Surviving Grady

Future Ass-Kickings of Note

2008-05-09T14:04:00.001-04:00

For those of you longing to see Eric Gagne's ample frame and curiously non-existant closer skills on display once again at Fenway Park, you're in luck! Gagne--he of the five blown saves so far this season--and the Milwaukee Brewers come to town next Friday for a weekend set. As you can see in the screenshot above, Gagne's time in Boston was filled with wonder and merriment. Yes, it was typically for the other team, but still. We look forward to his return.

Meanwhile, Bill Buckner thinks George Clooney should play him in the movies. As Derjue, our favorite redhead, notes: brother must be crazy.

Your Voice Is Small On My Voicemail System a Million Miles Away. But If I Turned It Off I Wouldn't Hear The Little Things You Say.

2008-05-09T11:07:00.002-04:00

When I was in graduate school at Emerson, I used to spend my weekends at the two-family house rented by my girlfriend at the time. Her name isn't really important, so let's just call her... oh,I dunno... Donna Whitestraub of 281 Main Street, Second Floor, in Winthrop. Anyway, every Sunday morning, I'd amble downstairs, get the Sunday paper which was always placed neatly on the top step by the delivery guy, and then spend the next three or four hours in bed reading her the Gammons column or the travel section or whatever the f@#k was on sale that week in the K-Mart circular. Point is, it was a ritual, and we need rituals to keep us tethered.

So one morning I get up as always and head downstairs and I see some dude sitting on her front steps. Our Sunday paper is at his side, and he's got the sports page opened, and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Great," I figured. "Now I have to deal with a transient. On Sunday morning no less."

So I grabbed the "hittin' stick" that I kept handy by the coat rack, opened the door slowly, keeping the screen door closed, and cleared my throat. The dude didn't even flinch.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Sorry, man," he replied, not even looking up at me. "I just had to check the Sox score. Tough game last night."

I opened the screen door and came out onto the porch, sizing him up. He stunk of booze, looked ridiculously unwashed -- like he'd just appeared as "Hobo Number 2" in a high school theatre production -- and he had a sack of hash browns stuffed in his pocket. His fingernails couldn't have been filthier if he'd just clawed his way out of a room made of chocolate and I felt great unease as I watched his hands clinging to the sides of my motherf@#king Sunday sports page.

But, hey, it was someone to talk to about the loss.

"Viola really f@#ked us last night," he muttered.

"Viola?" I replied. "Dude, when the thick of your offense is Scott Fletcher, Carlos Quintana and Andre Dawson, you basically have to be perfect every night. Seven good innings from Viola should be enough."

"Yeah," he said, turning to the Gammons column. "That's true."

I sat watching him reading my paper. Wanting to talk Sox even more with my hobo friend.

"Hey, uh... you want a beer?" I asked.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 7:30."

"Sure."

So we sat there. Man and hobo. Drinking beer at the crack of dawn on the front steps. Me and this unwashed dude, talking about Andre Dawson's knees and Steve Lyons' brain and how "Zupcic" really should be a verb. Donna eventually ambled downstairs wondering where I was, but I'd already read most of the paper at that point. Also, I was shitfaced.

The point of this story? None, really. Just thought some of you might want to know how I met Denton.

Sean Casey Understands That Battling For Truth and Justice Requires a Stomach Full of Meat

2008-05-09T00:27:00.000-04:00

So Sean Casey's not in his rehab stint with the PawSox for more than 24 hours and he's already hooked up his teammates with free meat. As in steaks from the Capital Grille.

First, rehabbing Red Sox infielder Alex Cora had food from Capriccio delivered after Wednesday night’s game. Then Sean Casey followed that up with takeout from Capital Grille after yesterday’s 3-2 matinee victory.

It’s tradition for a major-leaguer who is rehabbing in the minors to treat the minor-leaguers to a deluxe meal, but having Cora and Casey around the last couple of days also sets an example for these players at Triple A.

“These guys are going to eat right with me and Cora here,” Casey said with a laugh.

“I’m having a ball with these guys,” said PawSox manager Ron Johnson as he devoured his filet mignon. “These guys are a lot of fun to be around.”

A lot of fun, indeed. Listen, anyone who stays at my place can basically piss on the floor and store rare viruses in the fridge so long as they're bringing red meat. Because -- and I believe Johnson will back me up on this -- nothing rocks my world like a free f@#king steak.

Honestly, I can also see Casey handing out platinum BFF badges to all his teammates, warning them to avoid free-form jazz clubs where "everyone's on the junk," and offering to co-sign auto loans for any fans in the stands who are challenged by current economic conditions. He just seems like that kinda good.

And while the lads in Pawtucket were getting steaks, He Whose Beard Frightens Children was getting cookies, according to Jim Leyland:

“Our entire staff did a poor, poor job the entire series against Youkilis,” Leyland said. “Not with the thought process but executing pitches. We just gave him cookie after cookie and he just beat our brains out."

All this plus the 1,000th career strikeout for Commander Kickass of the F@#k Yeah Brigade. Come correct!

Memo to Detroit

2008-05-08T18:54:00.001-04:00

That is all.

See you at 7:05.

And Drive My Car Into a Drainage Ditch Singing Candy Apple Red

2008-05-08T06:13:00.005-04:00

There was a time when watching a Sox game with me--and a Sox loss in particular--was like wandering into the last five minutes of Reservoir Dogs. Threats were made, snacks sent flying, nads kicked, walls punched, and, on at least two occasions, guns drawn.

"It's one game," they'd tell me as I offered to lay open their cheeks with a smashed Pabst bottle. But I didn't want to hear it. Every time the Sox lost, whether it was a 14-3 blowout or a sack-grinding 7-6 squeeze-out, I became a walking plague, ready to get my John Woo on with anyone who'd try to inject rational thought into my poison mind. If a player made an error that cost us the game, I didn't want to see any pie charts or Powerpoint presentations that proved conclusively that despite the error, the guy was still a productive rascal. I wanted his f@#king head on a platter, live weasels stuffed down his trousers and a greasy Pete Vukovich teabagging him into unconsciousness. F@#k that guy and f@#k the GMs who signed him and f@#k the manager who let him on the field and f@#k all you people who come into my house and eat all my Bugles and drink all my Pabst and have the nerve to tell me how I'm supposed to act when the Sox drop a game. Now, the fact that I was screaming this stuff to my parents and siblings just made it even creepier, I suppose, but the fact remains: I was the guy no one wanted to watch a Sox game with.

Last night, pre-2004 World Championship Red was back on the scene. Re-emerging from the shadows, from the dark recesses of my subconscious. He shook his fists at the sky, knocked the gas grill off the deck (my apologies, also, to Aunt Billie, who I didn't know was standing two floors down beneath the deck having a smoke), threw beer cans at the TV and at least twice threatened to walk to Detroit to remove Julio Lugo's spleen through his nostrils. I don't give two horses what Lugo's batting this year or how many fresh-baked pies he delivered to the homeless shelters last month. I wanted to see Papelbon stuff his useless ass in one of those Gatorade coolers, secure an iPod with Fleetwood Mac's "Tusk"--the preferred choice of professional torturers--on endless loop to his head and send it hurtling into Lake Ontario.

I have to say, it felt good to have pre-2004 World Championship Red back. And I believe that last night's game--the most painful loss of the young season from where I'm sitting--was certainly deserving of a re-appearance.

It's nice to know he's still there. In case of emergency.

* * * * * * * * * *

Musical Diversion #328-d: From time to time, I'm known to force my musical tastes down other people's throats. Lately, it's been two of my favorite bands, Buffalo Tom and Was (Not Was). Part of the reason behind this is that I've had the pleasure of seeing both bands live over the past couple weeks. Today, I'm back on the WNW track. Check this song from their 1989 (!) disc What Up, Dog?: "Anything Can Happen" was the follow-up to the band's biggest hit, "Walk the Dinosaur." While this is, at least from my slightly warped perspective, a far superior song, it went nowhere. I can't approve the silly-ass video, which was created to promote the Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor film See No Evil, Hear No Evil. But the song itself? It's gold, Jerry. Gold!

Viva la 80s.

Deep Drive

2008-05-07T18:35:00.002-04:00

Picked up a copy of the book last night. I don't read too many of these books, but after hearing Lowell's interview on WEEI yesterday, it sounded like a must-read.

Due to prior reading commitments - Bootypalooza and True Stories of the Pesky Pole, by the Women Who Knew it Best - I haven't actually begun Deep Drive, but I did sneak a peek at the foreword by Mr. Beckett.

I know when I won the award (World Series MVP) back in '03, there were plenty of guys in the clubhouse who had no idea who won the MVP of the series. A lot of times, you are simply too giddy to be worrying about such things. But I will guarantee you that knowing Mike had won this honor meant something special to the guys on our team. I know it did for me. Maybe better than anybody else in the dugout that night, I understood what Mike had gone through to get to that moment. And for me, that's what truly made the sight of him clutching the trophy, with that enormous smile, so special.

Now, I don't believe for a minute that Beckett uttered the word "giddy" without the word
"f*%king" before it, but it's a very nice intro to the book. He ends it with the following:

It has been an honor to know Mike, a man whose journey should be an inspiration to us all.

On that note, it's game time...

Manny Ramirez Says: "Welcome to the Bigs, Freddy Dolsi. Here's That Cockpunch You Ordered."

2008-05-07T08:51:00.008-04:00

When you're a rookie pitcher and your first assignment in the Bigs is to tangle with Manny Ramirez, you probably have to ask yourself what, exactly, you did to piss off team management. Maybe one too many naked strolls through the clubhouse? Sizing up the owner's daughter? Talking just a bit too loudly about your "almost perfect testicles"? But Freddy Dolsi--whose name conjures images of a guy who should be singing in a Saugus lounge--embraced the challenge, and his first-ever major league pitch, to one Manuel Aristides Ramirez, went something like this:

If there's any consolation to be had here for Young Dolsi, it's that Hideki Okajima, too, gave up a home run in his first-ever pitch in the MLB. But his rookie year, as I recall it anyway, turned out pretty good for him.

Other than that, the Red Sox Express just keeps on rolling. Our fifth win in a row, and another one of those Wakey performances that makes you think the guy can keep pitching until he's 84 (which is roughly around the age Gaylord Perry retired). And how about Kevin Cash? Back in the Age of Mirabelli, every Dougie at-bat was an excuse for opposing fielders to crack a beer. But Cash is making shit happen--batting .423 in his last eight games, the Herald tells us.

It doesn't suck, people. It just doesn't. In fact, the only bummer is that I can't imagine Manny doesn't swat number 500 before the end of this road trip. I would have loved to see him do it on Fenway's green.

Red Sox Throwdown! Why'd We Go and Get Rid of Nomar?

2008-05-06T10:49:00.006-04:00

Last week, I wrote about how I sometimes miss Nomar. Denton saw the post and called me an idiot. I said, "screw you." He paid a coupla Chelsea goons to kick my ass. So the Red Sox Throwdown was most definitely on!

Red: Garciaparra should have finished his career with the Red Sox. I'm just sayin'.

Denton: Huh? Trading Garciaparra in the middle of the 2004 pennant race was as brilliant as it was necessary. It put a fresh coat of brass on Theo's balls, at the same time helped rid us of the Debbie Downer of baseball.

Red: I don't know. I'm not hatin' on OC, but I think 2004 might have been even cooler if Nomar was there when it all ended.

Denton: Here's the thing. The guy we traded was not the Nomah we waited patiently for in the minors, the Rookie of the Year in 1997, or the guy who hit 30 home runs in his first full season. The guy we traded was a bitter shell of that guy, looking only to score a big contract. He lost his heart.

Red: I don't think so. I remember the way he came out of the dugout to applaud the last Sox batters in the bottom of the ninth of what would be the last game of the 1998 ALDS. Manny and the Indians had squashed our asses to paste, but Nomar was there, looking as desperate for a rally, for any kind of spark, as any of the fans in the stands or in their living rooms. When the final out was made, he turned and applauded the fans while Mo Vaughn and Scott Hatteberg were probably back in the clubhouse arguing over the last deli platter. This was a guy who was trying to deliver. Who desperately wanted to live up to the hype and pomp and bring us the title we were dying for.

Denton: Or the Nomar of 1999 at the Ted Williams tribute at Fenway during the All Star game. Who can forget seeing Nomar listening intently as Williams told him, "You're the one, you're who they'll be talking about for years." Pardon me if the words aren't exact, but it was easy to see that love of the game was still in him that night.

Red: See? Now you're arguing my point. Have another sip of the Kool Aid and join me in a hymn to the glory of Nomar.

Denton: No thanks. See, that Nomar was gone from Boston long before the trade. Also, remember Nomar in game seven of the 2003 ALCS disaster? Sitting in the dugout, smiling and laughing and carefree as the season came to a horrific end. Like he was happy to see it over. The passion, gone. The love, gone. I don't think it was a sudden thing, more of a gradual fade, when the magic of being a big-league ballplayer slips into routine. When talking to the media becomes part of the job instead of an outlet for your passion. When you'd rather wait until the season starts to deal with a wrist injury that could have been taken care of over the long winter.

Red: Well, at that point, we'd crushed all the joy out of him, really. The media was on his ass, calling him a faker and a whiner. Following him and Mia around town as they shopped for condos and airplanes and teenage maids and fully-functional sex robots. Like the best local idols, we built him up and took immense pleasure in tearing him down. If Nomar stayed, he may have proven a postseason hero in 2004, rediscovered his groove, and joined Yaz and Teddy Ballgame as part of Boston's Holy Trinity. We let him down, and had the nerve to kick his ass on the way out the door.

Denton: I disagree. He wanted out so bad he could taste it. He went the way of so many others, who had Red Sox Nation eating out of his palm, and let it slip away. It was his team and he gave it away.

Red: Great ass on that Mia, though.

Denton: Oh, no question.

* * * * * * * *

On a more serious note, Dan at Red Sox Monster has an idea to honor the memory of the Sox fan killed in that most senseless and bizarre act.

Good Times, These

2008-05-06T00:03:00.001-04:00

If someone tapped me on the shoulder back in February and said that Mikey "Scenic" Lowell wouldn't have his first home run of the 2008 campaign until May 5, I would have immediately written us off as this year's AL East bottom feeders. Because I'm impulsive like that, goddam it.

But here we are, tied for the best record in the American League, and winners of four in a row after last night's handling of the Detroit Tigers. Not the prettiest pitched game we've ever seen, though. Sox pitchers combined to give up 10 freakin' walks in this one, and Craig Hansen -- who surrendered two hits and two walks and two earned runs in one and two-thirds innings -- reminded us all why he's been relegated to "use only when everyone else is sick or dead" status.

One thing that still bothers me, though, is that Jonathan Papelbon's entrances into games just aren't ballsy or theatrical enough. Personally, I think the guy should be driven from the bullpen to the mound in a zig-zagging black Caddy, then thrown from the backseat onto the infield grass as the car pulls a quick u-turn. Sure, there's the risk of injury to the star closer, but as I see it, every guy on the team is already tempting the fates by standing near Youkilis' jock straps without protective radiation-proof gear. So I guess it all evens out.

Tina Who?

2008-05-05T17:52:00.002-04:00

Heidi Watney makes her NESN debut tonight (unless, of course, she already made it and we were too drunk to notice). It's gonna take a lot to rub the memory of Tina C outta my mind, but I'm willing to take the Watney Challenge.

See you at 7:05 for Daisuke versus the Tigers.

Thanks to our man Brad for the photo.

It's Still Just a Game

2008-05-05T15:16:00.003-04:00

Anyone that's stopped by our humble blog over the past four years knows a couple of things about us: we love the Red Sox and we hate the Yankees. But even in our drunkest, hepped-up-on-Red-Bull, post-Yankee-loss rage, we know it's just a game and there's always gonna be another one. Sadly, there are people that take sports way too far. And that's when "real life" creeps in to our favorite pastime, and makes it something less for everyone who loves the game.

Four Years Older But Not a Stitch Wiser

2008-05-05T06:02:00.005-04:00

Today is Monday, May 5. The start of another work week. Time to shake off the beer goggles and wretched hangovers and embarrassing predicaments that defined your weekend (or, more specifically, my weekend) and start anew.

Today also marks the fourth anniversary of this here blog.

It was May 5, 2004 when Denton and I launched "Surviving Grady." The blog was our attempt at "self-help therapy" after the Hindenburg that was the 2003 ALCS. A way to purge that sick knot that was burning through my lower intestine since Aaron Boone went airborne and I had to endure the World' Longest Train Ride home from New Jersey (I was there on business for game seven) with the sounds of ass-slappy Yanks fans still buzzing in my head. Like most of you probably did, I felt physically ill for weeks after that game--far, far worse than I felt after the '86 Series--and thought the only way to deal with it was to vent through the keyboard, instead of, say, punching a truck.

The first post, by yours truly, was something about Bill Mueller. I probably mentioned Hazel Mae's ass. There was likely a puppet reference, too. Sure, we eventually went back and added a couple of back-dated posts about who we were and why we started this here blog, but the fact remains that the first-ever official post was four years ago today.

Despite our less-than-auspicious first couple weeks, established and far more talented bloggers like Beth and Allan and Guapo's Ghost and the Big Dog gave us that all-important linkage. Soon afterward, with Denton out of rehab and me having beaten that solicitation rap, we were on our way.

Since that time, a lot of pretty f@#king cool things have happened. The Globe and the Phoenix and Deadspin wrote some nice stuff about our blog. We were invited to appear on TV; once on NECN's morning show--a mind-numbingly embarrassing experience in which Denton and I looked like a couple of professional fart catchers on live television--and once on WBZ's morning news, through which we were redeemed by our man Dave Robichaud. We experienced the raw thrill of hearing Jerry Remy utter the name of our blog during a NESN telecast. Writers that Denton and I had long admired, like Stewart O'Nan and Kurt Busiek, were showing up in our comments section and e-mailing us with kind words. We also saw our 2004 posts collected in convenient book format by Larry Young, Publisher to the Stars, and held book-signings in which actual people actually came up and shook our actual hands and said they enjoyed reading the blog. Sure, they were all related to me, but it's the thought that counts.

Perhaps most importantly, we've met a lot of very nice people as a result of this blog; folks who actually reduce themselves to hanging out with us from time-to-time in public. Folks like Dev and Annette and Kristen and Finn and Amy and Greta and Steve and Jen and the indefatigable Derjue (who occasionally risks her own livelihood as Boston Magazine's blogger by showing SG the love on the BostonDaily blog). We've also been blessed with some long-time commenters who are every bit as certifiable as we are, and show up day after day to bring the noise. They've made this place infinitely more interesting than we ever dreamed it could be, and for that, we are eternally grateful.

So we wanted to take a moment to thank you--all of you. Fellow bloggers, fellow perverts, fellow mimes, fellow members of Red Sox Nation and, of course, smokin' hot female escorts. Basically anyone who stops by this site on a regular basis just to see what fresh hell we've concocted. If you've never commented before, say hey in the comments today. Or hit us up at soxfiend2004[at]comcast.net. We always like to know who's out there, who's reading and, y'know, who's interested in getting felt up by us.

We hope you continue to tune in. And we'll try our best to keep the Suck Factor to a minimum.

Also, f@#k Giambi.

Hawks Beware

2008-05-04T23:42:00.003-04:00

The Celtics put away the Hawks in carefree fashion today, advancing to face the Cavs starting Tuesday. But what of the Fenway Hawk?

We Will Beat You And You Will Be Sad

2008-05-04T11:11:00.002-04:00

Without the help of a single Superhero calling out the team, the Red Sox showed the Rays the business end of their ass-kicking stick with a relentless offensive attack. This was a classic "do you know who we are" statement from a World Series champion to a team - though much improved - is not really in their league. The anomaly of last week's sweep is firmly in the past, bats are fully charged, and the W's should start piling up.

Every starter had at least one hit, led by the return of J.D. Drew to the line-up and three-hit performances by Pedroia and Papi. A 12-run onslaught without the benefit of a home run in a cold and wet Fenway Park. On the mound, Josh Beckett took care of business, though not in his usual I-will-strike-you-out-before-you-even-put-wood-on-ball style. He gave up four earned in eight innings, two of those runs by way of the long ball.

Today, weather permitting of course, we get Lester against Kazmir. It will be Kazmir's first start of the season so we can hope it is a short and not-so-dominating outing. Especially with the re-inspired bats the Sox are swinging.

Finally, our thoughts go out to Brandon Moss for a speedy recovery following emegency appendectomy surgery. To show team unity, the rest of the Sox will be having their appendix removed as well.

Roger Clemens Cannot Stop F@#king Women Who Are Not His Wife

2008-05-03T13:48:00.002-04:00

You know you're living the high life when you actually get bored of tagging Debbie Clemens. Roger, however, is clearly a man of voracious appetite when it comes to the fairer sex. In addition to his alleged extramarital shenanigans with country singer Mindy McCready, the Rocket has allegedly done some alleged boffing of two other alleged women, an alleged Manhattan bartender and the ex-wife of alleged pro golfer John Daly. When questioned about the alleged f@#king, Daly's ex offered this statement:

"You know what, I'm really uncomfortable talking about this. I'm just going to have to say 'no comment.' I know Roger. I consider him a good friend. That's all I'm comfortable saying."

Sounds pretty iron clad to me! The best part comes from this story in the New York Daily News, however, in which we're treated to the visual of the year:

Daly['s ex] is still involved with the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic as an organizer of famously lavish parties there.

News reports have described Clemens as being in attendance as recently as two years ago, dancing around the party with an 8-foot-long boa constrictor around his neck.

Yup. Now just try to wash that image from your brain, folks. Just you try.

Honestly, if a report came out tomorrow that Roger had secretly cloned Al Nipper and was running a prostitution ring on the moon, would it surprise you?

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

2008-05-03T08:52:00.001-04:00

First things first: I didn't watch a bloody minute of last night's game. I hung around til 9-ish, waiting and hoping I'd see some hot Sox-on-Rays action, but there were places to go, drinks to be consumed and hot chicks to embarass myself in front of, so I had to jet. I see, however, as I rub the hangover out of my eyes this morning, that our boys pulled off a win. I'm fine with that.

Here's something, though. As I sat through the rain delay programming all I could think was that NESN is wasting a golden opportunity here. You've got a captive audience, people with an insatiable thirst for new Red Sox programming, and you subject them to tennis scores and drag race highlights? People, this should be Remy Time! In Remdawg and DO, you've got two of the best and most beloved color guys in the business. I say pair these dudes with a camera man and set 'em loose in the tunnels of Fenway. They could interview fans (okay, we may need a ten- or twenty-second delay for this kind of stuff, to avoid some BU frat dude doing the brain on live TV, but you can certainly work that stuff out), talk to the girls working the beer taps ("Be honest: You ever drink right from the tap when no one's looking? Are you drunk right now? Got any tattoos?"), and sit bare-assed in the popcorn machine. It's a question right our of Broadcasting 101, peeps: Why give people an excuse to flip the channel? Imagine, rain delays could be something we actually look forward to. Plus, it's a chance to lure folks who ordinarily wouldn't know David Ortiz from David Lander. "It's a downpour, honey. Flip on NESN. What will those crazy f@#kers do tonight?"

Of course, the danger here is we may never want the rain to stop. That's the magic of Remy and DO, my friends.

Wanted: Red Sox Offense

2008-05-02T14:24:00.000-04:00

Eight runs scored in the last six games. Manny hasn't knocked in a run in the last ten games. Only Kevin Cash hitting over .250 in the last seven games, and that's only because he only got in four at-bats. Start looking for the Red Sox offense on the sides of milk cartons, because it's gone missing.

Tonight, the Rays come calling. The same Rays that swept the Sox last week, squandering three strong starts by Wake, Buchholz and Beckett. Well, time to put an end to that crap. These are the same guys that wore Devil Rays uniforms last year. The same guys the Sox beat 13 times and only lost five to, including 9-3 at home.

With Papi is seemingly out of his slump and Manny is close enough to smell his 500th, good stuff has to happen. Not that 500 is a big deal, he's going to hit 600. He said so! Hopefully Ellsbury is back in the line-up to add a spark, and Mikey Doubles will be denting the Green Monster. Once the Sox get a big lead early, I can switch off and watch the Celts dismantle the Hawks. Happy Friday!

Episode 30, In Which the Sox Have Two Chances to Win, and Blow Them Both

2008-05-02T00:02:00.000-04:00

After Coco flew out lazily to end the game, I figured it might just take more than a night with some Chelsea hookers to spark up our offense, which is apparently beaching it somewhere warm and dry and, one can assume, filthy with hot chicks.

But then something happened; a Doc-Brown-and-his-time-traveling-Delorean moment fueled by the umpire's call of a balk on BJ Ryan during Coco's at-bat. Suddenly, this game was not dead. We'd gone back in time to a point where the Sox could pull this one out. It was a do-over on a massive, mind-spinning scale and here we were, ready to correct the mistakes of the past, roll with the new, and pull a sweep of the Jays out of our collective arse.

Then Crisp got... a single! Literally rewriting history! And the crowd got torqued to life after being left for dead just a few minutes earlier. Ryan looked peeved. The Jays' bench was rattled. The momentum was with us! And you just had a feeling that we were going to do it.

Then Jed Lowrie struck out, sucking all feeling and matter right out of the crisp night air at Fenway. And that was that.

Still, it was a cool way for the game to end, as you don't, to paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald, get many second acts in a completed baseball game. It reminded me of a similar situation back in the day, when Greg Harris, the bespectacled wonderboy, was on the hill for the Sox at Yankee Stadium. Harris got the final out, securing the Sox' win, but then an umpire ruled that a fan had been on the field, so the batter was allowed a "do over." And the Yanks, as I recall, ended up generating the winning run.

That pretty much sucked, too.

When Worlds Collide

2008-05-01T17:09:00.002-04:00

Ever get to meet your favorite musicians? I took in last night's Was (Not Was) show at Johnny D's--my first time in this legendary establishment--and was amazed at the fact that the goddam band members were literally hanging at the bar before the show. One minute, I looked up and saw lead singer Sir Harry Bowens poring over the menu, then I turned to see band co-founder Don Was, in all his dreadlocked glory, sauntering through the front door of the place. Flummoxed, I said, "Hey Don!"--yes, the best I could muster--and he ambled over, smiled and shook my hand and thanked me for coming out. Folks, I've got family members who don't seem that enthused to see me. Before long, the whole freakin' band--a band I've been mad for since their 1988 disc What Up, Dog?--was standing around, and I went into full tits-up fanboy overdrive.

The show itself was a gritty, spectacular and slightly warped affair, as WNW is pretty much the only band that can give you a ferocious jam about the Kennedy assassination ("11 MPH"), followed by a smooth groove straight outta Wilson Pickett Land ("Crazy Water") and top it off with a bizarre hybrid of funk and beat poetry ("I Feel Better Than James Brown"). I tried to capture a little of the magic with my bitch-ass camera, and you might just enjoy it if you can get past the occasional blurriness caused by my "white guy jimmy leg" that comes on every time I hit the floor.

Was (Not Was) is on Conan O'Brien tonight. Do yerself a favor and tune in.

Oh, and this all ties back to the Red Sox. Someone noted before the show that Don Was took in Tuesday night's Sox game, and the NESN cameras zeroed in on him at one point as Remy announced, "Hey, Bob Marley's in the house."

Wakefield against Burnett in a couple hours. Get your brooms ready.

Groundhog Day

2008-05-01T10:56:00.002-04:00

Tuesday night, bottom of the ninth, Big Papi on second. Youkilis strokes a base hit to center. Papi is on his horse, waved around as Vernon Wells charges the ball. Papi is full throttle, chugging towards a potential play at the plate. But Wells bobbles the ball, no play, game over.

Last night, bottom of the ninth, Jed Lowrie on second pinch-running for Papi. Brandon Moss - who made a highlight reel catch earlier, single up the middle. Lowrie is waved around as Wells fields this one cleanly. He comes up throwing and delivers a strike to Barajas who blocks Lowrie's slide. Out at home.

Next batter is Tek, Manny on second. Another shot up the middle and here we go again. Wells again comes up throwing but this time it's a little off-line and Manny slides in ahead of the tag. Game over. Manny bounces up from the slide, slams his helmet to the ground, and the home plate fiesta begins for the second night in a row.

What a pair of performances from Lester and Dice-K. Not too shabby were Doc and McGowan either, but it's safe to say we showed the "if they stay healthy" Jays what's up in the AL East this year.

It's performances like the last two that inspire visions of Jeets and A-Rod snuggling under a nice afghan sipping tea and watching the post-season on television. Between movies on the WE channel of course. Oh, and this helps too.

Jim Rice Presents: Your Kentucky Derby Primer

2008-04-30T16:00:00.000-04:00

See, you got these horses. And a horse that can run, that's what he's gonna do. He's gonna run. If you're gonna bet on the Kentucky Derby, here's what you need to know: Find the horse that's gonna run. Now a horse that knows how to run, he's just gonna run, no matter what. Doesn't matter about the little guy riding him or how many times he hits him with that stick. If a horse can run, he's gonna run. And the one that runs, he's gonna win every time. Now it ain't the most masculine sport in the world. Everyone on those horses looks like Davy Jones and the guys are drinkin' mint juleps, for chrissakes. But if you want to win some money, go with a horse that runs. Because he's gonna win. And someday, if people remember what that horse did on the track instead of, say, whether or not his jockey was nice to the press, well that horse might just find himself in the Horse Hall of Fame. Or, possibly, your kid's glue stick.

Also, f@#k Giambi.

Enjoy tonight's game.

Legion of Superheroes

2008-04-30T00:21:00.002-04:00

Now that's how you break a losing streak. A taut pitcher's duel, some ass-droppingly good glovework, at least three or four guys you could point to as the hero of the game, and a walk-off pile-up at home plate. This was the best game of the young season, a game the Sox absolutely refused to lose, and one that will hopefully spur a torid homestand.

Lester clearly strapped on the big pants. On paper, I didn't give him much of chance against Halladay. And as King Roy shut down batter after batter, and knowing we hadn't plated a single run since the middle of Saturday's game against the Rays, I figured a Sox win was about as likely as Debbie Clemens showing up at a Mindy McCready concert. But Lester battled, giving up one measly hit over eight innings and looking absolutely unflappable. The play of the night, however, came in the ninth with the Bot on the hill, when Vernon Wells followed up Scott Rolen's double with a Nasty Slap of a Ball (also the name of Earth Wind & Fire's underrated 1985 comeback album) that Dustin Pedroia went all Doctor Octopus on, throwing Wells out and then smiling as nonchalantly as a guy who just found a few extra fries at the bottom of his McDonald's sack. Brilliant stuff.

In the bottom of the ninth, our first two batters were out quick. So I knew we had the Jays right where we wanted them. A walk to Papi, a single from Manny and that crisp bullet off the bat of Youkilis that died just in front of Wells in centerfield. Watching the replay, we should thank God and sonny Jesus that Wells bobbled the ball, as I have no doubt that if there was a play at the plate, Ortiz would not only have been out, he'd be in traction right now at Mass General, waiting patiently for an ass transplant. But seeing him haul his ample frame like a guy who absolutely, positively had to bring this run home for his boys was simply awesome, as Billy Ocean once said.

All in all, it was a night that ended the way every night should: With He Whose Beard Frightens Children jumping triumphantly across first base like a guy hopped up on acid jazz and Robitussin. Mission accomplished, lads. Now let's take another!

Also, thanks to Kaz, a regular at Soxaholix, for pointing this out to me: A time-lapse video shot of One Day at Fenway, taken from the Coca-Cola deck.

Mike Lowell Will Not Even Entertain the Notion of a Six-Game Losing Streak: Aquaman Explains

2008-04-29T19:03:00.005-04:00

Look here, land dwellers. The guy's finally seeing some big league action. Think he's gonna just sit back and let Doc Halladay mow down his boys? F@#k, no. He's gonna step it up a notch. They're all gonna step it up a notch. Because nobody wants to see the losing streak hit six games on home turf. There's also a small matter of payback, for what happend up at the Rogers Centre earlier this month. They mopped us up but good. But now they're in our house. So it's time to turn the tables. Listen, under water, I don't get a lot of chances to bet on baseball. But I'd put money on a Jon Lester victory tonight. Aquaman has spoken! You wanna argue with a guy who can sic eels on your worthless sack during yer next family outing to the Vineyard? Didn't think so, buddy.

The Prides of Texas

2008-04-29T12:32:00.002-04:00

Are there two worse representatives for a state than George W. and the Rocket? Check out the video and just try to imagine these guys being neighbors. We'll be featuring these parodies from our friends over at The Red Socks Diaries from time to time. Enjoy!

My Confession

2008-04-29T07:35:00.003-04:00

::Looks around::
::Shuts off phone::
::Locks door::
::Checks outside window::
::Locks window::
::Closes blinds::
::Draws shades::
::Double locks door::
::Turns off lights::
::Opens basement door::
::Heads down stairs::
::Turns off light::
::Opens door to secret "sub-basement"::
::Gets in, closes door, locks it::
::Crawls down ladder about 6 feet::
::Checks walls for recording devices::
::Gently raps soundproof walls to ensure integrity::
::Uses high-powered periscope to ensure no one is standing within 100 yards of the house::
::Takes deep breath::

Sometimes... I miss Nomar.