Today’s the last day of the WEEI/NESN/Jimmy Fund Radio Telethon, and Denton and I will be hosting a Red Sox viewing party tonight at Crossroads Ale House at the corner of Mass Ave and Beacon. I’ve you’d like to watch the game with a couple of nerds, shout loudly at the TV whenever Francisco Cervelli steps to plate, make lewd gestures at Heidi Watney and throw some dollars in the jar to kick the balls outta cancer, then please stop by. We’ll be upstairs. Nothing fancy. Just us and a TV and beer and some of the coolest bartenders on the planet.
I’d like to talk about last night’s game, but honestly, I’m still pissed about it. Yeah, there were some bad calls working against us (Lowrie, in particular, had some ninth inning strikes called against him that were so far out of the K zone they nearly scraped the wall of the Halfway Cafe in Dedham), but the bottom line is that we didn’t get the hits when we needed them. When you have bases loaded and one out, as we did in the bottom of the seventh, you can’t let the other guys off the hook. We did, and in a rather ugly fashion. And that’s all there is to say about that.
But you know how in those Clint Eastwood movies, they always show Clint just standing there with that blank look on his face as he watches the bad guys rape his cattle or loot his farmhouse or kidnap his grandpa or speak a little too endearingly about the new Wilco album? How you just know ol’ Clint’s taking a mental picture so he can exact horrific revenge against those varmints? I’m guessing that was Josh Beckett last night, watching the trash talk and fist pumps and Assaultalamacchia taking a Rivera fastball off the wrist, and deciding–quietly, to himself–that somebody got to pay.
Round two tonight, folks. Watch it with us.