Awright, f$%k it. Everyone’s gonna pay the price for that one today.
No way my boss gets 100 percent out of me. And one of my coworkers will almost certainly end up with the Keurig machine wedged up his south 40. Also, that vendor who’s driving down from Vermont for a meeting with me will likely be told to go pound sand.
That’s what happens when I spend the better part of the early morning hours with a Bud Light in one hand and a sugar-free Red Bull in the other. And when the Sox reward my time and emotional investment in a west coast, extra inning game with a nut-busting, spirit-deflating loss.
Honestly, I should have known. The warning signs were there, from Ortiz lumbering down the third base line and getting thrown out at the plate in the first to that damned passed ball off Cash’s mitt. My TV kept telling me to pack it up and get some sleep but I just waved it off, flooding my veins with alcohol and caffeine, convinced the guys were going to blow this one open.
There was some good — save one bad inning, Wakefield repped his set quite nicely. And it’s difficult to spit fire at a line-up that cranked 12 hits (including one by Can’t Bat My Weight Cash). But the guys just couldn’t put it together when they needed to, setting themselves up for a tenth inning meltdown that included a balk call by an umpire who clearly had his mind on the steak sandwich waiting in his locker.
It was the kind of loss that I hate to see around the trade deadline. Because it gets people sucking at the crack-filled teet of possibilities. People like me.
They convince themselves that bringing back Coco Crisp — a guy who had his mail forwarded to the DL during most of his time in Boston — would be a good idea. Or that we should simply convince the Rays to hand us Carl Crawford. Or that Jed Lowrie actually exists, and isn’t a figment of our collective imagination. It’s the annual parlor game that keeps us from getting drunk and storming the Sox clubhouse, demanding to string up the team doctors.
Cliched as it may sound, I think it’s impossible to look at the names that will be rejoining our team soon and not pencil ourselves in for “good times.” Think about it: Josh Beckett, Clay Buchholz, Vic Martinez, Dustin Pedroia… that ain’t bad upgrading. Yes, we’re assuming they’re 100 percent and, more importantly, hoping that we’re not 35 games out by the time we’re firing on all cylinders. But I can’t imagine that with all these bodies coming off the DL, Theo’d be in the mood for anything bigger than a bullpen arm or two.
Will that be enough? Is it too little too late? I only know this: I’m closing my office door and going back to sleep.