Yesterday was a co-worker's birthday. And someone at the office got the bright idea to take said co-worker out after work. And somehow, this idea devolved into a scenario that found me trapped like a rat last night in Warren, Rhode Island, of all places. Even worse, it found me playing chauffeur to a coupla older fellow workers who hit the happy juice a little too hard. Carting a couple fifty year old dudes' asses across state lines on a Friday night? Not exactly a sign that I'm living the high life, folks.

So I missed pretty much all of last night's Sox game (including Lugo's league-leading eleventh error!). But even worse--far, far worse, in fact--was what I missed before the game, when NESN combined the unstoppable awesomeness of Amalie Benjamin with the mind-altering pulchritude of Heidi Watney to create the World's! Greatest! Pre-Game! Show! Ever!

Amalie and Heidi together? Holding microphones and looking unquestionably hot in the otherwise dry air of the Metrodome? Man, it's just like a dream I've had at least sixteen times over the past four days, only without the latex, midgets and chloroform.

If I had known that I missed this must-see-TV last night, you can bet I would have shivved those two co-workers as they lay passed out in my car. As it is, I only rolled them out at the waterfront, minus their wallets and watches, of course.

Still, it's nice to know that my Amalie and Heidi obsessions are widely-known. Ian, who took the majestic screenshot above, posted his concerns over my ability to absorb that much awesome in one sitting, and a number of "did you see them together?" e-mails flooded my inbox.

I can only hope that this was just the first of many Benj-Watney pairings that NESN has planned for us. As a precautionary measure, I'll be sure to up my daily supply of vitamin E. And cancel all my pre-game plans.

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.

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.

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!

That is all.

See you at 7:05.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.