Well...
It's been a while.
I've been off in the mountains of far Alaska recovering from the latest Red Sox debacle, chanting the mystical "om" while centering my chaka and visualizing Grady Little drifitng southward on a disabled shrimp boat...
But they're back, and I'm back. They new victim, er.. Manager, Terry Francona, seems to be an interesting, if a little stiff, guy. He played for the Expos, Brewers, Cubs, and 1980's Indians, so he really knows about winning. Err...... I mean, he had a great career as a manager, winning 77 games in 1999 finishing in third place with the Phillies... Er.....
Umm...
Hmm...
Does anybody else think that maybe the whole hiring Terry Francona thing is maybe being driven by the fact Theo Epstein is sitting on a bunch of 1982 Fleer Terry Francona Rookie Cards and he's hoping will finally get above "common" status if the Sox somehow win the series this year?
Ye Gods.
Showing posts with label Red Sox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Red Sox. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 2, 2004
Friday, October 17, 2003
Bring Me the Head of Grady Little!...
This is why I hate baseball. Obviously there are no baseball Gods, or if they are, they are sick, twisted, cruel little creatures with black hearts who thrive on crushed hopes and forsaken dreams...
I'm looking at my little notebook. Seven outs to go, Two men on, 4-2. Little Evil Karim Garcia is the tying run. Soriano is at the plate. Ball. Foul. Strike. Foul. Ball. 2-2 count. Pedro strikes him out, for the fourth time that evening.
I went upstairs, told Wifeypooh Pedro has just masterly saved his bacon and got out of the seventh, and we were going into the eighth ahead 4 to 2, but Pedro was definitely done for the night.
Eighth inning.
Manny bats, out. (By the way, what the heck's with all that scmooze on some of the Red Sox batting helmets? Looks like dog crap.)
David Ortiz, Pappy. Homerun. 5-2. Little note in the margin: "wine".
Bottom of the eighth.
Six outs from the World Series. Six outs. Five batters later we're five outs from the World Series, except it may not be us, because it's tied 5-5 after Grady "Forrest Gump" Little lets Pedro stay in after bringing not one, not two, not three, but four batters to two strikes before giving up hits. At this point Pedro has thrown approximately 9,000 pitches and his right arm is seven inches longer than his left.
"Aw Crap" is scrawled along the bottom of the notebook.
Six freakin outs.
I knew it was over at that point. Oh, sure, my heart leapt a little when Ortiz hit that nice double, but I knew as soon as Kapler was sent in to pinch run we were done for. Not that Kapler can't run, but that putting in a pinch runner who can score from second is a smart managerial move -- which assured that Kapler would never make it home; as nothing Grady Little ever does looks like a smart managerial move.
Jeez. At this point I'm ready to bring back the Gerbil.
Listened to Grady Gump's post game interview. Two questions. Both basically the same. To paraphrase: what the Hell were you thinking?
Of course, had Grady sat Pedro after the seventh and someone from the bullpen came out and lit themselves afire, as had been the case for huge chunks of this season, then Little would share John McNamara's fate, who seventeen years later is still answering the question "Why didn't Roger go out to pitch the eighth?"
Well, for new Red Sox fans this was certainly instructive. I don't know why I fell for it this year; I feel like a fatter, hairier, version of Charlie Brown as the BoSox yet again play Lucy with the football.
Oh, this was supposed to be different. This was so different. Looking at the notebook now: "9:25 PM EDT - Clemens' career ends as he's pulled in the fourth. Score: 4-0."
Now he gets another ring, and we get... what exactly?
Well, the media will be happy at least, they, like the Baseball Gods, feed on misery and despair. Chow time, fellas.
I'm looking at my little notebook. Seven outs to go, Two men on, 4-2. Little Evil Karim Garcia is the tying run. Soriano is at the plate. Ball. Foul. Strike. Foul. Ball. 2-2 count. Pedro strikes him out, for the fourth time that evening.
I went upstairs, told Wifeypooh Pedro has just masterly saved his bacon and got out of the seventh, and we were going into the eighth ahead 4 to 2, but Pedro was definitely done for the night.
Eighth inning.
Manny bats, out. (By the way, what the heck's with all that scmooze on some of the Red Sox batting helmets? Looks like dog crap.)
David Ortiz, Pappy. Homerun. 5-2. Little note in the margin: "wine".
Bottom of the eighth.
Six outs from the World Series. Six outs. Five batters later we're five outs from the World Series, except it may not be us, because it's tied 5-5 after Grady "Forrest Gump" Little lets Pedro stay in after bringing not one, not two, not three, but four batters to two strikes before giving up hits. At this point Pedro has thrown approximately 9,000 pitches and his right arm is seven inches longer than his left.
"Aw Crap" is scrawled along the bottom of the notebook.
Six freakin outs.
I knew it was over at that point. Oh, sure, my heart leapt a little when Ortiz hit that nice double, but I knew as soon as Kapler was sent in to pinch run we were done for. Not that Kapler can't run, but that putting in a pinch runner who can score from second is a smart managerial move -- which assured that Kapler would never make it home; as nothing Grady Little ever does looks like a smart managerial move.
Jeez. At this point I'm ready to bring back the Gerbil.
Listened to Grady Gump's post game interview. Two questions. Both basically the same. To paraphrase: what the Hell were you thinking?
Of course, had Grady sat Pedro after the seventh and someone from the bullpen came out and lit themselves afire, as had been the case for huge chunks of this season, then Little would share John McNamara's fate, who seventeen years later is still answering the question "Why didn't Roger go out to pitch the eighth?"
Well, for new Red Sox fans this was certainly instructive. I don't know why I fell for it this year; I feel like a fatter, hairier, version of Charlie Brown as the BoSox yet again play Lucy with the football.
Oh, this was supposed to be different. This was so different. Looking at the notebook now: "9:25 PM EDT - Clemens' career ends as he's pulled in the fourth. Score: 4-0."
Now he gets another ring, and we get... what exactly?
Well, the media will be happy at least, they, like the Baseball Gods, feed on misery and despair. Chow time, fellas.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Just to be on the record before tonight
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: "the Red Sox are going to win the Pennant."
Tonight's the big night. Seventh Game. One Hundred Years after the first Boston World Series win (held on what is now the Alma Mater, no less), and it's Red Sox / Yankees for all the beans.
The Yankees; winners of 101 regular season games, four World Series' since 1996, with the biggest payroll in baseball (okay, I'm making that up -- I don't have time to look up the actual numbers) versus
The Boston Red Sox; perennial "wait til next year" victims of improbable and sometimes sensational August / September / and October train-wrecks, the underdogs, the lovable mutts with their shaved heads and Johnny Damon's Mullet.
I'm a big time beliver in a heavenly bureaucracy: there's God, and then there's all these minions that handle things like, well, like nipples on men. Things that are really out of the whole life/death/cosmos area that's the purview of the big guy.
So, this "heavenly bureaucracy" (see, as a bureaucrat myself I like to imagine bureaucracies are necessary parts of everything) finds the time to get involved in other stuff. For instance, as Gregg Easterbrooks from ESPNs Page 2 points out, there are the Football Gods. My belief in the football gods got a big boost when the Pats beat the Rams. Look at that story: it's the 9-11 year, a team named "Patriots" wins, only after their longtime QB is lost for a huge chunk of the regular season, but comes back to save thier bacon in the AFC championship game, etc etc. It had destiny writen all over it.
Can't you feel that same thing happening with this Red Sox Team? C'mon, only the baseball gods could write an ending of the Roger Clemens / Red Sox saga like this. Either his last game is a loss to his former team, putting them in the World Series for the first time in 17 years, or he again stabs out the heart of New England and ends his career in the World Series, pitching for the mercenary Yankees. After which, he descends directly into Hell for his assorted misdeeds.
I prefer not to think that the Baseball Gods could be so capricious; I have faith in bureaucrats - the want the happy ending. And tonight's happy ending has the Traitor Clemens getting the L.
If the Red Sox win, then Basball can be saved -- baseball has meaning, for the Gods of Baseball offer salvation and mercy. If the evil minions of Lord Steinbrenner again take the prize, then there are no Baseball Gods, and the sport is a hopeless parade of random violence and soul-crushing despair.
In this battle for the heart and soul of Baseball Nation I am reminded of this exchange between Connor MacLeod and Ramirez from Highlander (the coolest movie of all time).
RAMIREZ
He cares about nothing or no-one.
He is completely evil.
(intensely)
If he wins the Prize, mortal men will suffer an eternity of darkness and slavery beneath his boot.
MACLEOD
How do you fight such a savage?
RAMIREZ
With heart, faith and steel.
[In the end, there can be only one…]
Yes, there can be only one. And tonight, that one will be the Boston Red Sox.
Tonight's the big night. Seventh Game. One Hundred Years after the first Boston World Series win (held on what is now the Alma Mater, no less), and it's Red Sox / Yankees for all the beans.
The Yankees; winners of 101 regular season games, four World Series' since 1996, with the biggest payroll in baseball (okay, I'm making that up -- I don't have time to look up the actual numbers) versus
The Boston Red Sox; perennial "wait til next year" victims of improbable and sometimes sensational August / September / and October train-wrecks, the underdogs, the lovable mutts with their shaved heads and Johnny Damon's Mullet.
I'm a big time beliver in a heavenly bureaucracy: there's God, and then there's all these minions that handle things like, well, like nipples on men. Things that are really out of the whole life/death/cosmos area that's the purview of the big guy.
So, this "heavenly bureaucracy" (see, as a bureaucrat myself I like to imagine bureaucracies are necessary parts of everything) finds the time to get involved in other stuff. For instance, as Gregg Easterbrooks from ESPNs Page 2 points out, there are the Football Gods. My belief in the football gods got a big boost when the Pats beat the Rams. Look at that story: it's the 9-11 year, a team named "Patriots" wins, only after their longtime QB is lost for a huge chunk of the regular season, but comes back to save thier bacon in the AFC championship game, etc etc. It had destiny writen all over it.
Can't you feel that same thing happening with this Red Sox Team? C'mon, only the baseball gods could write an ending of the Roger Clemens / Red Sox saga like this. Either his last game is a loss to his former team, putting them in the World Series for the first time in 17 years, or he again stabs out the heart of New England and ends his career in the World Series, pitching for the mercenary Yankees. After which, he descends directly into Hell for his assorted misdeeds.
I prefer not to think that the Baseball Gods could be so capricious; I have faith in bureaucrats - the want the happy ending. And tonight's happy ending has the Traitor Clemens getting the L.
If the Red Sox win, then Basball can be saved -- baseball has meaning, for the Gods of Baseball offer salvation and mercy. If the evil minions of Lord Steinbrenner again take the prize, then there are no Baseball Gods, and the sport is a hopeless parade of random violence and soul-crushing despair.
In this battle for the heart and soul of Baseball Nation I am reminded of this exchange between Connor MacLeod and Ramirez from Highlander (the coolest movie of all time).
RAMIREZ
He cares about nothing or no-one.
He is completely evil.
(intensely)
If he wins the Prize, mortal men will suffer an eternity of darkness and slavery beneath his boot.
MACLEOD
How do you fight such a savage?
RAMIREZ
With heart, faith and steel.
[In the end, there can be only one…]
Yes, there can be only one. And tonight, that one will be the Boston Red Sox.
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