.

Now this is the kind of game that gets us all hot and sweaty for the Yankees to get into town. So much to absorb in the first official edge-of-your-seat fest of 2007, that I'll just try to tackle them one at a time:

1) Manny's first homer ties it up: Folks, there's a reason no one -- well, at least no one with any common sense -- rides the Ass of Ramirez when he's barely hitting his weight. It's because you know he's eventually going to make hay, and squabbling over the dry spells is like dismissing U2's catalog because it contains Pop. When all seemed lost, he came through and turned everything on its head, and the look on Halladay's face as Manny rounded the bases... well, that really said it all, didn't it:



2) Timlin re-discovers the rage face. And all is good again: In the bottom of the eighth, after we'd just gone from flatlining to tapdancing, the Jays had first and third with one out. Timlin gets a double play ball from Aaron Hill, and walks off the mound with fist pumping, heart pounding, throat howling. It was like the warrior reborn, so fierce I'll guarantee that if Pedroia was within a four foot radius of Timlin, he wet his pants.

3) Cora comes alive: You gotta love baseball karma. In the aforementioned double play, Lyle Overbay runs so far out of the basepath to deck Cora that he could have handed Coco Crisp a glass of Kool-Aid. Next inning, Cora returns the favor, letting his bat do the talking, tripling in a run, and -- at least in the privacy of his own mind -- nailing Overbay's sister on the first date.

4) Papel-Bot; over and out: The best thing about the Bot is that when he enters a game, it's like the f--kin' thing's suddenly on auto-pilot: Batter steps in. Papel-Bot goes to work. Ass meets bench. Ten years ago, former Red Sox Matt Stairs would have clunked a two-run homer. But in the Bot Era, he's just another K to hang on the wall.

5) Coco lays it down: If Coco doesn't bunt for a base hit in the top of the eighth, Manny's home run leaves us a buck short at last call. Today, he was a key cog in the machine. Something to build on for this weekend.

I was shocked to read in the comments that some of the female readers were lamenting the attention being paid to the Toronto beer chicks. Here at Surviving Grady, we're all about equal opportunity and fairness. At least when it suits us or we can somehow profit from it. But we do try to give the people what they want. So, in preparation for the game, enjoy a little "battery powered" magic brought to you by the Red Sox and SG...

Folks, we are living in bold new times in which it is truly exciting to be a fan of excitement. An era in which Doug Mirabelli -- yes, that Doug Mirabelli -- has two more home runs and twenty less at-bats than Jason Varitek. In which Journeyman Flutterball Guy Tim Wakefield has more wins and a smaller ERA than handsomely paid import Daisuke Matsuzaka. In which the offense drives in actual runs across an actual plate when Wakefield's on the mound.

I know we're only a couple weeks into this thing, but come on. What's next? Flying machines?

We talk a lot about Beckett being the guy who has to keep it all together this year, and we ooh and ahh as Curt amps it up and chug down the Asahi Super Dry when Matsuzaka steps to the hill. And in the background, quietly, effectively, Wake has put together some extremely impressive performances, including last night's gem that saw him limit the Jays to four hits and one run through seven, the master stroke being a bases-loaded strike out of Jason Philips, who didn't know whether to sh-t or wind his watch when the knuckleball floated past him.

Once again, Mike Timlin puts it best. When asked about Wakefield in today's Globe he simply says, "When I grow up, I'm going to be just like him."

And how about Mirabelli? This is a guy who used to spell certain death in the line-up. To the point that you'd almost rather drag a chimpanzee to the plate, put a bat in its hand, and say, "just do it" with the game on the line. But this year, he appears to be in the business of kicking ass and putting up runs for His Man Wake. And business, thus far, has been good.

With today's Halladay-Tavarez match-up seeming a bit one-sided, and the disappointment of Tuesday night's opener still fresh in our mouths, we needed last night's win like I need to be locked in a small filing cabinet with Maggie Gyllenhaal. Wakefield stepped in and -- as casually as the Fonz would elbow the jukebox to set those crazy kids dancing -- got sh-t done. Cut. Print.

Oh, and thank you to the NESN camera crew, producers, et al, for finally giving me the close-up shot of the Rogers Centre beer girls that my life has been so empty without. I am officially taking your good tidings and paying it forward, posting their glory in the photo above for all to bask in. FYI, while both are stunning, I believe I favor the one on the right, who has a sort of young Elisabeth Shue thing going on.

See you at 12:37, Remy Standard Time.

First things first: That's gotta be Geddy Lee up there in that picture under the "BOS", right? I've been watching this dude sitting in that seat at the Rogers Centre for the past couple years, and I gotta believe it is Geddy Lee, lead singer for Rush, that Canadian band that wrote songs about atomic bombs and dragons. The hair, the nose, the ears... man, that's Geddy. Not sure if Alex Lifeson or Neil Peart are in the house, but I'll keep an eye out for them -- and that Bryan Adams bastard -- tonight.

Now for the game itself. I like to tell myself that it's early in the season. That things will work themselves out once the weather gets warmer and the girls start wearing less. I do firmly believe that the Sox' pitching will prevail, driving us through October and beyond.

But right now, I gotta say, it crushes me that Matsuzaka isn't 3-0. Granted, last night's loss really turned on his brief unravelling in the fourth after not getting a call on what looked like a third strike to Vernon Wells. For the next couple batters, it looked as if Daisuke was being controlled remotely by the Great Mazinga-Wasdin Robot, balls flying every which way but loose and the next four batters reaching base, three on walks. By the time he came correct, and struck out the side in the fifth, the damage was done. But his bounce back was impressive.

Matsuzaka's mini-meltdown notwithstanding, this loss gets pinned on the offense. Chacin was good, but, man, he didn't seem as untouchable as he turned out to be, at least not from the comfort of my beer- and DNA-stained couch. Shutting down an offense that had put up a staggering 25 runs over the past three games? I never expected that.

I thought we might have had a chance to milk something in the ninth off of replacement closer Jason Frasor, but after seeing Youk swatting at the first pitch with one out, I simply shut off the TV in disgust, and climbed back into the Guinness Sensory Deprivation Tank. And there you have it.

So, in closing, my deepest, darkest concerns:

1) This 2007 edition could be feast-or-famine offensively, knocking in 13 one day, and 1 the next.

2) The Toronto series I thought we'd take 2-1 could turn into a Blue Jays sweep. If Shakey Wakey can't keep that monster offense off-base with the flutterball, it could be a long, torturous night. As for Halladay vs. Tavarez... unless Julian's packing heat -- which is certainly within the realm of possibility -- I think you can put us down for the L.

3) Matsuzaka could be this year's victim of Tim Wakefield's Disease. For the second straight start, he pitched good enough to win, but was left holding his nuts in the wind by the offense. In the back of my mind, I still fear that come the All-Star break, if Daisuke's 2-7 and disenchanted, he's gonna hop a flight back home to open a Fresh City franchise.

4) If I don't get served a beer by one of the Rogers Centre beer girls (one of which is pictured below, standing there in all her blonde bombacity) at least once in my life, I'm not so sure I can say I've truly lived. For added viewing fun: watch, during the next two games at Rogers, how the mens' heads swivel to check the derriere each time a Beer Girl walks by them. Dudes! You're on TV! Poker face!



Lastly, dig on some Tito goodness from today's Globe:

Red Sox manager Terry Francona was astounded yesterday to learn of a common practice in Japanese baseball known as "kantoku show," in which a manager doles out cash to players he considers deserving of a little bonus after a victory. Something extra in the envelope, for example, for Daisuke Matsuzaka.

"You're kidding me," Francona said when told of the "manager prize," as it is translated, according to an article in yesterday's New York Times. "That's not happening here, with what he gets."

"It should be the other way around," he said with a laugh. "If I manage a good game, he should give me something."

Nice.

Start number 3. He's done the first major league game thing, took care of his first Fenway start, now he's ready for his first AL East opponent. Get off the computer and get in front of a TV. It's Dice-K versus the Blue Jays. Like, right now.

The Sox couldn't have picked a better time to be heading north of the border to face their divison rivals. A good chunk of the Jays are currently hurt, on the DL, or just hypnotized by the gentle sway of the Rogers Centre beer girls. The walking wounded include third baseman Troy Glaus, closer BJ Ryan, and leadoff hitter Reed Johnson.

What's significant here -- besides the fact that this is likely the first time a team has had guys named "BJ" and "Johnson" on the DL at the same time -- is that while the Jays' offense is potent, the Sox are coming off a series in which they absolutely crushed the Angels into convenient, single-size servings. And we'll be able to unleash this sturm und drang on Tomo Okha and cologne magnate Gustavo Chacin before we have to bend over and likely take one from Roy Halladay. So I'm figuring on a 2-1 showing.

But you can never underestimate those sneaky-ass Canadians. Just check out the Jays' new ad campaign in which Frank Thomas knocks out children, A.J. Burnett torments a garbage man and Lyle Overbay hits some bride in the crotch with a bouquet. These guys seem to have a lot of anger issues.

It's funny how, even after The Magic of 2004, I'm so quick to write off this team when things go awry. In the first inning, Beckett gives up a home run to Cabrera -- and, seriously, I could watch this guy hit home runs against us all day long, my love for him is such -- then plunks Vlad the Impaler and gets himself a warning. "So here it comes," I figure, in between chomps of steak and swigs of Labatts. "The implosion hath begun."

But Mr. Tweeden proves me wrong. He shakes it off, tucks it away, hikes up the big pants and goes a full 6, striking out 5 and whittling the ERA to a paltry 1.50.

That spoke volumes to me. And it makes me feel that he may well become the lynchpin that we so desperately need him to be this year. The sure thing, the proven commodity. The guy whose name we put an imaginary W next to before each start. Because we just know.

Of course, when the offense is putting up a 6-spot in the first, the load on your shoulders is considerably lighter. The bats were rolling throughout this set with Anaheim; Lugo, who so far seems every bit the agent provocateur he was billed as at the start of the line-up, went 6-for-13 through the series, while Ortiz went 6-for-12 with two home runs. Christ, Eric Hinske had three hits spread across these games as well, telling you everything you need to know about how things are going.

Interestingly, Wily Mo got the start over Coco, and promptly struck out twice, going 0-for-3 on the afternoon, and giving me the sneaking suspicion that if we ever got a full week of watching WMP in the line-up, we'd have planes towing "Play Coco" banners flying over Fenway Park.

But the highlight of the game -- the reason you wanted to TiVo it and keep it on hand for those long winter nights -- was Remy and D.O., as is typically the case. On a cold, drag-ass day and a game that was essentially over by the second inning, they kept the good vibes flowing, the bit for the vault being when the duo -- using techniques that the Warren Commission would have envied -- identified some nimrod who chucked a piece of pizza at a fan reaching for a foul ball. It was like NESN's own version of the Zapruder film and it was easily one of the most brilliant things I've ever seen with my two eyes. If the folks at NESN aren't submitting that tape to the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences for Emmy consideration as I type this, they're just not doing their job.

Update: The pizza incident, now on YouTube:

So the Yanks lose last night when Marco Scutaro hits a surprising three-run homer off Mariano Rivera. But let's look at this a bit closer: It just so happens to be the day that Major League Baseball chooses to honor Jackie Robinson, with players across all of baseball wearing Robinson's number 42 in homage. And Rivera just so happens to be the only active player who still wears number 42 after MLB officially retired it, since he was grandfathered in.

Curious, no?

And add this to the mix: The score was 4-2 when Scutaro connected. That's four to two.

The lesson here: F--k not with Jackie Robinson.

Oh, and this? This just sucks.

Also, looks like there'll be baseball after all today at Fenway. Wily Mo in the line-up for Covelli.

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.

It would be easy to sit here and talk about the big win over the Angels. To talk about the gem Scill-dog dealt for 8 strong innings. Or talk about His-Papiness and the way he's starting to get in the 50+ homerun groove. Or Lugo's .395 OBP, or Hinske's off-the-bench contributions or the team ERA of just a thread over 3. Or the way the girl at the Tasty-Freeze looked at me when I ordered the large Watermelon Brain Freezer with extra whipped cream. But I can't. I'm troubled. And it's all Coco's fault.

Ya see, I've been that guy who keeps saying "Coco will be fine, Coco will bounce back, Coco was hurt last year." But folks, he's not fine. He's not bouncing back. He's batting a buck-freaking-eleven. He looks like he'd rather be getting a tooth drilled sans Novocaine than stepping into the batter's box. And when he makes the out - which he does over 80% of the time - he looks like he's walking the last mile back to the dugout. When he gets there, sure, the guys give him a pat on the ass and tell him good job, get 'em next time, but how long will they actually mean it?

Tomorrow, Coco will don the number 42 jersey - along with Papi and DeMarlo Hale - as a tribute to perhaps the bravest man in sports, Jackie Robinson. But if he puts up another goose egg, it might be time for the bench and a few swings for Wily Mo. Crisp's 8 K's in 33 at-bats and .171 OBP can't keep him in the line-up much longer.

Come on, Coco, Cowboy Up, sacrifice a chicken Pedro Cerrano style, or steal Papi's lucky bat. Just start hitting.

Let me get this straight. Wake goes seven and gives up a mere one run? Mirabelli leads the offense with a home run and a couple ribbies? The team puts up a ten spot when Timmeh's on the hill?

Right. Sure. And Leeann Tweeden's in my kitchen, waiting to spoon-feed me fresh waffles and lapdance me into unconsciousness.

Christ, is there anyone on the team besides Wally and that white-haired Oriental dude/team massage therapist who's more lovable than Timmeh? The softspoken, elder statesman of the team. Good guy to the Nth degree. Friend to the common man and known accomplice of Bernie & Phyl. The fella to whom Doug Mirabelli's kids will one day owe their livelihood, or at least their college education.

Leave him off the 1999 postseason roster? No problem, pally, he'll be there whenever you need him with a smile on his face. Stick him out to try to steal back Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS long after Grady Little had already let it get away? He's on it, chief, and he'll gladly carry the burden of that long, slow walk back to the dugout while Aaron Boone circles the bases and everyone in New York sh-ts themselves silly. Provide him with a measly two runs? He'll just nod and shrug his shoulders and say the offense did the best they could.

I love him madly, yet there's no other player who takes me to Heart Attack City more often. When he's on, he's on; when he's off, it's 8-0 in the second inning. Also, just like how Batman always carted Robin around, when you get Wakey, you get Mirabelli, and that typically means another gaping hole in the line-up.

But last night... last night he showed us that after all these years, after all the slings and arrows and indignities and champagne showers, he can still shut down a poweful line-up. And when Dougie unloaded for that home run, couldn't you just hear his inner voice shouting, "My friend shall hunger for run support no more!" If Mr. Mira makes it his personal crusade to bring home at least a couple runs each game for his partner, I can only say that it would be a most excellent thing.

Simply put, it was a quiet, efficient performance compared to the fireworks of the Papel-Bot coming in and tying up Vladdi G so badly, he practically needed a map to find his way back to the dugout. But it wil hopefully serve as the harbinger of things to come.

All this and the Yankees lose? So much for unlucky Friday the thirteenth.

And we're with him. So we'll just buckle in and get ourselves ready for tonight's full-on Tim Wakefield action.

The start of a new baseball season is something akin to baptism. It’s officially clean slate time, meaning anyone can bask in the glow of what could be before reality comes crashing down around them – roughly April 23rd if you’re a Pittsburgh Pirates fan.

For the Red Sox, Daisuke Matsuzaka's first month of work will be telling. We’ve hitched our 2007 wagon to his star, and if the guy can’t adjust – although his first two starts suggest he'll be just fine – we may be turning our attentions back to porno by mid-July.

But the Sox aren’t the only team with question marks, so we figured with the 2007 season officially underway, we’d size up the competition and present ‘em in the order we expect ‘em to finish in.

1. New York Yankees: I hate ‘em. You hate ‘em. You grandmother’s dog hates ‘em. And it seems like forever since we’ve finished a season in which we weren’t staring ‘em in the ass in the final standings. But the Yankees always seem to pull that ace at the last minute to push themselves over the finish line. We’ve been holding Yankees elimination parties for decades now, only to watch them speed past us in late September, so what’s the point? Just suck it up, take our medicine, and hope that when/if we face them in the playoffs, we can pull a 2004 on ‘em.

Pros: That line-up is one of the toughest in the major leagues, capable of wearing out the tightest pitching staffs. And they’ve got deep pockets to back everything up; if one of his All Stars goes lame, King George can simply find another one to take his place. For all the shyte we love to give him, A-Rod is still one of the best in the game, and there’s always the fear he’ll lock in and go all Transformers on the AL East. With all the negative press he’s been getting of late, this could be that year. Scary.

Cons: The pitching staff is suspect. Chien-Min Wang, one of last year’s surprises, will start the season on the DL. Carl Pavano is coming off an injury-wasted season with a lot of expectations on his shoulders. Mike Mussina, that smug motherf--ker, is another year older and now he's got the jimmy leg. And Sox Killer Andy Pettitte is always an injury risk. Of course, the swing vote comes in the form of Roger Clemens, and the Yanks seem convinced they’ll be landing him sometime this summer. No team seems more universally despised, and all that negative energy has got to take its toll. After all, there’s a reason the most expensive team in all of baseball hasn’t won a World Series in six years, right?


2. Boston Red Sox: What? Second place for the Sox? Red, are you f--king crazy? No, ma’am, I am not. Let’s just say, I like to aim small, so as not to upset the Gods of Baseball Karma. Lots of teams have their question marks, but the 2007 Sox just seem to have so many – and in so many critical areas, like, y’know, pitching and offense -- that it seems the only thing that can ensure a championship season for us would be for all the dominos to fall exactly the way we want them to. It can happen – 2004 stands as proof of this – but it’s more often the exception than the rule.

Pros: So long as you have a healthy Manny Ramirez and a healthy David Ortiz in your line-up, you're gonna score some runs. So we have that going for us. Daisuke Matsuzaka could be every bit as dominant as he’s been in Japan. Curt Schilling, who even his detractors must admit is a driven competitor, could put up one of his best seasons ever. J.D. Drew, knowing he’s under the microscope, could pull a Mike Lowell and exceed expectations -- christ, he's already tearing it up two weeks in. And with the Papel-Bot closing, we know we’ve got someone who can protect skinny leads in the ninth inning.

Cons: The offense could be this team’s undoing. I look at this line-up and see a lot of names – Lugo, Youkilis, Lowell, Pedroia, Varitek, Crisp – that could very well become automatic outs. If Tek can’t reclaim his mojo at the plate and Crisp continues to funk and Lugo goes all Renteria on us and Pedroia can’t handle the big league stuff and Youk and Lowell drop a few notches, local liquor stores, pubs and escort agencies may want to prep for a spike in business. And if Matsuzaka turns out to be a bust in his first season with the Sox, I’d be lying of I didn’t say a little piece of my heart will crumble to dust. I mean, we know that's not gonna happen. But still.


3. Toronto Blue Jays: Last year, these sneaky dudes from the Great White North unseated the Sox as perennial second-placers in the AL East. This year, they seem even more imposing, at least on paper. Embracing the spirit of Joe Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine, the Jays are poised to make the division a three horse race, god love ‘em.

Pros: First off, any team with guys named Royce, Tomo, Lyle, Gustavo and Gregg with double Gs is more than deserving of your attention. If nothing else, the 2007 Blue Jays can boast the coolest names in perhaps all of baseball, and it's further testament to the wizardry of GM J.P. Ricciardi. Second, they’ve got a line-up that, when everyone’s locked in, could absolutely torment an opposing pitcher. Across the AL in 2006, the Jays ranked third in batting average (.284), third in hits (1591) and fourth in home runs (199), and now they've added Frank Thomas to a mix that already includes Troy Glaus, Vernon Wells and Lyle Overbay. Last year, Thomas was the comeback player of the season, hitting .270 with 39 homers and 114 RBIs. The pitching staff could be their undoing, but it ain’t too shabby, either; this year, the spotlight on A.J. Burnett won't be as intense as it was in 2006, meaning the guy might just relax, find a groove and get that killer curveball working again. If he avoids injury and reclaims his mojo, Burnett could combine with Roy Halladay to activate Wonder Twin Powers and create one of the most formidable one-two punches in the division. If.

Cons: Dude, they’ve got a closer named "B.J." That tells you everything you need to know.


4. Baltimore Orioles: Camden Yards may be the second best ballpark in the world to watch a game, but the team it’ll be showcasing this year seems destined to underachieve. Still, the possiblity of a pantsless Kevin Millar sprinting from the dugout during the seventh-inning stretch should keep Baltimore fans riveted to their seats.

Pros: Despite looking like a guy who should be selling mowers at The Home Depot, Erik Bedard was a 15-game winner last season, and he’s one of the biggest reasons to watch the Os in 2007. Newly-added Aubrey Huff, while not quite the offensive threat he was in his Devil Rays days, could prove a nice pick-up. And you can never underestimate the power of Millar Mojo. Also, Boog’s Barbecue Beef sammiches keep the crowd in a constant state of red meat-fueled delirium, meaning any one of the crazy bastards could charge the field at any time, giving the hometown team a decided edge.

Cons: No good can come from a pitching staff that includes perennial dink Jaret Wright. And no Kris Benson (out for the season with a shoulder injury) means no Anna Benson making a tequila-fueled grab for your eggs and sausage at team cookouts. That’s gotta hurt.


6. Tampa Bay Devil Rays: Alright, despite my lame attempt at humor, the Rays are certainly not going to finish "sixth" in a division of five teams. Or are they? Seriously, though, they're young, this D-Rays team. And they're scrappy. And they play the Sox really, really hard. And, er. Did I mention they're scrappy? I did? Oh well. Whatever. June 23 is Don Zimmer Bobblehead night at the Trop. We'll wake you up for that.

Pros: As Sox fans know all too well, the Rays – especially under former manager Lou Pinella – are a feisty bunch, not afraid to throwdown whenever they see fit. They also seem to turn it on quite well against the best of the division, and handed the Sox one of the most crushing defeats of 2006 – that early August monstrosity that saw our pen blow a 6-2 lead with 9 outs to go. Some incredibly good young talent like Carl Crawford, Rocco "P. Coltrane" Baldelli, Delmon "My brother's gonna skin you alive" Young, and BJ Upton that could blossom into a formidable power. Scott Kazmir is as tough a lefty as they come, and nothing would make me happier than seeing him in a Red Sox uniform.

Cons: The young'uns may need a few years to truly gell, and unless the front office can clone Scott Kazmir, pitchers like Casey Fossum, Jae Seo and Shawn Camp aren't going to carry them very far. Meaning that once again, the Rays seem destined to swab the decks of the AL East. Also, there’s that mascot that rides the scooter.

Folks, we don't expect much from women who've dated Carl Pavano. But in the case of Alyssa Milano, I'm always willing to make an exception. Today at redsox.com, there was a mention of how Ms. Milano has produced a line of MLB-inspired clothing -- called Touch, for the love of Christ -- featuring shirts and shorts and jeans with a Red Sox "B" across the ass. There may have been more, or possibly less. I don't really give a sh-t. Honestly, I just wanted to stare at the photo above for the next couple hours.

So if you need me, I'll be in the "magic room." With my laptop.

Jon Lester continues to work the rehab circuit, and the news continues to be good. On Tuesday, he went four innings against the Columbus Catfish, striking out five and retiring the first eight batters he faced.

According to redsox.com:

Lester will make two more starts for Greenville, after which point the Red Sox will determine the next step in his road back to Fenway.

"He's just begging for more innings. And he'll go to five next time out," Francona said. "His velocity was up a little bit, which is not surprising as he's gaining some endurance. He pitched well. I think he got up to 93 [mph] last night, which he hadn't quite done yet this year."

Even cooler: check the new facial hair. Still a far cry from Team Beard Leader Mike Lowell's spectacular display. But something I can get behind nonetheless.

Myself, I was pulling for the no-hitter.

Somewhere around the fifth inning, when it was abundantly clear that the Daisuke Matsuzaka Everyday Sunshine Happy! Happy! Hour had morphed into the Felix Hernandez Steps On Your Nuts Show, I was hoping we'd at least walk away from this game seeing something that somehow lived up to the hype.

A no-hitter? Well, why the hell not?

But once Drew got that hit to lead off the eighth, the game became what I feared it would become once we got that first hit: just another sh-tty game where we can't buy a run.

Not much else to say about this one; it was all Hernandez all the time, and his stuff was positively nasty, especially that wicked two-seam fastball that kept making Tek shift out of the way before it arced itself back toward the plate.

Not to take anything away from Matsuzaka. He kept Ichiro in check (even knocking him down at one point -- sure to be the front page photo on every newspaper in Japan this morning) and made a nice grab of a low Lugo throw to complete a double play in the seventh. Put simply, he was good. He just wasn't as good as Hernandez, who was literally unhittable.

I will say that if Tito had any sort of flair for the dramatic, he would have brought Brendan Donnelly -- instead of Joel Piniero-Bread -- out to face his long-time nemesis and sparring partner Jose Guillen in the eighth. Hey, we were getting shut down anyway; at the least, a little bench clearin' may have jump-started the offense.

Anyway, we go from 14 hits yesterday to 1 hit today. With tomorrow's game expected to be a wash-out, we look to Friday and the Anaheim Angels.

Now this was a game that had it all. Josh Beckett taking off the glasses and going all Superman on the Seattle Mariners. A "welcome to Boston" home run from J.D. Drew (still not as grand as Manny's three run dinger on his first pitch at Fenway, but appreciated nonetheless). Three hits from Jason Varitek -- yes, that Jason Varitek! Leadoff guy Julio Lugo truly looking like a leadoff guy. A 3-for-5 showing from Youk who continues to look as giddy as a homeless person on free hula hoop night. Eric Hinske now batting 1.000, thank you very much! Robert Goulet caught feeling up Kelly the Ball Girl on camera. Harry Connick Jr.'s wife, the adorable Jill Goodacre, asking the NESN cameramen if "Red from that Surviving Grady website" was around. There was even a near brawl -- or "shenaningans" in MLB parlance -- for the love of god.

Personally, my favorite bit was that cool-ass "secret handshake" that Papi and Daisuke executed during the team introductions. Did you see it? That was the Official Handshake of Guys Who Are Making Sh-t Happen. And I've got a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of it throughout the season.

And now, after that badass, bombastic performance, we get to do it all again tonight, but even bigger. Because Matsuzaka's pitching his first game at Fenway Park, meaning everyone from Crossroads Pub at Mass Ave and Beacon to the Cafe De Flore in Fukuoka City to freakin' Monster Island will be watching (except for Mothra, who is clearly a Yanks fan).

Simply put: If you picked this week to give up smoking, drinking, cursing, dancing, smashing your fist through glass, giving your 8x10 glossy photo of George Steinbrenner the finger, mailing bodily fluids to Hazel Mae, knitting yourself a life-sized Julian Tavarez, growing an Eck 'stache, or feeling up college girls, you picked the wrong week.

I've said this all before. But I think it bears repeating.

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... to the chagrin of my dad, god rest his soul, 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 five 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 Castiglione 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.

I'm not sure what's cooler: The fact that the Red Sox claimed J.D. Durbin off waivers from the Arizona Diamondbacks, or that on his MySpace page, Durbin goes by the name "titsandassforme." Go ahead, click it for yourself: http://www.myspace.com/titsandassforme.

Of course, in this day and age, we can't be sure it really is his MySpace page. But he's got a lot of congratulatory comments up there about getting picked up by the D-Backs. So I'm guessing it is.

Oh, and he throws a baseball pretty good, too.

Before he was shut out because of a nerve problem in his right biceps while at Rochester last season, Durbin could throw 96-97 mph on his fastball. He was a second-round pick of the Twins in 2000 after being the Arizona baseball Player of the year.

He's always been a starting pitcher, but the Red Sox feel his live arm could be an asset in the bullpen.

Oh, and do check out his MySpace page, before the Sox brass make him pull it down. Or at least change the URL to the more respectable http://www.myspace.com/ilovewallythegreenmonsternandwaffles.

I think we've reached the point that the season doesn't officially begin until David Ortiz has cracked one out of the park. Seeing that swing, the ball leap from the bat, the moment of hesitation as he pulls back and admires the trajectory -- it's like an official broadcast telling us all that baseball is back, and it's time to start paying attention. Doesn't matter if there's ice on my window, one look at Papi going through the home run trot and I'm lying in my driveway, hooked up to a Michelob I.V. on a sweaty August afternoon.

After watching Tavarez unravel on Saturday night, I started wondering aloud about a life with Jonny Paps as fifth starter. Then he comes into last night's game, a game that could have been an ugly smear on a short-but-already-pregnant-with-concern season. A game that, had it slipped through our fingers, would have required Joel Pineiro to show up for Tuesday's Fenway Opening Day festivities in kevlar. And with a game hanging in the balance, he shuts out the world and gets down to business. And he goes through the purest beef in the Texas line-up like a goddam hot knife through vanilla ice cream. And suddenly I realize that's why the PapelBot is here. To make sure these games don't melt away. To lock them up soundly and ensure that no good deed in the early innings goes unrecognized.

I'm man enough to admit that, based purely on these early returns, I may have been wrong to denounce the J.D. Drew pick-up. He's looked feisty and confident and is already hitting up a storm before he's even touched down on Fenway green. So I fully expect him to pull a hammy next week.

I know we're only one week in. And God knows I want the guy to do well. But, man, does Coco Crisp look... done. Considering his name came up in trade talks last season, I can't imagine that there isn't some sort of contingency plan to fill the gap between now and Jacoby Ellsbury if Covelli continues to flounder.

I'm as excited about Matsuzaka (AKA, he who will not be called Dice-K by me) as the next guy, but that first game was against Kansas City. Granted, not a bad line-up there, but I wanna see how he does in his first start at Yankee Stadium, with half a million extras from The Warriors screaming for his blood. Remember how Vintage Pedro used to walk into the Stadium, stone-faced and 150 pounds soaking wet, and make everyone his biyatch, from Chuck Knoblauch to the guy who sells hot dogs behind section 42? Is Matsuzaka gonna be bringing us this magic all summer long? Personally, I think there's a better chance of Jessica Biel using my face as her personal barcalounger. But that won't stop me from praying to God and sonny Jesus for both of these things to happen.

This summer at Mass General, there will be at least 213 incidents in which the cause of injury is listed as simply "Joel Pineiro."

The folks at NESN who were responsible for that montage of Tavarez highlights accompanied by "Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel" that played before Saturday night's game? Genuises.

In other news, Denton & I have been doin' some stuff over at AOL Fanhouse. Do check it out when you have a chance. Also, we invite any more Biel photos you might have.

Happy Easter, Red Sox Nation. It will certainly take a better effort from Curt Schilling and the boys to make this a happy one from a baseball standpoint. Maybe the Easter Bunny brought some timely hitting in a few of the Red Sox' baskets this morning?

The much-maligned "bottom of the order" - with the exception of Duston Pedroia - has lived down to expectations. Coco continues to be invisible at the plate. I don't know why, but I still think he'll bust out and have a great year. Captain Tek, on the other hand, scares the bejesus out of me. He couldn't be any less effective if he was swinging a length of pepperoni instead of a bat. And this is nothing new. It was the same way in spring training and for a good part of last season. David Ortiz looks very un-Papi-like at the plate, but he'll be fine. Right?

Watching Tavares pitch yesterday was a glaring reminder of why I did NOT like the move to put Papelbon back as the closer. If that's what we're going to get every fifth day until Lester is ready, we've got trouble. And what happened to the 'pen? It's 4-3, I go out to the kitchen to get a Cookie Dough ice cream re-fill, and suddenly it's 8-3?

Oh, and did you know Sosa has now homered in 43 major league ballparks? One stat that went unmentioned - he's also stuck a syringe in his ass in 43 major league clubhouses.

We'll find out a little more tonight as far as what Schill has left. If I'm not in a chocolate-induced coma, I'll be watching.

By now, Wake's gotta be used to this. He goes out there, makes the ball dance, gives up a couple nonsense runs, and then watches the opposing pitcher shut his teammates down but good. He probably just figgers, "Well, I've got a ring and millions of dollars in the bank. I'll just keep rolling until I can't fit anymore green in the vault." Anything to keep him from beating someone senseless with a sack of oats.

I have a fear -- and it's probably just the early-morning whiskey and waffles talking -- that yesterday's shutout at the hands of the Rangers, an excrutiating exercise in which the Sox could muster only two hits against the immortal Robinson Tejeda, will end up being the norm in 2007, not the exception. Like the "one day feast, next day famine" line-ups of the past (particularly the magical Dante Bichette era).

Although, on the bright side, Timmeh did look good. And any day in which we only get three hits but one of 'em came off Coco's bat can't be a total junker.

Tonight: new cult hero Julian Tavarez is on the hill. Tell me the guy's not injecting beef broth straight into his veins as we speak to get himself in the mood.

Also: Exactly how old is Kenny Lofton? Fifty-two? Sixty-seven? It seems as if he's been playing baseball as long as I've been watching it.

You know how I get when the Sox win the big games. And they don't come much bigger than yesterday's Daisuke debut. So I got that way again, heading to my local to celebrate the man's first Boston "W." And from there, afternoon became evening became cheap beer after cheap beer and lipstick and perfume and trying to impress the college girls sitting next to me by eating lit cigarettes.

And while all this carrying on was carrying on, Jon Lester was quietly going about his business in the shadows.

No contingent of photographers from his hometown jamming hotdogs down their throats and cameras in his face. No bleary-eyed die-hards watching half a world away. No pomp or circumstance or "I'll send the ladies up to your room around midnight, Mister Lester, wink wink." Just a guy and a baseball and an unbendable spirit. And four innings of two-hit ball against the Yankees' Class A team, the Charleston RiverDogs. And striking out five of the fifteen batters he faced, while giving up only one walk.

According to the AP:

The big left-hander was on target against the RiverDogs, throwing 37 of his 54 pitches for strikes. Lester hit 96 mph at one point, according to Charleston's scoreboard, and kept the young Yankees off stride.

The 23-year-old pitcher is due for the next of his three-month checkups later in April to see if he's still cancer free. He had put all his concentration into his comeback during spring training. But the looming test has been on his mind recently.

"I don't think it'll affect anything," Lester said after his outing. "But obviously, I'm human. It's just a matter of going through the checkup and God-willing, everything will turn up clear again and move on to the next checkup."

Yes, I am relishing Matsuzaka Mania. And I dream of a world where Manny, Papi and J.D. get into an MVP race that becomes so heated, it actually comes to fisticuffs. And if Clemens wants to get back here and join in all the fun, I welcome him with open arms.

But in Jon Lester, I've already got the feel-good story of the year.

The Daisuke Matsuzaka Nike commercial -- which can be viewed at NESN's website and will likely be all over YouTube by day's end -- is a thing of beauty, neatly packaging all our expectation, speculation and anticipation into a thirty-second clip. It also manages a pretty cool nod to Yankees' fans curiousity over how Matsuzaka will fare; check the dude with the New York tatt on his neck. It ain't Damon's calf muscle that's got him so concerned.

The point of it all seems to be that in the midst of all this whirlwind, Matsuzaka is the sort who finds a lovely calm, kinda like Sam Jackson when Tim Roth sticks a gun in his face toward the end of Pulp Fiction. And that's a good thing, as it seems everyone in the free world will be watching, analyzing and dissecting his first official start in a Red Sox uni.

It's today at 2:00, campers. Stay home, watch baseball.

Suddenly, everything is right again in the universe. Mr. Doubles is back, thank you very much. The Youk kicked off the 2007 Home Run Drive. The unholy trinity of Ortiz, Manny and Drew gave some glimpses of just how many ways they could be tormenting opposing pitchers this summer. And Josh -- sweet, sweet Josh -- gave up only two hits and one run over five innings.

Not that all our concerns have evaporated. Coco Crisp still looks lost and confused whenever he has a bat in his hand, like a gorilla who's been handed a trombone. And Julio Lugo... I know it's only been a couple games, but I somehow thought I'd be seeing him on base a lot more.

But these things will hopefully work themselves out in time. The first win of the season is officially under our collective belt, and we can now put our undivided attention where it belongs: this afternoon's Zack Greinke start!

If we're going anywhere this year, we're going to need Josh Beckett to stand tall before the man and make his decision for Christ, whatever that means. We need Angry Josh, front and center. The dude who swatted away the Yankees with one hand while feeling up Leeann Tweeden with the other. Starting tonight.

I say he wants to do it. I say he can do it. So join with me now, as we project the positive vibes to Josh, wherever he may be right now. Because positive vibes, people... they're what's gonna get us through this.

Also, I kinda hope he drills Mark Grudzielanek in the ass.

If Carl Pavano seemed a bit, er, distracted during Monday's opener in the Bronx, he had pretty good reason. According to the New York Post, he'd been dumped by his super-freaking-hot girlfriend, model Gia Allemand, just a few days earlier.

The reason? According to Allemand, Pavano -- who's already been up close and personal with Alyssa Milano's spectacular knockers -- just couldn't keep his hands off other women.

Allemand yesterday declined to discuss what led to their breakup.

But in an upcoming issue of Steppin' Out magazine, the curvaceous beauty says she dumped Pavano, 31, because he played the field despite her dedication to his comeback effort.

After weeks of trying to patch things up, the sizzling Queens native finally decided to call it quits.

"I was the one that trained him and got him there all year," she told Steppin' Out's Chaunce Hayden.

"I stood by him and didn't work so I could help him out, and he cheats on me. Nice, right?"

Still, Gia's apparently keeping Pavano's well-being front and center:

Allemand insisted she doesn't want to cause any headaches for Pavano. She'll still be in Las Vegas when the Yankees take the field in The Bronx against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays Monday.

"That's our personal life. I don't think it needs to be in the paper," she said. "I don't want this to distract him at all."

I'm no fan of Pavano's, but I will say this: when your life has reached the point that screwing Gia Allemand actually becomes boring, you're leading a pretty f--king charmed existance.

That's It, It's Over and Julian Tavarez Just Totally Made Out With Your Sister.

You knew when REO Speedwagon came onto the field to sing the national anthem that nothing good could come from this. How can we translate the spectacle of an aged Kevin Cronin into something fruitful, something meaningful and honest? We cannot. We can only find solace in the fact that they didn't stick around to play "Can't Fight This Feeling" after Hideki O gave up a home run on his very first MLB pitch.

Seriously, though, there were a number of question marks hovering menacingly around the 2007 team through the offseason and spring training. The most prominent were, "What if Curt can't cut it?" and "What if the offense slides?" and "How are we gonna get from the starters to the Papel-Bot?"

Sadly, the answers came through loud and clear as the flip side of Tom Waits' Bone Machine. Schill was gone after four innings. The bottom four in the line-up -- Lowell, Tek, Crisp and Pedroia -- went a collective 3-for-14. And PineiroBread looked posalutely lost on the mound.

To top it off, the guys just seemed so goddam sloppy. It's one thing to get whipped by the Kansas City Royals; it's another to look like the friggin' San Pedro Beach Bums while you're doing it. Heinous baserunning gaffes, outfield stumbles and relays missing cutoff men by a country mile seemed to punctuate this forgettable exercise.

Only... we can't forget it. Because the Sox won't take the field again 'til Wednesday. So we have to stew. To dwell on it. To live with the fear that we're becoming KC's bitch.

And I'll direct anyone who says it doesn't matter to the 2005 final standings, where we tied with the Yanks but "lost" the division since New York held a winning record in head-to-head contests.

I waited half a year for this, you silly f--kers. And that loss was like waking up Christmas morning to find that all Santa left me was a couple of socks filled with toothpaste. Just thought you'd like to know.

Put It Back in Your Pants, Dude. It's One Game.

So Curt got manhandled? Hey, the man'll have plenty of time to get his sh-t straight, and I've got nothing but confidence in him. And while the offense took a bath, I'm happy to see Dustin grab a couple hits, and I'll happily chalk up his overzealous baserunning to opening day jitters. And any game in which Youk gets a couple hits and Ortiz knocks in the first run of the game is just further proof that everything's alright in the universe.

I also like the way Okajima settled down and struck out two after giving up a home run on his first-ever pitch in the MLB; that shows character. Think our old pal The Incredible Sulk could have shook off such a bitchslapping? And Donnelly and Romero looked pretty sharp out there as well.

So we lay low and regroup. We place our faith in Josh Beckett and start stocking up on Asahi Super Dry and practicing our get-out-of-work-early excuse for Matsuzaka's Thursday afternoon debut.

This is gonna be a year, baby. Just sit back and enjoy it.

Hey, any way to take away the pain, right?

Frankly, you can keep your "I have a dream" and "Ask not what your country can do for you" and that "fourscore and seven years" bullshyte. In my house, James Earl Jones explaining that "people will come" is the greatest thing in the history of things. We say it at breakfast, at family reunions, before anyone's allowed to open a single f--king present on Christmas morning. Think you're gonna carve that turkey before you give us the "people will come" speech, junior? Better guess again. That's our religion, buddy. The reason we get up every morning and check the box scores and flip on NESN and light a candle in front of the Remy shrine. It's why we only date chicks named Hazel or Tina or Amalie and call our boss "Tito" and insist that every successful business deal be punctuated by one of those Ortiz-inspired points to the sky. It's why we can't go on that big rock climbing weekend and have to be back home by 7:05pm every night and won't go to bed 'til we get the Yankees score.

And now, we get to bask in it all over again. Because baseball is back. The Red Sox are back. It's all starting up again today. This afternoon. At 4:05pm. Remy Standard Time.

And it's in HiDef on NESN. Got a HiDef set? If not, you may want to go out and grab one soon, Colonel. Like on your lunchbreak. This ain't no f--king weenie roast, man. This is Red Sox Opening Day.

Thank God.