Realizing that I'll be spending the next 24 hours in an alarmingly baseball-free state, I sought refuge in a stack of old Sox yearbooks. And I found myself particularly taken with the 1982 edition, which subjects each player to a round of "20 questions", asking them everything from their favorite movie to which foreign country they'd like to visit.

My personal fave is The Eck, who, when asked about his favorite type of music, proudly responds with "Acid Rock and Roll." I like that, because he's showing us all the lengths to which he goes to rock out. Ordinary "rock and roll" is fine for you weekend squires whose toughest tasks involve mowing the lawn and taking out the garbage. But when you're staring down the likes of Reggie Jackson in the sixth inning with bases packed, you need to call on the power of acid rock and roll, motherf@#ker. Otherwise, what's the point? That's what separates Eck from the common man. We're just sitting here, bobbing our heads to Maroon 5, while he's raising fire and brimstone on the back of a dragon, thrashing shit up but good.

More intriguing, however, is the Eck's favorite movie: On Golden Pond. The f@#k? Somehow, I just can't see The Magic Moustache finding escape in any flick starring Katherine Hepburn, so I'll just assume he's actually referencing some obscure Japanese flick of the same name that involves werewolves, mutant dinosaurs and an elite team of space babes from space.

Meanwhile, it would seem that Clay Buchholz has been with the team before. Only back then, his name was John Lickert:


And the Kielty watch is on, folks. And though I can't begrudge him a desire to play every day, I'm hoping he sticks around.

Lastly, thanks to Clayah, our Girl in L.A., who attended Saturday's spectacle at the Coliseum, and offers photographic evidence of love transcending sports rivalry boundaries. On a Monday morning, facing a week's worth of meetings and business trips and late night Sox games, it's just the sort of thing we needed.

Well, that was interesting. Possibly the most surreal game I've ever watched. The stadium looked unfinished with metal towers jutting up in unlikely spots. The home plate radar guy appeared at times to be sitting on the umpire's shoulders. People milled around foul territory and a peanut vendor made a few sales to bored infielders. That's spring training.

As for the actual game, the Red Sox won. Wake looked good, Paps did not. Kevin "Doug who?" Cash hit a home run and The Beard of Wonder added a long shot as well. And that's all she wrote for "Spring Training: The Encore."

Tonight, the homicide-inducing Joe Morgan chronicles begin, and the season is back underway.

Yes, it's something of a buzzkill to go back to grapefruit city after a couple actual games, but part of what will have me glued to the TV tonight is the spectacle of seeing Manny playing the Coliseum's almost non-existant left field in front of over 115,000 people. I mean, if the guy routinely drops into the left field scoreboard at Fenway for a whizz or a sammich, what's he gonna do here? Jump into the second row of seats to quaff a few mid-game brewskis? Trade autographs for hot dogs with some front-row denizens? Or just mill through the stands to pose for photos and chat up the locals?

On the other side of the coin, I've been harboring an increasingly morbid fascination with just how many times Jason Varitek could strike out this season. As the Globe tells us, the Cap'n struck out all three times he batted last night, which, if you factor in his six Ks in eight at bats in Japan, gives him nine strike outs in his last 11 at bats.

All this plus Joe Torre and the possibility of sightings of old friends Nomar and D-Lowe? If that ain't must-see TV, what is?

Everybody that reads this site knows of our love for all things Jim Rice. We loved watching him as a player, his tenacity remains unquestioned. We lobby every year for his Hall of Fame induction. An we can't get enough post-game analysis, complete with high-fashion suits and dark shades. Now, we can get The Gospel According to Jim Ed everyday at http://www.ask14.com/

The site just went live this week and features Q&A with the man himself. As you know, Jim pulls no punches. This week he has already won my heart again with his quote regarding Curt Schilling:

Last year people said Curt Schilling was fat. I thought Schilling was in fantastic shape. If you see him in the locker room, he’s not fat, he just has a bad body.

Ask14 has quickly moved to the top of my daily reading list.

You know that bit at the end of Guns 'n' Roses' "Mr. Brownstone," where Axl busts with a little "Yowza!"? That would be played every time something cool happened. Lugo steals a base? "Yowza!" Manny knocks one off the side of Crossroads Ale House on Beacon? "Yowza!" Joba Chamberlain gets punched in the crackers by a Pabst-impaired Mike Timlin? "Yowza!" Go and break out yer Appetite for Destruction (aw, you know you've got one) and listen to that snippet and tell me you can't hear it reverberating through the Fens on a steamy August night.

Oh, and also--you know the beginning of "Running With The Devil?" The thumping bass at the very beginning before the guitar kicks in? That would loop everytime Papelbon came out of the bullpen. I'd also ask if they could shut down the lights, so that the whole placed is plunged into darkness as the music swirls up, but I'm sure there's some sort of code prohibiting that. Just as there may be a code prohibiting the playing of anything by Van Halen within city limits.

There'd be a place for live music as well. For instance: Have Fall Out Boy come out during the seventh inning stretch to play a couple tunes, then let loose a pack of rabid elks to chase them around the infield. Johnny Pesky would approve.

::answers phone:: Hello?


Hey.


Hey. Who's this?


So... you're pretty good at handling that knuckler, huh?


::rubs his temples:: Mirabelli, what do you want now? I'm right in the middle of--


Damn thing moves like a Mexican hooker on ritalin. But you've got a good handle on it, right?


Yes.


Well you better, chum. Cause when the game's on the line and there's 35,000 drunken contractors screaming all around you, one passed ball could earn you some slashed tires. I'm just saying, is all.


Duly noted. Now can I--


Also, now that you're Timmy's personal catcher, I want to make sure you're aware of the pitcher-catcher rituals you'll be expected to partake in.


Such as?


On game day, during warm ups, no pants. Not even an option.


I see.


Also, when you want the fast ball, just start singing the first stanza of "Muskrat Love." That's the sign. You do know the first stanza of "Muskrat Love," don't you?


"Muskrat Love"? I dunno... isn't there some line about bacon?


That's the third stanza, motherf@#ker! Damn, you better get this shit straight by opening day.


Tim never told me any of this, and I--


Also, the night before, just to make sure you're both on the same wavelength, Timmy will be expecting you to sleep over. In the same bed.


Huh?


Sometimes Tavarez shows up to join you guys, but only if they're expecting to give him some work the next day. He's mostly harmless, though, unless he brings his Foghat records and a vial of choloform. That means he's ready to party. And you probably wouldn't want to experience any of that.


I see.


Or at the very least remember any of it.


Look, no matter what you say or how much you try to freak me out, I'm the backup catcher for the Boston Red Sox, Doug. It's my job. Let it go.


Bite your tongue, junior. Nothing's cast in stone in this town. One slip up, one passed ball too many that lead to some Yankee runs, and they'll be calling for me in the stands, on the radio, in the supermarket and in the casinos.


Right.


Think you can snap your fingers and make people forget the name Mirabelli? Not gonna happen, pally. Just when you think you've got the world on a string, they'll be sending a police escort to pick me up at Pizzaria Uno on Boylston. And let me assure you, f@#knuts: I'll be drunk. And I'll be ready.


Anything thing else you wanna say before I hang up?


Er, actually, yes. Could I interest you in a line of home equity, starting at the highly competitive rate of 2.5 percent?


What?


I'm calling from Wachovia Bank, and our records show that you're pre-qualified for a fifty-thousand dollar line of home equity. Any interest?


::hangs up::


F@#k. This post-Wakefield career is going to be tougher than I'd thought.

And now, tonight's musical guest, the New Monkees!

Game two of the Japanese trip fell a bit short of the magic that was game one. Other than a Manzilla home run - which he admired until it bounced around in the stands - the offense was non-existent. Red Sox batters (which did not include JD Drew or Jacoby Ellsbury?) made Rich Harden look like Cy Young reincarnated. Oakland pitchers, including old friends Keith Foulke and Alan Embree, racked up 13 strikeouts this morning.

V-Tek looks absolutely lost at the plate, tallying six K's in eight at-bats over the first couple of games. The real concern is the early-innings struggles the Red Sox starters have had. Do these guys warm up? It's 6AM here, not over there.

Thankfully, the Japan experiment is over. The boys are on their way back to the homeland. No more clever media people throwing in a Japanese phrase here or there. No more 6:05 AM starts. No more breakfast shots. Well, maybe just one to start the day.

The really effed up part of this is going back to playing spring training games before re-joining the regular season. Seems weird as a fan, must be weirder as a player. For now, I'm back to the "virtual waiting room" for the second day, trying to get some Conigliaro’s Corner seats. Don't tell the boss...

Now remember, Comcast, we have a deal: I overlook the fact that you guys are bleeding me dry for sporadic internet service and movie channels that show "Max Dugan Returns" fifty times a week, and in return you provide me with unencumbered access to Red Sox games at the actual time they're taking place. This is the second day in a row I've dragged my ass out of bed before sunlight hits my unshaved face, and I don't want to have my dreams of breakfast with Remy and DO dashed because some knucklehead drove into a telephone pole three towns over.

So are we good? Are we clear?

Excellent. Domo Arigato.

It's round two in Japan, folks. Lester's on the hill and Coco's in center, and still no sign of J.D. Drew. Play ball!

After providing most of the offense in the "breakfast classic" this morning, Manny actually spoke to the reporters. The quotable Manny talks about his $10,000 check that he'll use for gas money and how "he has some speed."

Since Boston.com offered the code for the video, here it is. If this site is "under construction" later, I guess it wasn't OK to use...

Folks, I've slept through meetings, weddings, funerals, movies, plays, flights, busrides, lectures, cookouts and, on at least three occasions, intercourse. But this morning -- like, any minute now, long before the sun's up on my block -- brand new, never-before-seen Red Sox baseball will be magically beamed into my home from halfway across the globe. It's Daisuke and Papi, Manny and Tito, J.D. and Lowell, Youk and His Wonder-Beard, Ellsbury 'n' Elf, finally getting out of my dreams and back into my life. It's cranking up "Dirty Water" with a blatant and almost aggressive disregard for the neighbor's kids (and let's face it, the little f@#kers should be up watching anyway. It's Opening Day, for Christ's sake). It's pacing and pounding and thrusting your fists in the air because the ump really should have f@#king seen that and are you kidding me with all these walks and somebody should really get his ass out of there before the game's out of reach. It's remembering what it feels like to check the boxscores every morning, wait longingly for the postgame presser, and sweep away broken window glass after a particularly ugly loss.

In other words, it's breakfast with Remy, people. And I won't be missing one bloody second of it.

Update, 6:05am: Turns out I will be missing some of it. At least visually. Of all mornings, Comcast decided to shit the bed on me on Opening Day, greeting me with "Channel Not Available" when I flipped on NESN Hi-Def and every other channel beyond the local ABC, NBC and CBS affiliates, for that matter. Thanks, Comcast; it's refreshing to see that the $250 a month you charge me is going toward fortifying your technology. Meanwhile, Dice-K just gave up the first dinger of 2008 and I'm on to my first Jaeger shot. Oh, and Drew is a late scratch with back stiffness, to the surprise of absolutely no one.

Update, 6:50am: Comcast is still out, thank you very much. But now everything's out, with just that nice blue "Channel Will Be Available Shortly" box. Glorious news, that. I'm sure it'll all be back up in time for Regis and The View. On the plus side, I'm enjoying the first 45 minutes of the Dale Arnold Era on EEI.

Update, 7:20am: Almost 90 minutes into the season opener and still no love from Comcast, despite the screen's insistance that the channel will be available shortly. Thought I actually had something a few minutes ago, then realized I accidentally sat on the DVD remote and started up I Am Legend. Come to think of it, Will Smith would fit in nicely on this 2008 Sox team. As a bonus, we'd get a little "Parents Just Don't Understand" action during the seventh inning stretch.

Update, 7:40am: Since I can't get them on the phone (despite my scintillating Comcast phone plan), i've been trying to compose a letter to the good folks at Comcast, to explain just how much they've f@#ked up Opening Day for me. At least I'm at home; what if I'd gotten up at 3:30 to drive to some bar to watch it on the big screen with fellow Sox fans? I'm imagining some if not all Boston bars are experiencing the same problem. On the upside, to avoid a riot, the bars might let the beer run cheaper, and when college chicks start hitting the sauce before 7:00am, the day really can't get much better.

Update, 7:45am: WEEI just played the Squirrel Nut Zippers between innings, so the apocalypse is truly at hand.

Update, 7:53am: Manny ties the game with a two-run double. I am certain he will get his 500th homerun before the end of this game. I don't care that he needs 10 more to do it and there's only three innings left, the guy will find a way!

Update, 8:00am: Sox take the lead. Alan Embree, Class of 2004, is pitching for Oakland, so I fully expect to see Curtis Leskanic working the hotdog stand by the ninth.

Update, 8:05am: Not so fast; A's retake the lead on a two-run homer by the mighty Jack Hannahan. Comcast is still out and I'm starting to wonder if I'd paid my bill.

Update, 8:35am: "Sweet Caroline" is playing at the Tokyo Dome and in my kitchen, courtesy of EEI, enabling Neil Diamond to suck simultaneously on two continents. Dale Arnold tells me Ellsbury just made a spectacular catch, but as my Comcast has whisky d*ck, I just wouldn't know.

Update, 8:55am: Huston Street, distant cousin of the vastly underrated Harrison Ford film Hanover Street, is in for Oakland. Comcast suddenly flickers to life just in time for the ninth inning, somehow justifying the "Opening Day Salvage" surcharge that's sure to appear on my next bill.

Update, 9:02am: Holy crap! Sox tie it up on a homer by Brandon Moss, AKA the guy what was sitting in for Drew.

Update, 9:10am: On to extras we go. Outside, real life beckons. Real life can go screw, buddy. I've got Remyvision.

Update, 9:25am: Manny Ramirez puts the Sox on top with a two-run double. Nothing will stop this man from winning MVP in 2008. Write that down and tell your grandmother.

Update, 9:44am: After some harrowing moments, The Papel-Bot closes the door. Sox win, 6-5, and currently sit atop the AL East. Comcast proudly announces a hefty 2008 rate hike. With Red Bull and Wheaties in tow, I'm off to the races. The Standells will see us out:

The Sox' season officially opens tomorrow morning. As is our custom here at SG, we're slipping into the mood with a little James Earl Jones, delivering a monologue that, in my opinion, should be taught in schools alongside "Fourscore and seven years ago," "I have a dream" and "Ask not what your country can do for you."

Yes, it's a day early. But somehow... that makes it even better.

Bring on baseball.

The Herald had this cool picture of Papi and a newly-minted couple in a Japanese hotel lobby:

He was just walking along the lobby, headed to the stadium, stopped to chat and then stopped to pose. Then he chatted some more, nice guy that he is. Seemed like he didn’t want to leave.

Meanwhile, we practiced getting up at 4:30am this morning, tossing back a few brewskis and Cookie Crisp, and readying the big puffy Red Sox hand. All systems go for tomorrow, my friends. All systems go.

Two more days and it's on. Big Papi set the tone with a long ball yesterday, as did Mr. Drew. And if he gets any of his power back this season?

Until then I'll be stuffing myself with sugar-coated marshmallow in the shape of cute little animals.

As the glorious Amalie points out, Manny ain't just wishin' and hopin' the Sox pick up his options, he's convinced it's fait accompli. Almost like he's hitched a ride with Doc and Marty and seen the shape of things to come:

"They're not stupid," Ramirez said, of the Red Sox. "They know. They know I can play and I'm ready. That's it. I'm going to get the two options, then I'm going to get a four-year deal. I'm just going to go and get it."

I think we're in for a monster year from Manny, involving bold new heights of ass whoopage. And that makes me happy.

Speaking of happy, several astute readers brought this to my attention, also from Amalie's blog:

We missed a flight, lost our bags, then found them again, and got here 24 hours later than planned. So, while I'm sure none of you want to know our saga, the good news is I won't be forced into purchasing Hello Kitty attire for my first TV spot of the regular season.

Oh, Ms. Benjamin... if you only knew the sort of attire you've been cavorting in within the twisted confines of my brain.

In response to my desperate plea for more info on The Pappet, the Boston K-Men sent me the following e-mail:

The Pappet was created by the Artist Formerly Known as Mr. Mischo, a member of the Boston K-Men. Mischo found inspiration in the original dancing Jonathan Papelbon, and the sign was first unveiled during Game 2 of the 2007 World Series.

Some K-Men said the unveiling of the Pappet was analogous to Martin Luther posting his 95 theses on the Power of Indulgences, with certain members dissenting from the original framework of the K-Men -- that is posting the strikeouts of Red Sox ace pitchers. Others said it was a natural step in the evolution of the group. Either way, section 39 of the bleachers will never be same.

The sign traveled to Denver for the World Series, survived a split decision fight with a disgruntled Rockie fan, and then danced his head off during the Rolling Rally. Currently the Pappet is locked safely away in Manny’s reading library, but it may make an appearance on Opening Day.

Now how cool would it be to see Papelbon come bounding out of the dugout to get his ring during Fenway Opening Day ceremonies, holding his puppet likeness triumphantly over his head? Red Sox Management, I know you're not reading this, but I can only hope that one of your fancy lads is hammering out these details even as I type.

To hold us all over til then, indulge your Pappet fetish at the K-Men's site. I know I'll be there. In fact, with Tina C gone, the Pappet may well bear the brunt of my misguided affections throughout the 2008 season.

Sorry Red, it's official.

As expected, MSG announced the hiring of Tina Cervasio, late of NESN, as a host/reporter for MSG and MSG Plus.

She will co-shot "MSG, NY" and be a sideline reporter for Red Bulls games, among other things.

I think it was the "among other things" that held Red's attraction.

Josh:

How's everything going. Hope all's well. Shit's okay here. Keeping it real and whatnot.

Anyway, Gamera tells me you're not coming to Japan with the rest of your team. This is disappointing news, as I do miss my old drinking buddy. I did, however, receive a telegram from someone named "Timlin" who said he had something from you that he had to deliver to me. Considering our rather spotty past, and noting that the telegram from Timlin was accompanied by the torn out but still-beating heart of an elk, I thought it best to write you on a couple things.

First, there's the matter of those fifty Gs I owe you. Understand: I want to pay you back, and I thought for sure I'd have it for you a couple months back before that f@#king Australian toy deal fell through. But the good news: I got a call from my agent, and he's got a script for me. Something about Nazis and flying carpets interlaced with uplifting messages about eating vegetables and avoiding syphilis. Personally, I think this one's gonna be huge, and I will most certainly have your dough once principal shooting is done.

Second, I realize you may still be a bit sensitive about that whole thing with Ghidorah and your ski lodge. But if you recall, even though I was the one who put him in touch with you, I begged you not to rent it out to him. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of damages later, I'm sure that's all irrelevant to you, but hear me out: you rented your ski lodge to a motherf@#king three-headed monster. That ain't like renting to the McCordles, where the worst thing you have to fear is one of the kids pissing on the carpet. A three-headed monster is going to f@#k shit up. I tried to tell you this, Josh, so my conscience is clear. I'm hoping that you've been able to move on as well.

That's about it. Your guys are just about touching down and I have a business trip out of town I have to get to. Not that I'm avoiding this Timlin guy, mind you. But I promised Mothra I'd co-sign an auto loan and you know how shit goes with that rummy.

Seriously, call me the next time you find yourself in these parts. We've got a lot to catch up on. Oh, and tell Tavarez they're still holding his old job for him on Monster Island.

Yours,

Rodan

PS: Leeann says hi.

Well, yesterday's boycott drama was a nice distraction from the boredom that is spring training. The Sox should be landing in Japan any minute, but for now, I'm off to watch my brackets fall apart...

Details are still a bit sketchy but the bottom line is this: the Red Sox players took a stand to protect their "extended family" of coaches and trainers. It appears there was a dispute on whether or not coaches and members of the training staff would be paid the same $40,000 stipend for the trip to Japan that the players will receive. Terry Francona and the players believed that would be the case, but news contradicting that was reported yesterday. When word filtered down to the Red Sox players, they unanimously voted to boycott today's spring training game as well as the entire Japan trip if the dispute wasn't resolved. Within and hour, their demands were evidently met.

No doubt there are spin doctors working their magic to come up with a plausible story about the whole thing being a simple misunderstanding. Damage control. Whatever happens, it won't take away from what the Red Sox did as a team today to show their support to the rest of the organization.

Another reason to be proud to be a Red Sox fan.

First things first: In a semi-rebuttal to Denton's post, I am an unabashed fan of Eric Wilbur's blog, and actually enjoyed the post that was referenced. And not just because I relive that pants/shorts drama every friggin' day.

But on to other things: As Brenken mentioned in the comments, why haven't the makers of the Pappet been found? This thing was the hit of the post-season, so why don't we know more about it? Why hasn't it been the subject of a NESN special event? Why aren't these folks on the cover of Popular Mechanics, or being courted with fancy lunches and fifty-dollar hookers by the bigwigs at MIT? Why aren't they being invited onto the field before every home game to let the Pappet cut loose to the National Anthem (hey, call me a Commie... but I'd pay to see that). And, perhaps most importantly, why aren't they on the Red Sox payroll, commissioned to construct replicas of the entire team, so that as the action takes place on the field, it can be re-enacted in the stands in puppet form?

The bottom line is this: Anyone who constructs a giant, fully-operational Jonathan Papelbon puppet with "dance action" legs, then brings said Pappet to the ballpark to hold it aloft as the real Papelbon lowers the hurt on opposing batters, is someone I want to party with. Or at the very least, personally thank.

Who are these people? Where are they? Anyone, someone... please come forward. If we can't rightfully honor the makers of the Pappet, then the terrorists have truly won.

Is this serious? The Red Sox rivalry with the Yankees "in hibernation?" I'm not sure what secluded tropical island he's been vacationing on during the off-season, but I think the rivalry is pretty healthy. In his post yesterday, after a rather lengthy story about not being able to fit into a pair of shorts, came this:

In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a long way from 2004, when this
rivalry hit its apex. Between the Jason Varitek-Alex Rodriguez dustup and the remarkable ALCS comeback, the storied antagonism between the two teams was at an all-time high. It wasn’t fueled in the front offices (although the offseason A-Rod chase might have initiated things), but on the field, where a certain distaste between the teams festered. Since then, it’s stayed afloat, with moments like Johnny Damon’s jumping ship at the forefront. But it’s never been as good. It’s difficult to imagine how it possibly can be.

I seem to remember a few on-field "dust-ups" last season, don't you? Mike Lowell ring any bells? And here is where stand up and disagree passionately:

It’s not just hard to hate the Yankees today. It’s sort of hard to hate them at all these days.

The first part of the quote was in reference to the Yankees visiting the Virginia Tech campus. I am not heartless, I give the Yanks props for this. Even though a dark spot in my heart wonders if Shelley Duncan gave out any autographs with his "Red Sox suck" signature. But the second part of the quote? It's hard to hate them at all these days? Not sure about the rest of Red Sox Nation (or even SG Nation) but I have no problem hating them. It's what we do here.

Finally, he takes a dump on the new Red Sox Nation commercial, calling it "about as embarrassing as the proud Yankee patriarch could have hoped for."

Call me a silly fan, but I kind of like it. Per Red's request, it even features The Pappet...

He was the original "Dirt Dog." And as you can see from the photo above, probably not someone you want to have catch you sneaking around with his wife or taking the last Oreo without first asking him. Something tells me he misses the AL East rivalry.

A few things about this video amaze me. First - did this really only happen five months ago? It seems like forever. Second - was Royce Clayton really a member of the 2007 Red Sox team? It rings a bell, but if I had to name the roster on my own, no way I would have remembered him. And finally, what the f&*k? I know the game is pretty well in hand, but is that all these guys have to talk about is saving seventy-nine cents to get food poisoning? I guess I just picture them talking about improving their swing or the hooker they'd been with the night before. But tacos? I mean, if it were Boomer Wells or Bartolo Colon, sure. Anyway, exactly one week from now we'll be watching a real game!

Part of the angst that propels me through winter is the need -- or, to put it more accurately, the creeping, crawling, wake-you-from-your-sleep desire -- to see the likes of Manny, Ortiz and Timlin back in action.

This off-season's been no different for me, but with one exception: I can't wait to see that goddam Papelbon puppet again.

Remember that thing? A fully-functional, dancing Jonathan Papelbon puppet that surfaced sometime around the playoffs last October. Actually, scratch that--Ernie and Bert are puppets; this thing was a motherf@#king marionette, held aloft and literally dancing over the crowd like something that got lost on its way to a production of Miss Saigon at the Wang.

Over the last month, I've watched the players come and go through the revolving door that is spring training. New faces, old faces, has-beens trying to catch a break and bit players on their farewell tours. But still no sign of The Pappet, as I have officially dubbed it.

So where is it? In someone's attic? On eBay? In a warehouse somewhere while its makers arrange for freight forwarding to Japan for the upcoming duel with the A's? Is perhaps a larger-scale model being considered; one which would require several operators and about seventeen bleacher seats to ensure proper functionality?

I refuse to believe that this was a one-shot playoff thing. I want The Pappet at every game, its legs swaying menacingly every time the bullpen doors swing open in the ninth. I want to see it out on Yawkey Way before each game, and in the booth with Don and Jerry at least one inning per telecast. I want it out on the road, following the team as they travel into enemy territory, perhaps handed off from fan-to-fan -- not unlike a sort of sacred totem -- to ensure adequate coverage at every park the Red Sox visit throughout the summer.

Why? Because I think it's just another example of how Sox fans are the greatest fans in the game. Look at the ingenuity; sure, Yankees fans have that inane chant for every player at the start of every home game. But where's their oversized Derek Jeter marionette? I'll take two rings in four years and a big-ass Papelbon puppet any day of the week over that Yankees Mystique, thank you very much.

So I implore you, makers of The Pappet -- assuming you haven't spent the winter constructing wooden doppelgangers of the entire team (and my knees get weak at the very thought of it). Please dust-off your wondrous creation, pull it out of whatever self-storage facility you've deemed worthy of it, and apply a fresh coat of paint to hide those areas where post-World Series jubillation might have taken its toll.

And please, please, please have it ready for active duty come April 1.

Oh, and Larry and the boys from Black 47 say Happy Saint Paddy's Day:

Jon Papelbon jumped headfirst into the Red Sox - Yankee rivalry earlier this spring, calling for Hank Steinbrenner to "stick to pencil-pushing."

Steinbrenner responded in the Post:

"John Henry and I traded a couple of jabs good-naturedly," he added. "So now, all of a sudden, this player, this 20-something kid who really doesn't know his way in the world, comes out with a personal insult. There's no excuse for that."

Please. So what does the mature, professional Hank do? Throws back a personal attack of his own:

"Being insulted by Papelbon is like being attacked by a mouse."

So, once again, it's on. And I'll take the mouse in the ninth every day.

I've never been shy about my love of Tina Cervasio, who wrestles daily with Amalie Benjamin for sole possession of my heart in cage matches held exclusively in my mind. To be honest, she had me at this line from her bio on the NESN personalities page:

Favorite Piece of clothing: This one pair of ripped Seven Jeans.

Cruelly, there's no photo of Tina wearing said jeans anywhere on the NESN site, although from the looks of the glamour shot on her soon-to-be-remodelled homepage, we may be seeing one there. But the line just sends my mind reeling with questions: does she ever wear these jeans on-air? Where, precisely, is the rip? And was she sporting them when this bit was being filmed, as Pap's gaze might suggest?:


Not that she doesn't look fetching in a skirt, mind you, as this photo reveals (and as my mind seethes with jealousy), but it's the ripped jeans I'd like to know more about. I hope and pray that this mystery will be resolved before Tina C's departure at the end of March. And that Tom Caron doesn't start sporting his own ripped jeans as an homage.

Manny smashed his first spring training home run, a 400+ foot shot, lifting his average to .346 in the '08 preseason. J.D. Drew also had a long-ball, his first of the spring as well.

Dice-K looked OK, going four innings and giving up two runs on four hits. Papelbon pitched a perfect inning.

The bad news of the day: Manny Delcarmen left the game after slipping on a wet mound - an injury rumored to have been suffered by former NY Governor Eliot Spitzer on numerous occasions. He (Delcarmen, not Spitzer) was seen with an icepack on his right knee after the game.

Coco Crisp missed his 11th game with a groin injury - another Spitzer joke is there, but it's just too easy.

As much as I craved the start of spring training after a long, cold, baseball-less winter...I'm done with it already. I'm bored.

Beckett is running on a treadmill, Coco did some light jogging, Schilling is on the 60-day DL, Doug Mirabelli is gone, blah, blah, blah. Doug's biggest highlight was getting dropped off at Fenway in a Statie's car. See ya. Everyone knew that was Schilling's fate, Beckett is gonna be fine and Coco will be wearing new laundry eventually. Not real baseball news.

Billy Crystal played for the Yankees, Ichiro got a hit, Shelley Duncan is still an A-hole...these are the headlines. And I don't care.

I'll get through the next couple weeks making some abysmal, uneducated picks in a March Madness Bracket. Then it's on. For real. 2008 baseball. Finally.

The Doug Mirabelli era has officially ended in Boston. At least until Kevin Cash starts having trouble handling the knuckler. And you think Dougie doesn't know that?

Oh, he'll be waiting, boys. Right by his phone.

Continuing yesterday's throwdown, here's more stuff you probably could have done without.

Best Red Sox catcher ever: Fisk or Tek?

Denton: First of all, Tek should win a Nobel Prize for the glove facial he gave A-Rod.

Red: Agreed, but Fisk wasn’t exactly our goodwill ambassador to New York. Some of those brawls with Thurman Munson were like those barroom fights in cowboy movies where the two guys just roll right out the door and down the street, beating the crap out of each other. I could totally see one of those late ‘70s tussles starting at home plate and ending on the dance floor at Narcissus in Kenmore.

Denton: I’ve gotta go with Tek on this one. Fisk probably swung a better bat, but Tek is the man when it comes to making pitchers better.

Red: If it comes down to the battle of the highlights, you’ve got the smell the glove incident versus game six of the 1975 World Series. The latter is one of the most famous images in the history of the game.

Denton: But if the argument is better catcher, I’ll give the edge to Tek.

Red: I can’t decide. So I guess by default I pick Damon Berryhill.


Most heartbreaking moment: Buckner's error or Boone's home run?

Red: Buckner’s error left me an emotional wreck, but I was devastated after 2003. Like, pull the shades, get under the covers and don’t get out of bed for weeks devastated. The fact that I was in New Jersey when it all went down didn’t help matters.

Denton: Buckner’s error, hands down. I had a glass of champagne in hand, waiting to toast the victory. It was the last out of the World Series! Boone’s home run sucked out loud, but you could almost feel it coming.

Red: Maybe, but this was the Yankees, so it practically was the World Series in my mind. Papi’s home run off Wells just a few innings earlier had me convinced they were gonna do it. A couple hours later, I was shaving my ass and squatting in a tub of whiskey to dull the pain.

Denton: On the bright side, the Boone home run is sorta what started the magic that is Surviving Grady!

Red: As if people needed another reason to hate Aaron Boone.


Derek Lowe was one of the most underrated Red Sox pitchers ever!

Red: When I think "Derek Lowe", I tend to fixate on the stuff that drove me nuts about him. How quickly he could be thrown off his game, the lack of focus. But pound for pound, the guy gave may have given us more highlight tape than any pitcher not named Clemens or Pedro.

Denton: The dude also had a 4.5 ERA in 2003 and a 5.5 ERA in 2004

Red: The no hitter, the strike out to end the 2003 ALDS. Not to mention the fact that he won the deciding games in the 2004 ALDS, ALCS and World Series. But does he get the love?

Denton: And for being such a whiney little bitch, he was close to making the cut for yesterday's “biggest douchebag” question.

Red: Hell, I used to call him “The Incredible Sulk,” but now I’m getting all emotional just thinking about him. The guy made Miguel Tejada cry, for chrissakes. He shouldn’t have to pay for another beer as long as he lives.


Millar's "the walk" doesn't get as much credit as Dave Roberts’ "the steal", even though it was every bit as important in the grand scheme of things.

Red: If Millar doesn't get that walk, Dave Roberts doesn't steal that base, the Red Sox lose the 2004 ALCS. Give El Bencho his props!

Denton: True, Millar set the table with the walk. But go back and look at the steal again. Please. Everyone in the free world knew Roberts was gonna try to swipe second, and he did it anyway.

Red: And everyone in the free world – or at least everyone in my house – thought Millar was gonna strike out. But he didn’t. That was the turning point. How Millar laid off some of those pitches is beyond me. It was one of the most important at bats of the season, and certainly his career.

Denton: Remember this scene from Billy Jack:

Billy Jack: I'm gonna take this right foot, and I'm gonna whop you on that side of your face... [points to Posner's right cheek]...and you wanna know something? There's not a damn thing you're gonna be able to do about it.
Mr. Posner: Really?
Billy Jack: Really. [kicks Posner's right cheek, sending him to the ground]

That was Dave Roberts in game four.


Dick Pole: Coolest Red Sox player name ever.

Red: You can’t top Dick. You can only hope to.

Denton: Actually, I have it as a toss-up between Coco Crisp and Oil Can Boyd.

Red: Then you’re insane. Dick Pole. The guy’s name is Dick Pole. Dick motherf@#king Pole. That means his entire life, he was able to go up to people, extend his right hand, and say, “Hi, I’m Dick Pole.” That’s the greatest opening line in the history of opening lines.

Denton: I’m leaning toward The Can just because he was one of my favorite players from the ’86 team. He was one of those fiery, scrappy little guys that had a hint of lunacy about him. Kind of like Pedro… minus a lot of talent.

Red: Dick Pole. Anything else is just crazy.


Who’s better: Rocket or Pedro?

Denton: Given recent events that you may have heard about in the media, I’ve gotta give Pedro the nod. I loved Roger, and was one of the few that defended his last couple of seasons in Boston, but Pedro was fierce. Pedro was fearless. He owned the inside of the plate and god help you if you lean into his space.

Red: On paper, Clemens has more accolades: the Cy Youngs, the strikeouts, Debbie.

Denton: But did Roger ever send anyone tumbling down the mound, a la Zimmer? Did Roger ever get charged by a hit batter, punched in the face, and then proceed to sit the next 24 batters down and finish with a one-hit, 13 strikeout night? Did Roger ever come out of the pen in the post season and pitch six perfect innings? None of the above.

Red: I'd almost like to build a time machine to somehow see vintage Pedro pitch against vintage Roger. Like a nine inning match to the death.

Denton: You do that.

* * * * * * * *

Thanks to everyone for the e-mails and comments on yesterday's Throwdown. Especially to those who pointed out that I'd incorrectly identified the subject of Pink Floyd's "Careful With That Axe, Eugene" as "Nigel." Clearly, I had XTC on the brain.

Remember Joe Girardi crying about the Rays being too aggressive in a spring training game? The comments came after a Yankee catching prospect, Francisco Cervelli, had his wrist broken when a Tampa Bay player took him out at the plate. Well, those two teams played today. Any guesses what happened?

The benches cleared after New York's Shelley Duncan slid into Rays second baseman Akinonori Iwamura with the spikes raised after singling off third
baseman Evan Longoria's glove and trying to stretch the hit into a double.

Yeah, it's the same Shelley Duncan who answered a 10-year old Red Sox fan request for an autograph with "Red Sox Suck!"

And if anyone is surprised by Shelley's action, take a look at his post-game comments from the last time the teams played:

Duncan, who asked Girardi before the games started what was expected of him on the bases, said because the New York Yankees are playing the Rays on Wednesday, he won't know what to do until he rounds third.

"I don't know, that will be determined between third and home,'' the ultra-aggressive Duncan said.

Hmmm. Sounds a bit premeditated to me. Duncan had one double last year - does anybody think he was really trying to stretch the single? Girardi's reaction will be interesting after his soap-box stand following the play that started the war. I'm expecting some major league backpeddling.

It's honesty time, folks: sometimes Denton and I get drunk. And when we do, we usually hop in his car to find us a couple underage hookers or some oily senior citizens to beat down. But other times, we simply sit around the house arguing about all things Red Sox. Today, rather than keep these ridiculous arguments to ourselves, and inspired by Entertainment Weekly's pop culture throwdown, we figured we'd share some of our most recent with you. Feel free to join in via the comments section.

The 1986 Red Sox were a better team top to bottom than the 2004 Red Sox!

Red: The ‘86 Sox had a rotation featuring a prime, pre-Vitamin B-12 Roger Clemens, Bruce Hurst, and Oil Can Boyd, plus Calvin Schiraldi in the bullpen and Tom Seaver as a late summer pick-up. They had Wade Boggs and his .357 average at third, Bill "laugh all you want about Game Six, I had over 100 RBIs and 18 home runs" Buckner at first, and an outfield featuring Tony Armas, Jim Rice and Dewey Evans. I'd say the 86 team beats the ‘04 team seven days a week and twice on Sunday.

Denton: I was baptized into Red Sox Nation with the 1986 team. They were great and special, yes, but remind me, what did they win? 2004 was the perfect storm of baseball players who made good on a promise that the 1986 team couldn’t fulfill. It was unlikeliest comeback in sporting history. What they did in the ALCS after being taken behind the woodshed in game three will never be matched. The 1986 team couldn’t man-up after an error, never mind a 19-8 beatdown.

Red: Good points, but are you gonna tell me that Spike Owen and Dave Henderson weren’t two of the best additions ever made to a Red Sox team at the trade deadline?

Denton: Spike Owen or O-Cab? Roger and Hurst or Pedro and Schill? Armas and Rice or Manny and Papi? See where I’m going with this?


Who wins an ultimate fighting cage match: Mike Timlin or Julian Tavarez?

Red: If anyone scares me more than Timlin, it's Tavarez. Never mind the fact that he's into punching phones and Joey Gaithright with equal aplomb. He's also got that kinda evil edge to him. Like he'd try to shiv someone over the last piece of cheesecake on the post game spread.

Denton: All that is true about J-Tav, but I’ll take Mike Timlin any time the proverbial shit really hits the fan. The only reason you haven’t seen Mike rip someone’s head off and strike out the next batter with it is because he doesn’t have to. One look in his eyes and any would-be opponents are steady-booking it to the clubhouse for a fresh pair of undies.

Red: Either way, Cy Young could beat both their asses simultaneously with one hand in the cookie jar. Then force them to cook him a steak, fetch him some beers, and watch while he banged their sisters.


What's the better song: "Sweet Caroline" or "Dirty Water"?

Red: Hey, I like "Dirty Water" as much as the next guy. But it's played after the Sox win and, let's face it, they could play "Careful With That Axe, Eugene" and the crowds would groove to it. It takes that Neil Diamond magic to get everyone up and dancing on a two-hundred degree August night.

Denton: “Sweet Caroline” can't carry “Dirty Water”'s jock. It was written about a 12-year-old girl for Christ sake. It’s like the pedophile national anthem. By a guy who now dyes his friggin' chest hair.

Red: Maybe so, but “Sweet Caroline” gets about 15,000 college chicks up and shaking their asses every home game. Anything with that kinda power is down with me.

Denton: “Dirty Water” is a signature song. It means “we won, bitches, please exit our house quietly and respectfully while we proceed to party our winning asses off.” Do you want to hear Neil Diamond when some shitbum team is shutting us out 6-0 in the eighth? Didn’t think so.


Shea Hillenbrand was the biggest douchebag to wear a Boston uniform!

Red: Shea's a good call. But in terms of all-out douchebaggery, I think I'd go with either Rick Cerrone or Jim Leyritz. Although there’s gotta be a few guys from Cy Young’s era who were working on the side as pirates or government assassins.

Denton: All good candidates, Red, but how can you leave Jose Canseco off the list?

Red: Nah, I think I gotta go with Shea. I mean, Jose Offerman was something of a twit as well, but Shea just always looked so smug. The sort of face you'd want to slap, even if you were his mother. I also love the fact that he felt compelled to call Theo a “fag” on his way out the door. I was always hoping that after the 2004 World Series ended, Theo would show up drunk on some post-game show to hoist the trophy and yell, “Hey, Hillenbrand… bite my tweeter.”

Denton: Canseco. Nuff said.

Red: Actually, Leyritz's douchebaggery stretches to manslaughter, so he wins.


Wakefield or Ortiz: Who's the face of the Red Sox franchise?

Red: I've said it before, I say it again: Wakefield is the face of the Nation. He's the most selfless player of this generation, a guy who gives his all on the field, bends to every whim of the team and upper management, and never hides from the media when he's given the goat horns. Then there's the charity work. Some players show up at the Jimmy Fund with their own camera crews. I've got relatives who work there who will attest to Tim's frequent drop-ins, unannounced, with nothing but a smile on his face and a pen in his hand.

Denton: Don’t get me wrong, I love Wake. I love everything he’s done for the team and the community. And that would make him the face of the franchise…if we were talking about the Red Cross. This is major league friggin’ baseball, not tiddlywinks. The face of this franchise has to be someone that can grab the rest of the team, throw them on his back, and carry them to the Promised Land. Today, that man is David Ortiz. Big Papi has stepped up in the ninth and single-handedly put a game away more times than I care to count. In the very near future, I think we’re going to have a serious debate on our hands as to whether the face of the franchise is Beckett, Paps, or maybe someday Ellsbury.

Red: When my daughters grow up, I want them to marry a guy like Tim Wakefield. Hell, when I grow up, I wanna marry a guy like Tim Wakefield.

More throwdown tomorrow.

From Napoleon's blog yesterday...

In two random, unrelated events, a Japanese newspaper reporter arrived late for the game because his windshield was shattered by what he said was a low-flying pelican. Then a foul ball shattered the computer screen of Joe McDonald of the Providence Journal while he was downstairs interviewing Lester.

It would have been a better story if the pelican dive-bombed CHB's computer. But we take what we can get. Pelicans are...not small, having one of those f-ckers faceplant into your windshield must give you a nice adrenaline shot. Since it was a Japanese reporter, I know there's a really inappropriate Pearl Harbor joke in there somewhere. But you know we only stick to the highbrow humor around here.

In Yankeeland, Post reporters are ripping Bud Selig and the Yanks for letting Billy Crystal play in a spring training game.

...the night the Yankees and commissioner Bud Selig made a farce out of the game by signing all-time foof Billy Crystal to a ludicrous one-day contract and foolishly announcing he will play in an exhibition game Thursday...

First: what's a "foof?" Whatever. I don't see the big deal. Billy Crystal has been a huge Yankees fan his whole life. But I ask you SG Nation: would you care if Ben Affleck played a spring training game?

Meanwhile, Coco Crisp continues to fight for the centerfield position...by not playing.

Finally back to pelicans - check out this bird-on-bird crime:

So the other day I'm flipping the channels around and I land on this performance by Aaron Neville. And I think to myself, now there's a voice that I just wouldn't expect to hear coming out of such a hulking bruiser of a guy. Then I realized that's kind of how I've always felt about Jason Varitek -- somehow, the voice just doesn't match up with the body. Just check this clip of Tek being interviewed after the Sox clinched the 2003 ALDS, and tell me you can't see the guy sidling up to Linda Ronstadt to belt out "Don't Know Much."

Well, Blogger is being cranky and won't let me upload a picture. So just pretend there's a pic of Captain Kickass with an angry scowl on his face.


From Gordon Edes at Boston.com's Extra Bases: (Translations are found solely in the imagination of Denton)

"Today wasn't as good as yesterday. We'll just have to wait and see I guess. Doctors told me yesterday that there was a possibility I'd come in and feel like I do today so as far as that goes, the doctors were right.''

Why was that, Josh.

"I'm not a doctor, I don't know.''

Translation: That's a stupid f-ckin' question, junior.

Did it happen because of looseness of mound dirt Saturday?

"I'm not going to get into the blame thing, Everybody's doing their job. Nobody's job is any easier than anybody else's. I'm not getting into that.''

Translation: Looseness? A: Is that even a word, and 2: Who f-ckin' cares?

Was there a mis-step on the mound Saturday?

"I'm not getting into that. It's nobody's fault. It's something hat happens.''

Translation: What did I just f-cking say?

It looks pretty doubtful for you to pitch in Japan.

"I don't know. We'll make those decisions as they come.''

Translation: Did you ever sit on a plane for seventeen f-cking hours, pitch in a major league game, then sit for another seventeen f-cking hours and pitch another major league game?

Realistically, two weeks from today they open, you haven't faced big-league
hitters yet, can you be ready by the 24th?

"I don't know. If I'd had as much progress from yesterday to today as I did from the first day to the second day, I wouldn't have ruled that out. Today I'm just holding up my obligation (to talk to media). It probably would have been better to talk to you guys yesterday because I was a little more optimistic. I'm in a pretty crappy mood as far as this thing goes because it was a pretty frustrating day because yesterday was good and today's kind of horse(bleep).''

Translation: Get out of my face. Now. Ever seen me really pissed?

Lower back?

''Yes."

Any discussion about an injection to reduce inflammation?

"No. I kicked around some of those ideas because it's a tough time in spring training, trying to get everything going. You don't really want setbacks this time of year. They basically told me that they couldn't find a spot to put the shot in there.''

Did they discuss that maybe putting you on a plane for 17 hours (to Japan) might not be wise because of your back?

"No. We haven't discussed any of that. We're just doing what we're saying, going day to day on how I feel. I pretty much have an interview with two or three doctors every day and report to the manager and pitching coach and my trainer."

Have you had an MRI?

"Yes. We've done a number of tests. There's nothing wrong with the disks, and I think that's what they wanted to make sure of. It's definitely a strained muscle or pulled muscle, whatever you want to call it. It heals when it heals.''

Translation: Nobody sticks a needle in me for a sore f-cking back. I'll rub some dirt on it, chew on some nails and I'll be ready to f-cking pitch.

Have you had anything like this?

"No. Not like this.''

Back issues before?

''No.''

Translation: Do not make me repeat myself. That's strike two, bitch.

Any idea when you'll be healthy?

''No, I have no idea.''

Translation: Do you get paid extra the more stupid the f-cking question?

Can you look far enough ahead to know the next time you can be on a mound?

''No. We're going to make sure it's completely pain free. I can't even really if laying in one position too long, or sitting in one position too long or standing in one position too long it kind of goes backwards. I've got to keep moving and stuff like that.''

What do you do tomorrow?

"Whatever they want me to do. Probably the same as what today was.''

Translation: You're really earning your keep today, shit-heels. Do you wanna see tomorrow?

Did it respond to treatment? As you're standing here right now, is it feeling better?

"It's kind of numb right now. I've had six or seven icepacks on it this morning.''

"I was a lot more optimistic yesterday than I am today. A lot of that has to do with being in a (expletive) mood because I didn't sleep well.''

Translation: Conversation over. One more word and you go down. Hard.

Is there nothing Jacoby Ellsbury can't do? Dude can push over tires, torment his roommate, replace Coco in centerfield (perhaps). And now we learn that he can go all Barry Allen on your ass at will. As the Boston Herald explains, young Jacoby once outran a deer:

According to Ellsbury, it happened one summer in the mid-1990s, when he was 11 or 12. Having deer wander through the sagebrush and juniper trees in his family’s backyard was commonplace, but one day Ellsbury and three of his younger brothers decided it was a good idea to have the former try to catch one.

“There was this little deer there one day that we saw, and we went outside,” Ellsbury said. “My brothers got around it with me and kind of tucked (it) behind a sagebrush nearby.”

The brothers startled the deer, making sure it ran in the direction of their older brother.

“I got close enough to throw the rope around its neck,” Ellsbury said. “I had to run 10, 15 yards to get to it. I was running pretty hard, as fast as I could at that age.”

In other news, count me among those who believe that Beckett's back spasms are part of an elaborate ploy to lull opposing teams into a state of complacency. In fact, I'm certain that the ploy came down to either back spasms or some story about how he'd vowed not to pitch a single game until he saw the new Indiana Jones movie, until someone pointed out that the latter would involve failure to honor his contract. So he went with back spasms. Also, please count me among those who like to think that part of his alleged back problem is just the residual effects of dating Leeann Tweeden. Because in my mind, she's a one-woman wrecking crew.

Beckett scratched. Are there any two words that could strike such fear into the heart of a Red Sox fan as those? We're not talking about a blister or a hangover, we're talking back spasms. Red's girl Amalie reports:

"In his first warm-up toss after warming up in the bullpen, in which he was fine, his landing foot seemed to give way just a little bit," pitching coach John Farrell said, indicating that the slide of Beckett's front foot put pressure on his back one. "That's when he felt some spasm or some tightness in his low back. Subsequently to that, he threw another five pitches. At that, the spasm had gotten to the point where he felt it was best to shut it down."

Beckett was examined by the team's medical staff, but the severity of the injury was unknown. Nor was it known when Beckett might take the mound again.

With Schill already out indefinitely, I don't need to tell you how scary this is.

On the other side of the coin, Jacoby Ellsbury began his "fight" to win the centerfield starting job (wink wink). The boy wonder went three-for-five with a homerun and two RBI.

Remember when Craig Hansen was one of the untouchable young pitchers in the farm system? He's sporting a lofty 14+ ERA this spring.

More news on Beckett as it comes...keep your foam fingers crossed.

Manny Ramirez, who the press would like to remind you is a bad influence of a layabout who cares nothing for his teammates or the fans or wounded American veterans, had a gift for Dustin Pedroia for winning the 2007 ROY: A Rolex watch. But dig on the crazy way he presented it to the Elf, according to ProJo, via Sox & Dawgs:

The Red Sox slugger presented the second baseman with a Rolex watch for winning the American League Rookie of the Year in 2007. Ramirez handed Pedroia a box and then hit it pretty hard with his bat, denting the box. When Pedroia opened it all he could say was “Damn!”

So let me get this straight: He hands Elf the box, then hits it with his bat. If that doesn't spell awesome, I'm not sure what does. And the love-fest only continued from there:

“He’s a great kid with a great heart,” said Ramirez, who also bought Pedroia a few new suits to wear on the road last season. “I love him. He’s got a great personality and I don’t care what he does on the field because, as a person, he’s such a great guy. You can talk to him and he’s always happy and working hard.”

In other news, Julian Tavarez is offering one free handjob to the teammate who hits the first home run of the 2008 season. We assume it's from a female prostitiute, but you can never be quite sure with Jools.

I remember the days leading up to Coco's Boston debut. There were the commercials, the interviews, the T-shirts, the "cuckoo for Coco" jokes, the one-act play featuring Nathan Lane as "Young Coco", the epic poem that was unearthed in a South American cave that linked Coco to the space program, etc. It was Coco's world; the rest of us were just renting space.

Then he broke his finger. And the wheels kinda fell off from there.

Now he's understandably frustrated, because we've got Jacoby Ellsbury, who could yet prove a flash-in-the-pan but certainly has our attention after last year's postseason performance. If The Ells' coverboy status hadn't been cemented during last year's title run, that final catch Coco made to close out the 2007 ALCS would be a local highlight on par with Fisk's home run or Tek leaping into Keith Foulke's arms. Instead, it was kinda like... "Sweet. We won. Now get the cameras on the rookies!"

It's a sentiment that's not lost on Covelli. And a piece in today's Herald shows that Coco probably ain't gonna go gentle into that good bench:

“Why would you want to sit on the bench? Why would you want to do that?” Crisp said. “I want to play. It’s just a matter of getting out there and having to reprove yourself (this spring). It’s kind of bogus.”

“I know, and I think the team knows, that I went out there and played hurt last year,” he said. “Not to be rewarded with an actual opportunity to help, it kind of hurts.”

“It’s very simple. If (Ellsbury) makes the team and he starts, then hopefully they can find a place for me elsewhere,” said Crisp. “If they can’t, then we’ll have to deal with the situation. I’m not going to be happy about it, but I’m not going to be an (expletive). It’s still a game. It’s still fun. But I’d rather be out there playing.”

Theo's still choosing his words very carefully, saying in that article that Coco's status as the incumbent will "guarantee him a chance" (emphasis mine) to start, but that ultimately, it will all come down to performance. Just like any good North Shore chick would say.

This story is reminder number 3,493 of how happy I am that the Red Sox did not end up with A-Rod on their roster a few years ago.

Rodriguez said he felt discomfort Thursday and the shoulder bothers him when he throws.

"Just a little bit," Rodriguez said before Friday's game against Houston, in which he was the DH. "I certainly wouldn't miss a game during the regular season, or have to DH. But I think right now, it's just being smart."

Rodriguez took part in all drills Friday except the 10-minute throwing session. At that time, he took extra grounders at third.

"I probably won't throw for a couple days," Rodriguez said. "The swing is good."

So his shoulder doesn't bother him when he swings the bat, only when he throws? Let me translate: "I want to hit bombs off pitchers who are still shaking off the winter rust but I don't feel like playing the infield right now."

What a bitch.

Someone e-mailed me about a SOSH thread that said that it was 10 years ago yesterday -- March 6, 1998 -- that li'l Petey made his first-ever start in a Boston uniform. Yeah, it was a grapefruit game. But still... whether we knew it or not, it was the harbinger of great, great things to come.

Interestingly, someone in the thread referenced a post I wrote when Pedro left us for the Mets. And on the occasion of this tenth anniversary of sorts, I'm re-running it here:

* * * * * * * * * *

I miss him already.

Miss the swagger. The head pointing. The drama queen antics. The Great Zim Toss of 2003.

The Yoda mask. The spastic dance moves. The dugout cheerleading. The horrific jheri curls. "Wake up the Bambino and maybe I'll drill him in the ass."

He had a heart as big as your Aunt Selma and a body that seemed vulnerable to the slightest breeze. But when he got on that mound, man, all he was missing was the cape. And some nights, he even had that.

His rules were simple. The inside of the plate is mine. Thou shalt plunk my teammates at your own risk. The ball you hit over the wall this inning could be the ball that gets wedged up your south 40 next inning. So think about it, punk.

My two favorite Pedro moments provide splendid bookends to his remarkable tenure in Boston. The first is in 1999, when he reversed the tide of the ALDS, coming in against a Cleveland team that was beating the tar out of the ball and rendering them completely inoperative. In those days, the salad days, he was the angel of death. And on that October night, with a packed house in Cleveland going apeshit and tasting Red Sox blood, the bullpen door swung open, a slight figure ambled out of it, and an eerie silence descended. Because Pedro was coming into the game. And that was like flipping a switch. Over and out.

More recently, during Game five of the ALCS, Petey made perhaps his boldest statement when he came up and in on Hideki Matsui, knocking him on his ass and effectively taking his bat -- which to that point had become Thor's Hammer -- out of the series.

He was a gamer. He was a warrior. He was controversial. He was beloved.

And now he's a New York Met.

And suddenly there's great concern regarding the Sox' 2005 rotation. A rotation anchored on Schilling and the ankle.

I have faith that Theo will make everything right. I know he will.

But for now, I'm just missing our l'il Dominican buddy. And wishing him well.

* * * * * * * * * *

And here's some Prime Petey from the 1999 All-Star Game:



Your own Pedro memories can go in the comments section. Come correct for the man.

A weird and sad bit of news to report. Patrick Swayze was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It is a very deadly form of the disease and only five percent of those diagnosed live more than five years. Many die within weeks.

Jeff Healey passed away on Sunday at the age of 41 after a lifelong battle with cancer. Retinal cancer stole Healey's eyesight at the age of one, and his most recent illness included tumors on his lungs and leg.

Over at SI.com, Tom Verducci has officially kicked off the Papi for the Hall campaign:

Here's something else unusual about Ortiz: He has slugged at least .592 for five consecutive seasons, a level of sustained power-hitting excellence that is historically rare. Ortiz is one of 11 players in history with that kind of streak, with only Barry Bonds (eight straight), Babe Ruth (seven and six), Hank Greenberg (seven), Mark McGwire (six) and Ted Williams (six) with more consecutive such seasons.

Look at Ortiz's consistency delivering extra-base hits. He has pounded out 85 extra-base hits or more for four consecutive years. Only Lou Gehrig (five seasons) ever had a longer such streak and only Sammy Sosa has matched Ortiz's run. Even if you forget about whether such seasons came consecutively or not, only four hitters ever had more 85-extra-base seasons than Ortiz already has: Gehrig (eight), Ruth (seven) and Greenberg and Stan Musial (five).

Finally, there's the completely unscientific test: give me your five best hitters in baseball. You don't have to crunch the numbers on this one. Just tell me the five guys who you think are the best in the business at squaring up a baseball. If you didn't have Ortiz on that short list in any of the past four seasons, I'd have to question what you've been eating for breakfast.

Speaking of the first meal of the day, earlier in the article, Verducci describes for us a typical Ortiz power breakfast: "a plastic bowl filled with granola and a paper plate stressed by almost a dozen hard-boiled eggs, of which Ortiz ate only the whites."

Myself, I'm depressed. Because I like to think of Ortiz breaking the fast with three hams, a vat of lager, and perhaps a bowl of Cookie Crisp for some fast-burning carbs. Right before he heads off to terrorize small villages, assorted wrongdoers, and Joba Chamberlain.

Also, nothing to do with the Sox, but I can't believe it took me this long to realize that Glen Hansard of the film Once is Outspan Foster from The Commitments. Oy Gevalt!

What did you think the first "controversy" would be at Red Sox training camp? Manny showing up late? Schilling passing around a petition to allow George W to run for a third term? Julian Tavarez urinating behind the mound during a game? All good guesses. I certainly wouldn't have expected it to be Jonathan Papelbon bitching about his salary.

From Boston.com:

Before the Sox started winning World Series again, us fans clung tenaciously to whatever triumphs we were afforded: Pedro kicking Yankee arse in one game of the 1999 ALCS, a vitamin B-fueled Clemens striking out 20 Mariners, Mo Vaughn not being caught doing 125 on route 95 with a car full of strippers and cocaine and tactical nuclear devices, what have you.

One such gem was Hideo Nomo tossing a no-hitter in his 2001 Red Sox debut, made more remarkable by a stunning, how-da-f@#k-did-he-get-that? snag by Mike Lansing that kept the no-no alive with one out in the ninth. You can see that catch -- which won Lansing a spot on Nomo's Christmas card list for life -- in the video below. Ironically, Lansing was filling in at second for the injured Chris Stynes, part of a revolving door of second basemen around that time, which included the elfin Craig Grebeck (on loan from a touring production of The Lord of the Rings), Rey Sanchez and the inimitable Todd Walker.



Meanwhile, back in real time, The Papel-Bot is engaged in a different sort of dancing--the dance of contract negotiations.

When Mike Lowell, Kevin Youkilis, Coco Crisp, Jonathan Papelbon, Sean Casey, Kyle Snyder and Julio Lugo talk cookies, you need to be there. So for those who might have missed it, we present the annual Red Sox "Cookie Off", as seen on WSBK's Red Sox This Week.



Just so you know: In the interest of time, the last 50 seconds were lopped off. But Youk and Mazel Tough tied for first.

Two things that come to mind after watching this clip:

One, from certain angles, Kyle Snyder looks oddly like the guy who unleashed the virus in Twelve Monkeys.

Two, Jonathan Papelbon has officially been elevated to "Kramer" status on this team. That is, just as Kramer earned an ovation every time he busted through the door on Seinfeld, The Bot deserves a round of applause every time he merely shows his face on our televisions. That's how much he elevates the mood.

Oh, and how happy does Sean Casey look as he gets baptized into the proceedings? I think this is gonna be a match made in heaven.

Alright, no one really took their pants off (to the best of our knowledge anyway, as Julian Tavarez' whereabouts are still undocumented), but the Red Sox continued to establish themselves as Jonathan Papelbon's Flying Circus at the Mike Lowell Foundation's Dancing With the All-Stars charity event. The Bot (seen here wearing something that wouldn't have seemed out of place in a dinner theatre version of La Cage Aux Folles), Dustin Pedroia (who doffed his shirt to reveal, inexplicably, the word "Daddy" across his chest), Alex Cora and Lowell himself did their best to combat the rumor that white guys can't dance. Judging from the clips they showed during today's game... the rumor stands.

"[Papelbon's shirt] was terrible," Pedroia said. "I thought my body pulled it off, and his didn’t. That’s my personal opinion. A lot of women, they loved it."

Pedroia threw his shirt to owner John Henry, nearly killing manager Terry Francona in the process.

"I thought I was going to have a heart attack," Francona said. "My chest hurt, I was laughing so hard. Pedroia is a moron. You can write that. He is a moron. He was dancing, he looked like a puppet on a string. He’s such a little gamer, but he’s looking over knowing we were crushing him. He’s drinking the Red Bull. He’s exhausted. He’s trying to do these things with this girl he’s not strong enough to do. It was hilarious.

The only loser here, really, is Kevin Millar. Tell me the guy's not watching all of this from a lonely hotel room outside the Orioles' camp, slowly punching himself repeatedly in the testicles. Oh, El Bencho... if you were still here to kick it all up a notch, I'm certain we'd be on the precipice of Major League Baseball's first-ever instance of an entire team doing jail time.

Guy couldn't hit for us worth a lick, but he certainly knows how to make a graceful exit:

"Best team I ever played for," he said. "We had a blast. We won, we were close, and we had a good time. My bench buddy was Alex Cora, and we would dissect the game sitting there and we had a lot of fun with things. The Red Sox treated me so well. They got me out of Toronto and gave me a role. [Terry Francona] was terrific to me. I have nothing but fond memories of the Red Sox."

Baseball's on NESN in just a little under four hours, folks. If you need me, I'll be in the fall-out shelter.

"I've never made that choice, and I would never make that choice, because I care about my future. That's just the way I live my life. Drugs, if it is not coming from [Red Sox doctors], I stay away from that stuff."

Okay, I'll buy that. But no way in hell he's not popping some kinda liquid beard enhancers from the Orient. Guy grows facial hair like f@#king Cornelius from the Planet of the Apes.

Also, a spring training game in which Jools pitches but doesn't dope slap somebody? What the hell's he waiting for? The thick of a pennant race?

Sorry. I'm just extra irritable after yesterday's baseball tease. No more new Red Sox games on TV until tomorrow, leaving me to face the cold and snow in an alarmingly Remy-free state.

And I hate that state.