Our offense has officially gone Amelia Earheart, lost somewhere over the Bermuda Triangle, locked in an abandoned warehouse uptown, or blazing across state lines with a pick-up truck full of college chicks.
And until it comes back, we ain’t goin’ anywhere.
We’ve managed an embarrassing eight hits over 18 innings with everyone up and down the line-up looking like they’d rather be hitting the golf course or cozying up to a well-vodka’ed Heidi Watney than taking care of business. Youk and Ortiz are a combined 1-for-16. Jason “Sign This Guy At Once” Bay is 1-5. Pedroia is 2-8. Scenic Lowell, God love him, is 0-for-7. As has been the modus operandi for much of 2009, the Red Sox are struggling to make things happen on the road and coming up empty against decent pitching. While the Yankees keep finding ways to win, we’re slowly fading into Slumberland, sleepwalking through at-bats and looking exactly like a team that fell ass-backward into the postseason.
Simply put, right now, the Angels are the better team. Hungrier. Angrier. Ballsier. They look like they want it. They look like they’re ready to chew us up, spit us out, and take on the Yankees, guns blazing. We look like… well, we look like we just want to get home to our rum and our snuggies and our all-too-familiar outfield.
Of course, we’ve been backed into corners before. And we like being backed into corners. Especially when those corners are at Fenway Park. We know how to win at home, and could easily bring this series to a one-game showdown back in Anaheim.
But if we’re gonna do that, we’re gonna need to hit. No more of this pussyfooting around the issue. F@#king remember how to hit! Get that bat in yer hand and go full Conan.
And here’s the thing: Do it soon. Like, Sunday afternoon soon. Because I’m not ready to say goodbye to you f@#kers just yet.
