Ozzie Guillen had a batting average of .264, with 69 homers and 619 RBI in a career that spanned 16 seasons. To hear him talk, you'd think he was a Hall of Famer. While his team clings to a half-game lead in their division, Ozzie continues to talk. And talk and talk.

Ozzie stormed into Boston spewing his street corner psychology, saying the Red Sox would not be able to play at a high level after completing a series against the Yankees. After an 8-0 pasting on Friday evening it appeared the White Sox were having trouble getting up for the series.

After last night's 8-2, 15-hit attack left the White Sox with the smallest of leads to make the post-season, Ozzie opened his mouth, and sure enough, something came out. Referring to an intentional walk to Pedroia in the eighth:

"I never thought I would walk a jockey," Guillen said.

It was a harmless comment, everyone knows Guillen loves Pedroia's game. But Ozzie couldn't stop himself, talking about Michael Bowden's performance:

"He got us on a bad day," Guillen said. "He's OK. He didn't really impress me. He beat a team that right now is not swinging the bat well. The first inning he threw all fastballs. We're a fastball-hitting team and we couldn't get him. When you deserve credit, I'll give you credit. He didn't impress me.

When a 21-year-old kid shuts down a major league team in his debut as a starter, it's impressive. Wake goes for the sweep this afternoon on a picture-perfect day in Boston. Maybe the 42-year-old knuckleballer can impress Guillen.

One of the nice things about my job is it keeps me off the streets (much to the delight of society) and neck-deep in cheap beer. The not-so-nice thing is that on occasion, I am plucked rather suddenly from my everyday life and sent to far-flung, exotic locations like Newark, Kansas City and Chesterbump, IL (an actual place; look it up).

Yesterday, I was thusly plucked, given my marching orders and pointed toward a plane. So here I sit, miles from the comfort of home and Jerry Remy, with a packed week ahead that will keep me from giving Surviving Grady the attention it deserves.

So with that, I am handing the keys to Denton, who will be your host until I return in about a week--or perhaps sooner, if the gods of business choose to smile upon me. I am certain you will be safe in his hands, although the fact that I'm checking in now and he hasn't seen fit to put up a Saturday post might raise a red flag as to the amount of new material you'll be getting during the week ahead (I kid. I'm sure it's just a tie-up with his parole officer.)

Besides keeping me from my bed for a week, this trip has also caused me to miss a farewell celebration for Bridget--AKA Trot's Hat in the comments section--who is shipping out to London. Our loss is the UK's gain, and we wish her safe and happy travels.

Peace, love and f@#k Giambi.

You understand what's at stake here.


Yeah.


We all like Julio. He's a nice guy. Lotsa fun in the clubhouse. Hell, if I had a dollar, and he needed a dollar, well, f@#k, I'd give him that dollar. Just hand it to him and shit.


Right.


But soon he'll be ready to come off the DL. And we can't have that.


Si.


Now, killing the guy would be messy. We can't have blood on our hands.


Perish the thought.


So you're gonna have to go back in time and make sure he never gets a job in professional baseball.


::nods::


We have a time machine here. Is it ready, doctor?


Gah.


Excellent. Now go and make things happen. To Julio.


Yeah.

::Travels back to 1985, Dominican Republic::


Hey, kid. Where you headin'?


The ballfield. My name's Julio. I play Little League.


Well I guess that's cool. If you like being poor.


Huh? Baseball players ain't poor. They make a lotta money.


That's what they tell you. But once you're on a plane to America, they put you to work. Mowing grass or stitching pig bladders into fancy purses for the rich.


Aye carumba.


Want my advice? Stick to math.


Math? Like school math?


Damn straight. That's where the real money is. Adding, subtracting. Here.


What's this?


It's a calculator. You can do all sorts of cool tricks with it.


::fiddling with it:: I don't see no Donkey Kong on here.


It ain't a f@#kin' video game, pancho. It's numbers. The lifeblood of everything in this world.


::still fiddling with it:: Hey, this is pretty cool.


You wouldn't happen to know where the Lowries' summer vacation house is, wouldya? I gotta drop off a sack of bats.

::Later, back in 2008, at Bukowski's Tavern::


So blah, blah, yadda yadda yadda, we're all set.


Good work, Josh. Now I've got to get to my secret base on the moon to help NASA locate Mecha-Giambi. I trust you'll take care of the tab?


Sure, sure. No problem. Eh ::picks up bill, squints:: Damn, I should've asked Terry to figure the tip. I can never do percentages. Hmmmm....


Excuse me, sir. I couldn't help but overhear your predicament. Perhaps I can offer some assistance. You see, I am in the business of mathematics.


Okay. Eh...


Looking at your bar tab, it appears that you've had six whiskeys, two Jaeger shots and a half-dozen Heinekens.


Well, it is breakfast.


With your bar tab being $250, I would estimate an adequate tip to be 42 dollars.


Thanks, buddy, I... hey, you look familiar to me. Do I know you?


Not unless you attended MIT, my friend.

::The Next Day::


Ready for another time travel assignment?


Uh. Sure.


Excellent. You're familiar with Tim McCarver?


The broadcaster?


Not if you can help it.


Genius.

* * * * * * * *

Apologies to McSweeneys, the Dugout, and readers everywhere.

Back in August of 2006--on my goddam birthday of all days--the Sox opened a critical 5 game series at home against the Yankees. When New York arrived, the Sox were a mere one and a half games behind them in the standings. When they left, having taken all five games, we were six and a half games gone. And we never got closer than five and half games again for the rest of the season.

It was a dumbfounding, jaw-dropping, push-yer-nuts-through-the-meat-grinder kind of series, each loss more stupendously painful than the last. It was the nail in the coffin, assuring us in every way except mathematically, that the Sox were destined to spend October on the sidelines. Even though we'd just embarrassed the Yanks in the 2004 ALCS a couple years earlier, this utter f@#k-up of a series hurt. Bad.

So I must say, I'm quite happy to see the Sox returning the favor in 2008, deftly chloroforming any playoff aspirations Joe Girardi's Stormtroopers might have harbored. It was the two new guys -- Byrd and Bay -- and the Elf Himself delivering the crushing blows, and even Manny Delcarmen sacked up when it was still a 4-2 game, striking out two in a perfect seventh inning, before all hell broke loose in the eighth.

I still can't count them out. My mind just won't let me do it. But if the Sox can shut 'em down again this afternoon, as Jon Lester takes on Chandler Bing, then I might start looking into venues for the Yankees Elimination Party.

Y'know. Just to be safe.

"To be with the Red Sox will be cool," Kotsay told MLB.com. "I've always said there were a couple of teams I'd like to play for, with Atlanta being one of them. But I'm looking forward to joining the Red Sox and being in the pennant race."

Also, hello to Mrs. Kotsay.

When Tito made the move to bring in Justin Masterson with bases loaded in the seventh to face A-Rod, my hand automatically reached for the remote. Everybody Loves Raymond had to be on somewhere. I personally would have yanked MDC one batter earlier and brought in Oki to face Abreu. Don't get me wrong, I think Masterson has been "the man" since moving to the pen, second only to Paps in reliability. But we're talking about a bases loaded situation in Yankee frickin' Stadium, with Alex Rodriguez at the plate, and despite my growing man-love for Justin, he's just a kid. Then the camera zoomed in for a close-up as Masterson looked in for the sign, and I knew Tito made the right move. The look in Masterson's eyes was...Papelbon-esque. He knew he was getting A-Rod out. At that moment, I knew he was getting A-Rod out. And I think A-Rod knew it too.

A-Rod spent the entire game adding to what I call his "automatic transmission" reputation - no clutch. His 0-for-5 effort included a strikeout to end the first, a double-play to end the third, a fly-out with two on in the fifth, the bases loaded double-play in the seventh, and another strikeout to end the game. Oh, and an error at third. The always supportive fans in the Bronx booed A-Rod with growing passion after each at-bat.

Tim Wakefield started things off, going five innings for the win on his first outing off the DL. He looked pretty good with the exception of Johnny Damon, who, after reading Hitting the Knuckleball for Dummies, smacked two solo shots off of Wake. Okay, someone actually read the book out loud to Johnny, but it looks like some of it sunk in. Other than that, Timmy looked like he might be ready for some October baseball.

A couple of relief pitcher observations:

• When Okajima was pitched the eighth, it looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone.
• The Yankee media guide claims they promoted Chris Britton from Triple-A Scranton when in fact, they picked him up last weekend after he pitched a Sunday beer-league softball game representing the Queens County Deli and Pinkie Ring franchise.

The win was big for the Sox, as they gained a game on the Rays who fell to Doc Halladay and the Jays. The loss was bigger for the pinstripes who are now on life-support for even a wild card spot. This evening, a game that will be talked about as the final night game the Sox will play in Yankee Stadium!, features Byrd against Ponson. I like our chances.

I went to the rock show last night, even though my mind told me, "Red, please don't go to the rock show, where you'll be shuffling around with a pack of folks your age or older, trying desperately to recapture that long-gone feeling of youthful excitement." But I got in line, found a decent spot by the stage, and proceeded to do that "white guy concert shuffle" thing where I just sorta move back and forth and fight to keep my hands from playing air bass.

The band was Squeeze, and the music was fantastic -- a stark reminder that this may be, in fact, the most criminally underrated band of the last thirty years. The venue was Showcase Live, which stands in the shadows of Gillette Stadium at Patriot Place. Good sound, expensive beer, and an altogether not unenjoyable concert-going experience.

As a bonus, I got out of the show to learn that the Sox had beaten the Yankees! "Another Nail for My Heart," indeed. Yet, I still can't count them out. Not until Stephen Hawking shows me, via slide rule and PowerPoint presentation, that a Yankee October is complete unfeasible.

Can you?

Despite their lack of 21st-century titles, the Yankees still get us all riled up whenever the Sox play 'em, reminding us that the classic battle between good and evil never truly ends. Even if, these days, evil isn't so much the 600-pound pinstriped gorilla it used to be, but is more like a slightly tougher version of "Jughead" from the Archie comics.

So with the concepts of "good" and "evil" floating in our heads, and with bellies filled to bursting with cheap beer, Denton and I got all introspective and shit, debating about those Yankee players who inspired the most anger within us. The ones we'd most like to see peeled apart by wild emus. The most hated.

And it goes like this:

Denton: For me, picking the biggest d-bag ever to wear a Yankees uni is like trying to pick the hottest Victoria’s Secret model: there are too many choices, each with their own distinct qualities. Not to mention, there's just too much history of hate-able Yankees. It’s like trying to compare the Celtics teams of the Russell era against the Bird era. You just can’t. So I’ve gone the route Dickens would have, and identified the most-hated Yankees of the past, present and future.

Red: For me, the "past" would only go back as far as the early '80s, as I can only generate pure, unbridled distaste for those Yankees who I actually watched. That means, sadly, I have to discount the great Yankees villains of the '70s like Ron Guidry, Bucky Dent, Reggie Jackson and the late Thurman Munson, who played Darth Vader to Fisk's Luke Skywalker. My hatred is more rooted in those Yanks teams of the mid-to-late '90s that gave us fits--with guys like Tino Martinez, Paul O'Neill, Bernie Williams, Chuck Knoblauch, Scott Brosius and Mo Rivera.

Denton: Well, if we start there, I'd say Paul O’Neill was the face of everything you could want to hate about the Yankees. His cocky stride to the plate, his whining about every called strike or out call at first, and his oh-so-punchable face. Looking back, his career .305 average against the Sox probably fueled the ire. Put a gun to my head, and I might give him the edge overall.

Red: From the late '90s/early 2000s teams, I'd go with Jeff Nelson. Talk about a punchable face--he looked as if he was ripped right from half the "wanted" posters you see in the post office. And even though he was only with the Yankees for a brief span of time, his impact on the 2003 ALCS against the Sox was enormous, most notably his brawl with a Fenway groundskeeper in the visitor's bullpen during game three. During game four, the Fenway crowd was literally chanting "we want Nelson" late in the game as the Sox threatened. And the f@#ker ambled out of the 'pen, looking as smug, cool and deranged as a guy who just beat a child molestation rap on a technicality, and promptly induced a Nomar double play. I still feel my hands curling into a fist when I think of that whole series.

Denton: As for today's Yankees, it's a toss-up between A-Rod and Giambi. A-Rod is a great baseball player, but he's proven too many times that he carries the douchebag gene. The slap of Arroyo, the “mine” call against Toronto, and the incident that ultimately led to Tek serving him a mitt sammich--those things can’t be ignored. But Giambi gets the edge because not only is he a douchebag and a greaseball, he’s also a cheater. The fact that he admitted it and still gets to go out and cash checks for millions of dollars is wrong. And he looks like a monkey trying to hump a football when he dives for a ball at first. That said, when they finally catch A-Rod for being a juicer, the scales tip in his favor.

Red: You know where I stand as far as current Yankees. If not, please allow Charles Nelson Reilly to refresh your memory:


Denton: And as for future Yankees, it's a no-brainer: Joba. If for no other reason, his obsession with trying to take Youk’s head off with a 97 mph heater gets him the nod. Phil Hughes would have been a contender for the award, but he’s such a nobody that it would be like giving the “Yankees Past” award to Karim Garcia. Too many people would respond with blank looks and rush to their computers to Google the name.

Red: I try to muster the hate for Joba, but then I go and read something like his comments on Clay Buchholz in last Sunday's Globe:

"I spoke to Justin [Masterson] the other day about it. It's a shame for Clay and I know he must be disappointed, but all you have to do is look at his stuff to know that this is only a temporary setback for him. He's got nasty, great stuff, and he's going to figure it out because here's a guy who's pitched a no-hitter in the majors already."

After that, I just can't turn the anger up. So I'll just double up here and say Giambi again. That is, unless the Yanks ever sign Shea Hillenbrand.

During Saturday's pre-game, NESN chatted up Commander Kick-Ass in front of his locker. Going over the visible contents of said locker, I could see a container of chew, a bottle of water (likely a decoy containing straight vodka), some "Mega-Men"-type vitamins and what looked like a shaving kit with the Red Sox logo (the boxer briefs to his left, I'm assuming, belong to Masterson in the next locker over).

Not visible but certainly somewhere in Beckett's locker must also be a rifle, a Rambo-sized hunting knife, a necklace made out of the kneecaps of his enemies, and Leeann Tweeden.

Anything else?

After making the relay to cut down the only runner slower than Sean Casey trying to score, a run that would have put the Jays up by two, young Jed finished matters with the bat, nailing a solo shot to put the Sox up in the 11th. MDC came in to close it out, capping the rare box score where Paps gets the "W" and Delcarmen the save. But we have to keep an eye on Lowrie, check out a fun fact from the Stanford web site:

Favorite Pro Sports Athletes: Brett Boone and Alex Rodriguez

In other news...

Red Sox pitching has the same effect on Vernon Wells as spinach does on Popeye. Vern finished the series 6-for-13 with three dingers, six RBI and six runs scored.

Jim Rice's shirt-and-tie combo on the post-game show looked like an explosion in an Easter Egg factory.

Giambi still sucks.

You know, for the last couple months, I've been concerned for David Ortiz. His buddy, confidente and aide-de-camp headed west. His wrist was giving him fits. He somehow didn't seem the ginormous presence he has been since the 2003 season.

But with this one quote in today's Globe, on the heels of yesterday's sordid affair in the Great White North, Papi has re-assured me that his badassery is as potent as ever:

"We'll be fine, bro. We go through this [expletive] every year. At the end of the day, we'll take another ring with us."

Word.

Sox get their asses handed to them in idiot-free Canada.

Carl Pavano pitches his first game since April 2007... and gets the win.

The Tampa Bay Rays have the best record in baseball.

Are you freaking kidding me? 11-0? Did that actually just happen?

Screw that. I'm pulling an Eldon Tyrell and wiping this game from my memory banks. I suggest you do the same.

Folks, I've long since abandoned any aspirations of appearing on the cover of GQ. So trust me when I say, I know lousy photos. And, holy god, the photos of Byrd and Marcum used on NESN's "pitching preview" for last night's game were two of the worst player shots I've ever seen in my life. At first glance, I thought Gollum from Lord of the Rings was taking on Stuttering John.

Beyond that, it was nice to snare a W in Toronto, against a barely-over-.500 team that's been tying us in knots all season. Also good to see Varitek showing signs of life, and the force of nature known as Dustin Pedroia continuing to churn out the hits.

Although Drew's back spasms are troubling, he may not be DL bound. And even if he did go down for a spell, there's a damn good chance that come September, we may find a number of excellent things converging to create the Perfect Storm of Awesome, including a healthy Wake, re-energized Colon, and a rejuvenated Tek.

It could be an embarrassment of riches, people. So long as Lugo remains gagged and bound in a Chelsea apartment.

The big man has spoken. And, according to today's Herald, his marching orders for his teammates are as follows: “Win games, win games, win games.”

So here's the million dollar question: Can they? Is Red Sox version 2008 a team equipped to bring us our third World Series title in five seasons -- and, sweet Jesus, did you think you'd ever find yourself even contemplating such a feat in your lifetime? -- or is this 2005 redux; a team that will likely make the playoffs, but sputter out in the first round.

I counted them out at least 17 times during the 2004 postseason. So I know absolutely nothing. But what do you think? Can they go all the way? Is Tek set to bust out like Andy Dufresne? Is Masterson the reliable late inning bridge we so desperately need? Can Ellsbury reclaim a bit of the magic he conjured last October? More importantly, could the world survive a Red Sox-Cubs World Series?

After The Steal, truly anything is possible. What say you?

Earlier this week, during a perfectly innocent Google search for the name of Jon Lester's fiancee, I inadvertently stumbled upon a blog. This blog, it so happens, belonged to Meryl Masterson, wife of Sox pitcher Justin Masterson.

I briefly scanned the page, smiled at a couple of the entries there--including photos of the Mastersons' newly furnished apartment and a particularly sweet anecdote about her genuine awe at sitting near Manny Ramirez on a team flight--and posted a link to it.

Within a few minutes, I had a couple e-mails from readers, most displeased by the linkage. "Her site isn't meant for public consumption," was the general tone.

At first, I didn't agree. I figgered, I found it on Google; it's not like I broke into anyone's Citibank account and started doling out credit card numbers. Moreover, I reasoned, Mrs. Masterson is an adult with a husband who maintains a career that puts him squarely in the public eye. Surely she's aware that stuff she posts on the Internet can be seen by lots and lots of eyes.

But then I started wondering if, in fact, Masterson's wife thought her blog was private--hey, my dad could never figure out the VCR after 20 years; some people just aren't technologically savvy. And what if she dropped some personal info that I hadn't caught on my initial scan of the site?

I debated it for about a half-hour, then, fearing the Gods of Karma, took the link down.

After that, I received about twenty e-mails from readers who bashed me for removing the link. "If it's posted on the web," someone wrote, "it's fair game. End of story."

By that point, it was moot. Meryl, perhaps hipped by a reader or alerted to a sudden boost in traffic, shut the blog down, as Soxaholix noted.

Yesterday, I talked a bit about this incident with our pal Derjue for Boston Magazine's blog. As she points out, Meryl's site is still cached here, but without all the pretty photos.

Honestly, I'm with Derjue on this one. While we certainly want to shield players and their families from the nutjob fans and lunatics who walk among us (Denton, Patrick Bateman, etc.), I found the tone of Meryl's entries utterly charming, and was intrigued by the insider's view of the life of a professional ballplayer (they buy drapes and end-tables, just like us). Hell, I'd like to see more.

Perhaps someday she'll have a change of heart. But my glimpse into her world was pretty cool for the two hours it lasted.

Imagine walking into the ballpark to see your crappy team, and suddenly you're fifty grand richer and have season tickets? That's exactly what happened to Mr. Gracie on Tuesday night. ESPN reports:

Kevin Gracie, a 24-year-old student at the University of Baltimore School of Law, was the lucky entrant. He won $50,000, season tickets for five years and was introduced to the crowd before the Orioles played the Boston Red Sox.

"The $50,000 is great, and getting the two season tickets is amazing," said Gracie, of Ellicott City. "My buddy bought my ticket. I was going to switch tickets with him in line."

Hard to believe Yankee Stadium doesn't hold the record, unless there is a minimum IQ level required to be counted. Anyway, I'd love to see how many of the fifty million fans are actually Oriole fans. They probably have a few years left before the fifty millionth one of those walks through the gates.

The excruciating off-day-after-a-brutal-loss marches on slowly.

As much as they've been giving us fits, the very fact that the Rays are still relevant after May 1 is one of the more interesting stories of the 2008 baseball season. Admittedly, I haven't been following much beyond the box scores, but last night, with the Sox coughing one up in Baltimore, I starting flipping between video footage of my Uncle Sid's last four prostate exams -- far less painful viewing than the Sox game, mind you -- and the Rays-Angels mash-up on ESPN2.

Now here are the Rays, in the thick of an actual pennant race for the first time ever, playing at home against a potential playoff opponent, both vying for the best record in baseball. And the Trop -- at least from what I could see courtesy of the ESPN2 cameras -- can't be more than a third full.

Huh?

I know that the Red Sox are religion here in Boston, but surely there has to be some increased enthusiasm for the hometown team down in TB, right? Enough to, say, pull folks from the early bird specials and swimmin' holes to come out to the ballpark and see just how far this scrappy team will go? I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that concerns over tropical storm Fay may have kept the crowds away. But what more do the Rays have to do to get folks to show a little interest? Two-for-one beer? A female Raymond mascot? "Free Rubdown by a shirtless Joe Maddon" night?

All I know is if the Rays stay on course, Bud Selig may want to start calling on friends, relatives and local vagrants to ensure a packed house come playoff time.

The first rule of Fight Club is that we do not talk about Fight Club. And in this case, "Fight Club" loosely translates to "last night's game." Pegged to a four run lead, Buchholz couldn't make it stand, lasting only two and one-third innings, losing his seventh straight decision, then being directed out of the clubhouse and onto the bus bound for Double-A Portland.

If there's any silver lining to be gleaned from this, it was Heidi Watney's pre-game interview with Kevin Millar, who officially receives more screen time on NESN than any other active non-Sox player. Not that Tina C was chopped hamsteaks, but I'm guessing El Bencho and Ms. Watney could have torn it up had she been here during his tenure.

Just look at the chemistry on display here and tell me these two wouldn't have been post-game fixtures at Daisy Buchanans, shooting Jaeger and organizing late-night tattoo runs to Providence.

Tonight's line-up card is out:

1. Jacoby Ellsbury, RF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. David Ortiz, DH
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. Jason Bay, LF
6. Jed Lowrie, SS
7. Jeff Bailey, 1B
8. Coco Crisp, CF
9. Kevin Cash, C
Clay Buchholz, SP

Some baseball players were just meant to look like filthy degenerates. Kevin Youkilis is one of them.

Can you even recall that there was a time when Kevin Youkilis looked like... this? The photo above? Clean shaven and remarkably non-menacing? When he was set to take on the bulk of first base duties, I foolishly doubted him, claiming Youk wouldn't be an intimidating presence at the plate if he strapped fifty tons of dynamite to his chest and held the trigger in his hand.

But then came the beard. And everything changed.

Last night, he hit yet another home run--his 24th of the season. He's hitting .320 and continues to be an offensive monster, and I mean that in the kindest possible way. His fielding has also been stellar--since opening day 2007, the guy's made only 4 errors at first base. Conversely, during the same time period, Julio Lugo has 35 errors at short.

I'm not sure if we can technically chalk up all this awesome to the beard alone. But it bears noting that without the beard, Youk looked about as threatening as a frat boy stumbling down Comm Ave. With the beard, he's a slightly unhinged character from a Vietnam film. A deranged hillbilly with a horrible secret out in the shed. The kind of face you'd expect to see on America's Most Wanted, as the announcer says, "It was around exit 53 that the women encountered... The Misfit."

And I have no doubt that the dirty bastard will help carry us to the playoffs.

Dear sirs: I received your most recent letter, threatening certain and swift legal action if I do not surrender payment in the amount of twenty four dollars and sixty-five cents for the DVD of the film Daddy Day Camp.

Let's get one thing straight. Daddy Day Camp is a film I did not order. Rather, it was inflicted upon me against my will. When I called your offices for an explanation, I was told by one of your customer service reps--"Denny" or something equally effete was his name--that this was due to my inability to return the dated postcard in a timely manner.

Undeterred, I attempted to return this turgid piece of so-called entertainment to you last week, only to find it again in my mailbox, with a note from your offices saying that the film was mine, and that returning it to you was not an option.

My question is: Are you threatening me, Columbia Record and Tape Club? Because if you are, it's only fair to warn you that I don't take such threats lightly--as the teammates who had to talk me out of following A-Rod's limo back to his hotel with six hunting knifes and a tactical nuclear weapon strapped to my back after game six of the 2004 ALCS will attest. I was part of a team that pulled victory from the jaws of defeat in front of fifty thousand mentally challenged thugs at Yankee Stadium. So please forgive me if your overtures to retrieve a Cuba Gooding Jr. flick don't have me pissing bright yellow streams of terror.

You want the money that badly? I invite you to come over to my ranch to personally retrieve it. I can't guarantee that you won't be shot full of arrows, death and fury the moment you set foot on my property. But I can guarantee that's the only chance you'll ever have of getting your f@#king Daddy Day Camp back.

My advice is to just walk away, Columbia House Record and Tape Club. For the sake of your employees, and the children who love them, just walk away.

Yours,
Michael August Timlin

Long before America's Favorite Offensive Liability, Jason Varitek, was crowned Cap'n, there was only one man fit to wear the title: Captain Carl Yastrzemski. Although I started following the Sox just as Yaz's career was winding down, I did get to witness the glory that was his 3,000th hit--the first Sox-inspired swooning of my young life.

Rumor has it that Tom Yawkey wanted to clone Captain Carl, to create an army of uber-Yastrzemskis that would keep America safe from the Nazis, nuclear weapons and Reggie Jackson. Sadly, the cloning never transpired (or so the Yawkeys would like us to believe), but the man's legend still stands tall.

As if they needed any further inspiration heading into tonight's game against the hapless O's, I'm betting the boys have already posted the photo of Carl in the locker room, determined to win this one for him. And to wish him a speedy recovery.

Tonight, we win it for Yaz.

Dustin Pedroia shocked a lot of people last season. He was just a little guy with a big swing having a great season. Then he batted .283 in the post-season with a couple of homers and 10 RBI in 14 games. Then he won Rookie of the Year. And, as the song says, everybody knew his name.

This year, there is no sophomore slump for the Elf. He is second in the AL in batting average at .320, has stolen 12 bases, scored 92 runs, and has committed just five errors. In 122 games, Pedroia has failed to reach base just 19 times. 2007 was no hoax. Looking back, we should have seen this coming.

The Arizona State web site has the full list of Pedroia's accomplishments going back to his high school days. It is a very, very long list. A few highlights:

Arizona State All-American shortstop Dustin Pedroia (Woodland, Calif.) is one of only five finalists for the prestigious Golden Spikes Award and became only the fourth player in ASU history to earn three consecutive First-Team All-Pac-10 awards. Pedroia finished second in the Pac-10 hitting .393 (96-for-244) with 24 doubles, 78 runs scored, nine home runs and 49 RBI. He also had a .502 on-base percentage and a .611 slugging percentage. He led ASU with 30 multi-hit games and hit safely in 48 of ASU's 59 games in 2004. He ended his career with 98 multi-hit games and hit safely in 155 of 185 career games. Pedroia put together an unbelievable "Ironman" streak by starting in all 185 games of his ASU career and ranks seventh with a .384 career batting average. He fell just two hits shy of reaching 300 for his career, but still ranks fourth with 298 career hits and third with 71 doubles.

But this is my favorite:

...describes his best individual athletic performance as a game at the National High School Classic where he was 3-for-4 with a home run, a double and recorded three RBI in a 4-3 win... he also stole home to win the game

Stole home to win the game? What level of ballsiness does that take? Nothing this guy does in the future will surprise me. I fully expect game-winning hits, game-saving defensive plays, and for Pedroia to hang A-Rod off the backstop by his underwear the next time we play the Yankees.

Thoughts and prayers go to Captain Carl. Get well.

See you at 7:05 for win number 73.

These days, every time Jon Lester takes the mound, I'm reminded of that blurb I read in ESPN: The Magazine's 2008 baseball preview issue:

"Jon Lester is a back-of-the-rotation guy," says an AL scout. "If he was the difference between getting Johan Santana or not, [the Red Sox] made a mistake."

I like to think that Lester read that, too. And I'm sure he didn't give a shit. Just got back to his hot fiancee and perhaps a hearty steak-and-eggs breakfast, and quietly vowed that the only one he needed to prove the true scope of his awesomeness to was himself. To be honest, if someone told me back in March that in the middle of August, Josh Beckett would be struggling to find himself and Jon Lester would be the stopper, the savior, the vanquisher of evil, I would've snagged them a room at the Betty Ford clinic at once. But here we are, in the thick of the race, and in the four games he's started following the Sox being swept, Lester is 3-0 with an 0.29 ERA. Simply put, he mans up when we need it most. And we couldn't ask for anything more.

Props also to Jason Bay for providing the bulk of our offense last night with two home runs. His reaction to the number of Sox fans at Camden, as detailed in today's Globe, is priceless: "To be honest with you, it didn't even occur to me at that point that we were on the road."

Tonight, our Feel Good Story takes on the O's Feel Good Story as Jon Lester faces Jeremy Guthrie. What's so feel-goody about Guthrie, you may ask? Well, for one thing, the dude is a devout Mormon who, as I wrote about on Fanhouse last year, believes he became a better pitcher after a two year mission through northern Spain:

"Things I never did prior to the mission I was able to do afterward, even though it wasn't by my doing. It wasn't something I expected or asked for. I didn't want to be a missionary for two years so I could be a better baseball player. In high school, I worked 10 hours a day and lifted weights, and I wasn't able to come close to achieving what I could when I got back."

That's all well and good, but with two losses in a row under our belts and four and a half games separating us from the Rays, I pray God and the Osmonds forgive me when I say I hope the Sox' bats knock the tar outta Guthrie.

Amen.

In no particular order:

-- 2004: The Lost Footage: Throughout the 2004 playoffs and post-championship pomp, you guys pretty much videotaped every move the team made, 24/7. You telling me there's no footage of a pantsless Dave McCarty strolling through the drive-through of the Dunkin' Donuts across from the Stockyard in Allston? Or Derek Lowe stumbling up Comm Ave asking BU freshman chicks if they want to "hold the rosin bag"? Don't keep all this goodness locked up in some closet in Brookline. Roll it on out.

-- "Your Testicles: Routine Care and Maintenance with DeMarlo Hale."

-- Three solid hours of Amalie Benjamin and Heidi Watney just sitting there holding microphones. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.

-- Tom Caron: Live from the Fenway Men's Room.

-- The bluegrass stylings of Terry Francona.

-- Some other game in which Josh Beckett shows the fire and brimstone and piss and vinegar and fireworks and gunplay and hookers and 'splosions that defined his 2007 season. F@#k, I'd even take one in which he knocks somebody down, sticks a microphone up an interviewer's ass or sets the dugout on fire to achieve his post-disaster zen.

On another note, today, August 18, is my birthday.

Although I'd originally hoped to have Heidi and Amalie over for a popsicle eating contest this afternoon, they conveniently "forgot" to respond to my invitation. Although their lawyer sent his regards.

I'll be drunk starting now. But do hang around for later posts and whatnot. Also, if you're feeling sporty, be our friend.

When Roy Halladay's locked in, opposing pitchers have little margin for error. Last night, he was, limiting the Sox to 7 hits. On the flipside, Byrd gave up a couple home runs to Alex Rios and Adam Lind. And that was pretty much that.

The biggest let-down was seeing the Sox' bats get choloroformed, especially after that nuclear showing against Texas. I hoped they might be back to stay, but a guy like Halladay can do that. At least I got to gaze upon the majesty that is Kay Hanley during the pre-game, providing a glimmer of light in an otherwise disappointing evening at the ballpark.

Let's just hope our offense can bounce back. With Commander Kick Ass on this hill this afternoon, I like our chances.

If the game had been played Friday night, Alex Rios would have been sitting on the bench. Cito Gaston changed the line-up for Saturday, and Rios came through with his ninth homer. It would be all the offense the Jays needed, as the real story was Doc Halladay tossing his eighth complete game of the season.

The Sox were nearly helpless, scratching out just seven hits and a walk against Halladay. The Sox did hit a few balls hard but right at the defense. So it goes for a guy like Halladay. And if you don't think the complete game is impressive, check out the stats:

The last pitcher in the major leagues to throw as many as 10 complete games in a single season was Randy Johnson, who threw 12 complete games in 1999 for the Arizona Diamondbacks. The last pitcher to throw as many as 15 complete games in a single season was Curt Schilling, who accomplished that feat for the Philadelphia Phillies in 1998. The last pitcher to throw 20 complete games in a single season was Fernando Valenzuela, who did so for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1986. The last pitcher to throw 25 complete games in a season was Rick Langford, who had 28 for the Oakland Athletics in 1980. The last pitcher to throw 30 complete games in a season was Catfish Hunter, who did so for the New York Yankees in 1975.

It's a dying art with all of the specialty pitchers - lefty specialists, set-up guys, closers - not to mention pitch counts.

This afternoon, on a stellar Sunday with just a touch of fall in the air, we get the magic of Josh Beckett. Let's bring the offense back. Treat 'em like they're the Rangers (who shut out the Rays yesterday?).

Congrats to Michael Phelps!

It's Friday night, you've got three pounds of red meat on the grill and a case of Natty Lite on ice, and the game gets rained out. Sometimes life just ain't fair. So you salvage what you can, throw 40-Year-Old Virgin in the DVD and wait for the results of the Rays' game and the Yankees' game.

The news is half-good. The Rays won again but the Yankees lost to KC on a Mariano Rivera wild pitch.

Here's how upside down everything is for the New York Yankees: They lost a game because Mariano Rivera lost his control.

Rivera's first wild pitch of the season -- and second in six years -- allowed the tiebreaking run to score in the ninth inning, and Jason Giambi flied out with the bases loaded to end the Kansas City Royals' 4-3 victory over the fading Yankees on Friday night.

Today, we wait patiently for the 7:05 start, wondering why the make-up game is set for September instead of a double-header today. A quick run to the packie, then to Nate's Beef Emporium, and you're ready for the game.

See you there.

Unless the guy has a syringe hanging out of his ass when he takes the mound at Fenway tonight, my guess is Paul Byrd will get a "Friendly Fenway" welcome. With Clay Buchholz making a great case to become the next Bud Smith, and Timmy on the DL, Byrd is the guy. If the bats continue their assault the way they've feasted on Ranger pitching for the past few games, I could probably put in five innings and get a win.

Runs might not come so easy against Roy Halladay, Doc has been a horse this summer. He's already tossed seven complete games and logged 182 innings, while keeping a tight 2.72 ERA and a 13-9 record on a mediocre Blue Jay team.

Meanwhile the Elf leads all AL batters with his .323 average.

Oh, and Manny got a haircut, kinda.

...I'd be perfectly happy to see the Chicago Cubs do it.

Just sayin'.

Just when I thought the Sox would be lost without Manny in the line-up, they've gone positively batshit over the last few games, scoring nine runs in one inning during last night's exclamation point on the Texas Rangers series, which featured another three-run home run from Ortiz, three hits from the Elf, and two from Youk, who has clearly flipped on the "automatic awesome" switch.

But, of course, this was the Texas Rangers, a team that couldn't probably do much worse pitching-wise if it added Judd Hirsch and Peter Dinklage to the rotation. Are the hits here to stay? Or do you find yourself waking up in a cold sweat, worrying about Papi's wrist and if it's built to carry us to October?

That's where an interesting name comes up on the waiver wire: Gary Sheffield. I've said this before, I'll say it again: No one has a more frightening stance, in my alcohol-impaired opinion, than Sheff. Guy looks like he'd just as soon drop his bat, catch the pitch in his meaty hands, and tear the cover off with his teeth like a goddam apple. Sure, there's some bad blood there--always the case with ex-Yankees--but that bat could prove a menacing fill-in if we lose Ortiz for any stretch down the stretch.

It's likely a moot point--First of all, he don't come cheap. Also, Sheffield's on record as saying he'd rather play the field than DH, and he'd have to platoon if he came here. But he's also on record as saying he'd want to play for us. What say you?

Or their sons. Seems like big trouble in little Bronx, as the Yankees chances for the post-season, and that elusive 27th ring, fade like a cheap pair of jeans.

Two nights ago, after Mariano blew his first save of the year and gave up a three-run lead, the Yanks came back and won in unlikely fashion: an A-Rod clutch homer. Yesterday they couldn't gather any momentum from the win, and fell to the Twins 4-2. While the Sox and Rays continue to win, the pinstripes have fallen nine games out of the AL East lead, six behind the Sox, and just two games out of fourth place.

The slide is taking its toll on morale. One of the "we-can't-trade-this-guy-for-Santana" pitchers, Ian Kennedy, was sent packing for AAA after another shellacking and his comments after the game. Kennedy is 0-4 with an 8.17 ERA.

Even the blustery Hank seems to realize the season is over. In what sounded a lot like the old Red Sox cry of "wait until next year" Hankie played the injury card:

"I'm not writing off this season. They're trying hard to win. There's only so much you can do. They're not supermen," Steinbrenner said. "No team I've ever seen in baseball has been decimated like this. It would kill any team.

"Imagine the Red Sox without (Josh) Beckett and (Jon) Lester. Pitching is 70 percent of the game. Wang won 19 games two straight years. Chamberlain became the most dominating pitcher in baseball. You can't lose two guys like that."

I guess Hank forgot we lost a guy named Curt Schilling for the entire season? Anyway, it will be interesting to see if the Yankees make any post-deadline moves and try to put a run together, or if they fold up their tents and look toward the new ballpark and a new season in 2009. Whatever the case, it will be a fun series in the Bronx later this month.

Tonight, we look to the power of the Dice.

The thing about cancer is that it doesn't give a shit who you are or how old you are or who you know or how much money your folks left you in that trust fund or how many jobs you're working to keep food on the table or how many hours you spent studying for the class spelling bee or how many Lyle Lovett CDs you've got in your collection. The f@#king thing just shows up one day--unannounced, as you might expect--and you have to deal. But, ghastly as it sounds, it's one thing that we all have in common: it can happen to any of us. Tomorrow, it could be you. Or your dad. Or your mom. Or your kids. Or your butcher. You just don't know.

Scary shit, yes. That's why it's particularly reassuring to know that the folks at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and The Jimmy Fund Clinic are working around the clock to help us deal. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to never need their services. But if you ever do, it's good to know they're there.

With the government too busy buying missiles and Mars probes to donate money to such worthy causes, the Jimmy Fund looks to people like us to help fund research. And if you need any motivation to help you break out the checkbook or credit card, let it be this: you'll be helping sick kids. F@#k, when I was a kid, the toughest thing I had to worry about was where my next wedgie was coming from. The kids who file into the Jimmy Fund clinic every day are literally fighting for their lives. And I can only imagine the special hell their parents and loved ones are going through while I have the balls to stammer around my office, complaining about the traffic and Julio Lugo and how the coffee machine doesn't get my brew quite as warm as I like it. As a father, I'm fortunate that I've never had to deal with it, knock on wood. But, as the Bosstones once sang, I know someone who has. And that's why Denton and I will be making a donation in the name of SurvivingGrady.com and our readers during the NESN/WEEI Jimmy Fund Radio Telethon.

If you want to do the same, click the icon on the right-hand corner of the site. Or click here.

And speaking of the Bosstones, why the f@#k not?

Today, I had the fries. Yeah, I know. Like rye whiskey, swimming after a turkey dinner and pleasuring myself while dressed as a walrus, fries aren't good for me. But the thing is, fries are rock and roll, man. And I am a slave to their gentle persuasions.

Why in the hell am I bringing this up? Because Peter Gammons is rock and roll, too. And his brief appearance in the NESN booth during last night's slaparound of the Texas Rangers beamed enough good vibes into my soul to make me forget about a few concerns that had been clawing at my brain for much of the day. My personal highlight (and I'm paraphrasing here):

Remy: Peter, are you the only Hall of Fame member with his own band?

Gammons: You know, I think I might be.

Remy: I dunno. Did Yaz have one?

Not sure why, but this had me rolling. And I almost wished Gammons had strapped on his Les Paul and added musical accompaniment to the rest of the evening's play-by-play. Especially if he busted with that old Bavarian classic, "Your Team Is Vastly Inferior To Ours. Also, You Eat Cock."

Meanwhile, the Sox beat Texas for the second night in a row. Lester scored his eleventh win of the season, The Fenway Hillbilly had three doubles, Jason Bay drove in a couple runs, and Jed Lowrie continued to make the argument for the Julio Lugo Retirement Party with a couple runs knocked in.

The Good News: Since being inserted into Manny's cleanup spot, Youk is 10-for-25 with two home runs, five doubles and eight RBIs, while his beard has achieved the size and density of Kansas City. The Bad News: Mike Timlin provided the only blemish on the evening, giving up a home run in one-third of an inning's work. But since the man owns knives larger than my car, I'll leave it at that.

Only two and a half games behind the Rays, babies (at least until the outcome of tonight's A's-Rays mash-up). Strap yerselves in.

Typically, when the Sox put up double digits in the first inning, my first reaction is, "Save some of those runs, motherflippers! Bank 'em for those nights we can't get shyte off a Mussina or Lackey." But for some reason, watching last night's game, I really wanted to see 'em pile on the pain like fake meat on an Arby's Beef 'n' Cheddar. An honest-to-joe ass-whipping, complete with fireworks, crossbows and a chorus line of Kirk Hammett, Synester Gates, Eddie Van Halen, Ace Frehley (in the Dynasty-era costume with cape), Tom Morello and Dimebag Darrell punctuating every run with some mad-ass shredding from atop the Red Sox dugout. In the fifth, with the Sox holding a ridiculous 12-2 lead, I figured it was time to put on my relaxed fit chinos, Reid Nichols T-shirt and start up the slow-drip Pabst IV. This, mon amis, was gonna be a laugher.

Of course, the Sox had other plans. Determined to make it interesting, they coughed up leads of 12-2 and 14-7, falling behind 16-14 by the top of the seventh and having me wondering if they were gonna run out of batting helmets before this f@#king game was over. If you had left the room to, say, make a sammich, bedazzle your trousers or watch a pirated DVD of The Dark Knight, then came back around the eighth inning, you would have choked on your own tongue in disbelief.

In the end, we were able to come back to win it by the preposterous score of 19-17. And thank God we did, because losing this game after scoring ten runs in the first inning would have constituted the single most embarrassing loss of the season--far, far worse than that game that was lost when a rabid camel burst onto the field and bit Lugo on the cock (which occurred in an alternate universe and, due to restrictions, wasn't carried on NESN).

Here's a coupla factoids to chew on from that marathon ass-fest:

-- Youk struck out twice in the first inning, then went on to hit two home runs.

-- The first four batters in the Sox' line-up had 12 hits and drove in 14 runs.

-- Ortiz missed his third home run of the night by a Twizzler's length.

-- On the day the Sox signed Paul Byrd, they were terrorized by Marlon Byrd, who had five hits and drove in three runs.

-- Charlie Zink, who must've thought the team was giving him an early Christmas present with the offensive explosion in the top of the the first, surrendered 11 hits and 8 runs over 4.1 innings and left the game with a 16.62 ERA.

What can I say other than thank god it's over, and thank god we won.

Written while listening to:

"Sugarbaby" by Morningwood
"All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers
"Shut Up and Let Me Go" by the Ting Tings

It seems the latest Buchholz start combined with Wake going on the DL have pushed the Red Sox to desperate measures. For the second year in a row, the Sox have gone out and acquired a known performance-enhancing drug user. That, combined with his self-proclaimed addiction to porn, probably make Paul Byrd a great clubhouse guy.

Byrd was named as having purchased human growth hormone and syringes from a Florida anti-aging clinic that was under investigation. He claimed everything he took was prescribed, and I guess technically he wasn't lying. From the San Francisco Chronicle:

Two of Byrd's prescriptions for growth hormones were not written by a physician, according to a law enforcement source. Instead, the prescriptions were written by a Florida dentist, said the source, who asked not to be quoted by name because he was not authorized to comment. The dentist's license was suspended in 2003 for fraud and incompetence, state records show.

Byrd discusses his porn addiction in his book, and also spoke about it during an ESPN interview:

It's not a politically correct book. It's not for a young audience. It's for people in their 20s and 30s that go through similar battles, like with pornography. I've had a real struggle with pornography, from before I became a Christian, when pornography was the good old American way. After I became a Christian, it really began to bother me, but God didn't really take it away. I struggle with porn one night, and somebody asks me a question about Jesus the next day in the outfield, so you feel like a hypocrite trying to share. It's the elephant in the locker room.

He's found religion, so we know Schilling will be a fan. I'm opposed to picking up the known cheaters, it will be interesting to see how Red Sox Nation reacts. And what better place to gauge reaction than right here? What do you say, SG Nation?

With my newfound hobbies--petty larceny, vintage soda bottle collecting, clockin' the hos--I'll admit I may not be giving the Sox the undivided attention that they deserve, especially this time of year. So I'll assume that even though I have yet to catch so much as a glimpse of The Pappet working its gentle magic on the Fenway crowds, there has been at least one sighting in 2008. Surely after last year's playoff action, during which The Pappet was as much an integral figure as J.D. Drew, Mike Lowell and Papelbon himself, The Nation's Marionette and those who are required to operate him must've received season passes to the ol' bandbox, to ensure that no late-inning rally is without puppet-inspired fanfare. Yet... I see no Pappet. So I ask, can someone please confirm or deny the current well-being of the Pappet? Let's get that wooden f@#ker out there tonight, to ward off the would-be conquerors from Texas.

Last night's game provided the perfect prelude to this home stand, getting me all riled up and checking my calendar to free up space in October. With Papi riding the pine, Commander Kick-Ass went all vintage 2007 on us, allowing only run over eight, while the offense--which looked like it might be on permanent vacation through the first six innings--came through when it mattered most. And suddenly a split with Chicago doesn't feel bad at all.

Tonight, the Zink Era kicks off at Fenway, so we have the excitement of his debut to complement the thrill of a pennant race. Sounds like the perfect time to bust out The Pappet, no?

Okay, not "terror" as in people rushing madly into the streets, arms flailing, eyes spun wide with fear and madness as if they've just been listening to Katy Perry's CD. I'm talking the sort of terror that comes from seeing the only palpable threat in your line-up scratched from the game.

Tonight's sans-Papi offense looks like this:

Coco Crisp
Dustin Pedroia
Kevin Youkilis
Mike Lowell
Jason Bay
J.D. Drew
Jed Lowrie
Jason Varitek
Jacoby Ellsbury

Not exactly Murderer's Row, but I do draw inspiration from the fact that the last five batters all have names beginning with "J." I don't think I've ever witnessed such bold alliteration on a Sox line-up card before. Can anyone prove otherwise?

Oh, and no word yet on why Ortiz is sitting. My guess is it's a calculated effort on the part of Teets and crew to get Beckett's dander up. Or it's the end of the world as we know it.

Pray for hits. And we'll see you at 8:11pm.

Driving home from New Hampshire last night, after watching the Sox drop another to Chicago, I pulled off the highway for a lemonade Coolatta (which, when combined with 8.3 ounces of Red Bull, can pretty much empower me to drive my car to Venus if need be). Reflecting on the loss, and with exasperated sports radio callers buzzing in my head, I pulled away from the drive-thru window and glanced up to see Manny staring back at me. Or at least a cool painting of Manny adorning the shop window. And I imagined, judging from the amount of anti-Manny sentiment I catch on the radio and the press these days, that the proprietor of this DD may well have fielded some suggestions from her/his customers that this image be taken down now that Manny's out west. And I further hoped that said proprietor promptly invited these people to go pound sand in their asses, and plans to keep the painting alive at least to the end of the season. You see, I'm all about moving forward. But I don't mind looking back from time to time.

As for the team's recent play, it's becoming painfully apparent that getting rid of Manny hasn't helped Clay Buchholz out of his funk. Or got Mike Lowell hitting consistently (and that double play that Scenic bumped into in the seventh with bases loaded was one of the biggest foot-through-the-TV-screen moments of the 2008 season). Or stopped Tek's batting average from plummeting past the Mendoza line. With Jason Bay coming back to earth (2-for-13 so far in Chicago), Wake hurting and Ortiz wondering if he won't be needing a robot arm by the end of August, there's plenty of reasons to push my fists through walls and wonder aloud if the defending world champs will even taste a little playoff action this year.

But I don't want to think that way--especially since 2004 taught me to never say never. On a positive note, the Sox seem to be playing a bit better on the road, even if the loss of our best hitter--arguably one of the most feared batters in all of baseball--has us looking a lot less like Superman, and more like a perfectly ordinary Clark Kent. Hell, even tonight's starter, the illustrious Commander Kick-Ass, seems an oddly subdued dude this year.

There's still plenty of time for a ten game win streak. For Masterson and/or Colon and/or Zink and or whomever we can pull into the rotation to come up huge. For Lowell to find his swing, for Ortiz to become Mecha-Godzilla, for Tek to--well, let's not push it. I just want a sign of life, a spark of sorts, to get this team refocused on the goal.

Wake on the DL, Lowell doing his Lugo impression, Clay being Clay...

This is better than talking about yesterday's game.

Remember the hype? The controversy over the $51 million spent just to talk to the guy? Next came the hushed whispers of the secret pitch, the so-called "gyro ball." By the time Daisuke Matsuzaka threw his first pitch, I was expecting him to be decked out in full Ninja gear (with the required red "B" of course) and doing some crazy Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon shit on the mound. What we got was a sometimes-brilliant-sometimes-shaky, third starter who threw a lot of pitches and exited games too early.

In his second season as a Major Leaguer, Dice-K continues to be inconsistent, but less inconsistent. In his last eight starts, he has given up just 12 earned runs, half of those in a single start against the Angels. In three of his last six starts, he's pitched into the eighth inning. He continues to walk too many batters, but the walks seldom hurt him as his razor-thin 2.90 ERA shows.

Last night was another step in the right direction. Eight innings, four hits, one earned run and just three walks and a hit batter. Then he steps back and lets the offense do their job. The result: a 13-2 record.

Dayball this afternoon and another semi-critical start for Buchholz. Young Clay hasn't notched a win since May 2nd, and has not looked particularly sharp in any recent starts. The bats need to continue what they started last night and support the struggling rookie. In his last five starts, the Sox have scored just 17 runs - 6 of those in Buchholz's only win during the stretch.

Thursday night the Rays lost a game - to the likes of Seattle no less - giving the Sox a shot at cutting a half game off the Rays' grip on the AL East. The Rays came back and won last night, the Sox dropped one to the pale Sox, and we now sit three-and-a-half back. Here at SG, we don't "tip our caps" to the pitchers that beat our team, or shrug off a loss because we "got outpitched." No sir. We point fingers, we assign blame, and we call out anyone and everyone who had a hand, or glove, in preventing a win.

Last night, the only person worthy of the goat horns was Dustin Pedroia, but he redeemed himself, and then some, with the only offense the Sox could muster. So today, we begrudgingly give props to Mark Buehrle, make sure nobody was watching as we tip our cap, and move on.

As is tradition when Red is away on one of his detox sessions or superhero role-playing weekends or wherever it is he goes, I like to drop a little of my own pop culture favorites into play. Today's winner is Tea Leoni. Why? Why not. Just one of those "something about her" girls I have a thing for. And by thing, I mean restraining order.

Despite all the shits and giggles we like to dispense with, Denton and I are, at least part of the time, upstanding citizens within our respective communities. For one thing, we restrict our full-on groping of college chicks on the T to every other weekend. For another, we trumpet the goodness that is the WEEI/NESN Jimmy Fund Telethon.

This year, the good folks at the Jimmy Fund are promoting "50 events in 50 states", giving peeps around the country the chance to host a local gathering/hoedown/blockparty/pimpapalooza to raise funds for this most worthy cause. You can find events in your neck of the woods by clicking here, or you might even get off your ass and host one if your state is conspicuously absent from the list. Frequent commenter Varitekchick will be working the mojo in North Dakota, holding a party tonight. Hey, even a couple guys hanging out watching the game and getting slapped around by a hooker constitutes a gathering--just as long as someone writes a check at the end of the night.

::on phone:: Yeah, so I'm feeling pretty good, Terry, and I figure I'll be back any day now to--

::knock at door::


Hold on a sec. Who is it?


Dude. Open up.


Youk. What are you doing here?


Merry Christmas ::holds out wrapped package::


It's August.


I mean happy birthday. Just open it up. I got it for you.


::examines box:: "Rocket Boots"?


Yeah. They're big in Japan, apparently. You put 'em on and, I dunno, fly around I guess.


Looks dangerous.


Dangerous? F@#kin' kids use these things in Japan. Now come on and put 'em on. I wanna see you do some flyin'. Over that pile of broken glass on your front walkway.


Aye carumba! Where did all that glass come from?


::Hides behind tree, sack of beer bottles at his feet::


Here, I'll help you put 'em on. Gimme your f@#kin' feet, you little rat bastard.


Wait a minute. I'm not--


::pulls up in monster truck:: Julian! The wife and kids are away so I figured you might want to hang.


It's Julio.


Whatevs. Let's go huntin'.


Hunting? With guns?


Of course with guns. I got one for you, chief. Oh, and I also brought you this special cap.


::inspects cap:: This cap has antlers.


Yeah? And if your aunt had balls she'd be your uncle. What's yer point?


Why would I want to be strolling around the hunter-infested woods wearing a hat with antlers on it?


You gonna question my methods, shitbird*? It's all about understanding your prey. Seeing the world through his eyes. Oh, and you'll need to hold this dynamite...


No, no. Please, I--


::flies in erractically on jetpack:: Yo, Loogs! Check it. Two for one jetpack night at Bukowski's Pub. Let's get liquored up and give 'em a go.


Guys--


Dig it! ::flies low and slams into side of house:: Unnnf.


Listen. I don't want to go hunting or wear Rocket Boots or fly around with a jetpack.


Agreed! Let's just stay here and kick this large sack filled with bricks and fire.


Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I'd swear you guys were trying to make sure I remained on the DL so that Jed Lowrie can keep playing shortstop.


Lowrie? Who the f@#k is Lowrie?


You mean Jed "22 RBIs in three weeks" Lowrie? Guy's a bum. C'mon, let's do some Drano shots!


Look, Lowrie might be the shortstop of the future, but I'm the shortstop of today. You know Tito won't let me sit once I'm ready. I think you all need to take a deep breath and acknowledge that we're still in the Lugo Era.


Aw, balls. I hate it when he makes sense.


We could still take him by force. Stick a lightning rod up his ass and leave him in an open field during a thunder storm. That shit happens all the time.


But is that the right thing to do?


I suppose not.


Frankly, I think you should all be ashamed of yourselves. Julio helped us win a World Series. He's earned his stripes and we gotta respect that.


Thank you, Jacoby.


No prob. Now come on. Sit down and relax. I made you some dinner.


::pokes at food on plate:: Eh... it smells good. What is it?


Oh, just some ground beef mixed with a mild sedative that causes a slow onset of paralysis that lasts anywhere from eight to nine weeks and is virtually untraceable in blood.


Say what?


Er, I mean... steak.


*First known use of this term by a Red Sox player since Gary Allenson referred to teammate Sam Bowen as "that shitbird" in 1980.

The good folks at Bigelow Tea sent us a link to this video, which shows Wally the Green Monster getting his bag on. Noteworthy for being the second time I've heard a grown woman utter the line, "Wally, you're getting me wet..." (the first, of course, being that embarassing trip to Fenway with my fresh-outta-rehab Aunt Belinda).



Meanwhile, the Sox keep beating up on the Royals, which reassures me that the Earth has been restored to its proper axis.

More later, once I shake off the hangover.

Look, if you're gonna get swept by the Angels then you damn well better be applying foot to ass every time you face teams like the KC Royals. After Monday's so-bad-you-wanna-taunt-a-nun performance, the boys rebounded last night with Commander Kick Ass leading the way, turning in a vintage 2007 performance. My theory with Beckett is that although he's a certified gamer, he's trying to save a bit of the awesome for when we need it most--in the playoffs. So I'll forgive him a not quite Cy Young-caliber record if we can all jump on his shoulders come October, like that big-ass dog in The Neverending Story.

The only thing that bothered me watching last night's game is... why does the illustrated guy in the WB Mason logo...


...look less like the guy who plays "WB Mason" in the commercials...


...and more like actor Matthew Broderick?

It isn't enough that the city sent Manny away with nothing more than a kick in the pants, "welcoming" his replacement with "Manny Who?" signs at Fenway. It isn't enough that his 274 homeruns, 868 RBI over the past seven-and-a-half seasons, his World Series MVP, his bat that helped end an 86-year dry spell have ultimately ended with Manny being labeled a bum and a malcontent. Now, Curt Schilling has to pile on.

Steve Silva over at Extra Bases reports the conversation Curt had on WEEI this morning:

Here's how Schilling described it, in his own words:

"We were in Tampa a couple of years back and it was the night Trot [Nixon] got hurt and we had an off day the next day and Manny was scheduled to have the day off that night, and Trot couldn't play.

"Manny was supposed to have an off day and he was asked to fill in for Trot because we had nobody to play and he didn't and we were in the clubhouse and it was David [Ortiz] and Manny and I and Ino [Guerrero] and the [Seth McClung] was pitching, and he was one of those guys who threw 96 miles per hour and no one could ever figure out why he wasn't better than he was and against us he'd always go out the first three innings and look like Cy Young. Of course this night he's looking like Cy Young, he punched out five or six guys in the first three innings and David looks at me and says 'Why in the hell does this guy turn into Cy Young against us?' and I said 'Hey, it just makes Manny look that much smarter, he ain't stupid, he knows what days to take off,' and Manny took offense to that and ... there was something that had to be broken up and the next day I saw Manny and it was as if the previous day never happened. One of the beautiful things about
Manny."

So, let me understand. Schilling was being his usual loudmouth, holier-than-thou self, and someone had the balls to call him on it. That makes Manny a bad guy? Sorry, not buying it.

I agree the trade was necessary and improved the atmosphere in the clubhouse. But I also think the Red Sox could have accomplished the same thing by simply telling Manny they weren't picking up his option and letting him do his thing to get the big money next year - his thing being homeruns and RBI. But that didn't happen, and now he's gone (as is Moss, Hansen and seven million bucks), doing his thing in LA, and doing it quite well. So can't we just let him be? Give him the "peace" he was looking for? Especially Schilling, who used the media to negotiate his own contract. Right around the time his shoulder fell apart. Too bad it wasn't a mouth injury that sidelined him.

Let it go, people. Manny helped the Red Sox win two World Championships. And we had fun watching him. Wasn't that enough?

Looking ahead, Mr. Josh Beckett toes the rubber this evening. The 'Gansetts are on ice.

One of the most bizarre, lasting images from the 2004 ALCS--besides that look of faux shock on A-Rod's face when he realized his "ball slap" maneuver wasn't quite as stealth as he might have hoped--was Brian Cashman's remarkably ill-fitting headwarmer. Everytime the cameras showed him sitting there, looking like a kid who should be rolling down I-95 on the short bus or one of Ralphie's buddies from A Christmas Story, I couldn't help thinking, "This is the guy controlling one of baseball's biggest payrolls?" Most of us just assumed the guy had lost a bet, or that he was concealing a microphone through which Dave Winfield and Reggie Jackson fed him coded instructions from their secret base on Venus. At some points, as games four and five spiraled out of control for the Yanks, I could've sword the damn thing was gonna swallow his entire head, as if responding to his emotions like Spider-man's black costume. On the bright side, besides establishing him as the whitest white guy who ever lived, "the headwarmer incident" did give rise to one of our favorite recurring bits. So there's that.

During last week's Yanks series at Fenway, Cashman was once again in the stands, but now showing off his more relaxed summer gear, which includes some smart sunglasses perched ever-so-nonchalantly atop Mount Baldy.


Compare the two photos. Gone is the panic. Gone is the pasty, deer-in-the-headlights gaze. He looks like a man at peace with the world and himself--almost smug, dare I say. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the headwarmer.

Stay tuned. The battle for ultimate control of Brian Cashman's forehead will soon be waged.

Oh, and f@#k Giambi.

With all of Red Sox Nation, and most of the free world, focused on Manny Ramirez and Jason Bay, people may be missing an emerging star. Jed Lowrie has quietly stepped in for the ailing Julio Lugo and brought a little sizzle to the shortstop position.


Since returning to the big club on July 12th, Lowrie has batted .283 with 11 RBI in 15 games. Oh, and no errors. That's pretty good baseball for anyone, it's great baseball for a 24-year-old playing on one of the biggest stages in the game.


That's why it chills me to see reports of Lugo doing sprints, trying to get healthy and rejoin the team. A well-placed banana peel will fix that.

Like Allan at Joy of Sox, I, too, was taken aback by the WEEI-issued "Manny Who?" signs being waved by some folks at Fenway during Sunday's game. Have we so quickly forgotten what this man helped make possible?

Call me a Manny apologist, but in my opinion, he should be referred to in only the highest regard, and get the Dave Roberts-Orlando Cabrera-Kevin Millar treatment every time he comes to town--namely, free beer, free lodging at his choice of B.C. sorority house, and his grin and wave accepted as currency at any retail establishment in the greater Boston area.

But that's just me.

I must admit, things do seem more relaxed in Red Sox Nation in the absence of Manny Ramirez. The Beard-Which-Should-Not-Be-Mentioned hit a couple out of the yard last night, the threat of being slapped around in the dugout now gone. And the Nation's new fave Jason Bay did it again; a three-run homer to put the Sox in front for good.

Of course, I take the long view of things. Just like I know this whole "internet" thing is just a fad and will soon go the way of the dinosaur and the CB radio, I know that two games does not make a season. It's very possible that the revitalized offense just ran into a bad pitcher. The Sox have fared well against lefties all year, and when you find one with a habit of walking a lot of batters, you make him throw strikes. Then you hit the strikes.

Speaking of pitching, how about Jon Lester? The guy comes out in the first and it looks like it's gonna be a long night for the bullpen. Then he goes six more shutout innings, giving up just three hits in those six. Lester is now 10-3 with a 3.14 ERA, and has gone seven innings or more in eight of his last nine starts. He has been the ace in 2008.

Let's not forget what good defense can do for a team. Mike Lowell, who left the game with a bad hip the night before, put on a show at third base. At least three times, he robbed the A's of hits. One or two of those were Web Gem candidates.

A rare day game at the Fens, with the Dice Man on the hill. Three in a row would be nice, wouldn't it?

So Jason Bay shows up, explains during his Fenway presser that he grew up with Rice and Yaz posters in his bedroom, makes a sweet sliding catch in left, gets on base a number of times including a triple in the bottom of the twelfth, and scores the Sox' only two runs of the night. At the end of a dizzying day, he's got a packed house chanting his name and the majesty of Watney all up his face.

Meanwhile, out on the west coast, Manny grounded into a double play in the ninth with nobody out and the Dodgers down by a run.

There was something surreal in the air last night, for sure, seeing all those "Thanks Manny" signs and a skinny, dreadlock-free white guy patrolling Fenway Left. Even stranger is the news that in the final hours before he was cut loose, Manny lobbied to stay in Boston, promising to be an upstanding citizen for the balance of the season:

Within an hour after Red Sox general manager Theo Epstein informed Manny Ramírez he had been traded to the Los Angeles Dodgers Thursday, Ramírez's agent, Scott Boras, called the Sox back, according to a source with direct knowledge of the negotiations. If the Sox dropped the option years on his contract - which they had agreed to do if they traded him - Boras said Ramírez would not be a problem the rest of the season.

Strange stuff, no? But the important thing is that we wake up with a win in our pockets, and Jon Lester looking for his tenth win of the season tonight. The pennant race heats up over the next few weeks, people. The faces may change, but the objective remains the same.

I remember the night we signed him.

I flipped on boston.com and the headline read, "Sox Sign Ramirez." And I did what I typically did when Red Sox news hit the wires. I called Dad.

"This'll be a murderer's row of a line-up," I remember saying. "Bichette, Trot, Everett... and now Manny? Who will stop us?"

Well, Murderer's Row they weren't--Manny was the only guy on the team to bat over .300 that season. But I was there for his first Fenway at-bat. The Sox were already down by three, and he stepped up with two men on, and promptly deposited the first pitch he saw into the screens above the Monster. Finally, we thought, a free agent signing who's doing exactly what we paid him for! Shit went nuts, and just like that, the Manny Era was upon us.

Since then, he went on to be one of the most productive, beloved and befuddling players of this century. After a string of players who "should hit the tar out of the ball at Fenway"--including the likes of Jack Clark, Andre Dawson, Rob Deer, Nick Esasky, et al--Manny was a legitimate menace. The type of batter who could change the course of mighty rivers with one swat of the bat. And, even better for folks like me who enjoy players with character, there were those "Manny Moments." Losing his earring on the field at Pawtucket during a rehab stint. The water bottle in the back pocket. Martini time with Enrique Wilson. Ebay Hucksterism. That bizarre dance maneuver in which he seemed to demand a trade every season, then back off, saying he couldn't be happier here. Cutting off Johnny Damon's throw to the infield. Saying that he'd like to play for the Yankees--which, in these parts, is like saying "I enjoy kiddie porn and poisoning rabbits." High-fiving that fan in Baltimore. But the production spoke volumes; when the game was on the line, there was no one I'd rather see up at the plate than Manny Ramirez.

Through it all, the likes of Napoleon Shaughnessy told me I shouldn't like the guy. That he was a bad teammate. A disgrace to the uniform. A guy who was constantly thumbing his ass at the fans. But I could give a shit about what they said. Seeing him at the plate with runners on, patrolling the outfield, grabassing with fans and fellow players... it was damn near intoxicating. And it helped us win two World Series--something I never thought I'd see in my lifetime.

This year, it all seemed to spiral out of control so quickly. One minute, he was hitting his five-hundredth home run, explaining that the Sox will most assuredly pick up his option and insisting that he'd retire here. The next, he was jaywalking, old-man-shoving and Youk-tusslin'. Never ones to shy away from the smell of blood, the Shaughn and crew came out, guns blazin', about how we had to trade him now. That he'd never bounce back. That he'd levelled the ultimate insult at the fans. That he'd hold us all hostage by sitting out the rest of the season and maybe even the playoffs.

So this morning, we are minus a player who was arguably our best. Manny will be working for Torre, swingin' with D-Lowe and comparing iPod playlists with Nomar. Meanwhile, we'll be waiting to see if Jason Bay can play Batman to Ortiz's Superman in our line-up.

Addition by subtraction, they're saying in the papers. On talk radio. In the casinos. Whatever. All I know is this: The guy who stirred the most fear in the hearts of our opponents is gone, and someone has yet to convince me that it had to happen.

Oh, and it'll be a while before I can look at Fenway's left field without hoping to catch a glimpse of Manny, grinning madly and shuffling curiously out of the scoreboard door.

Godspeed, Manuel. And thanks for the memories.