Getting to Know You.

Speaking of Andrew Bailey, it turns out that he's the Director of Development for former best beloved, Craig Breslow's Strike 3 Foundation. As part of his fund-raising duties, he'll be hosting a bowling event, the Bailey Bowl, down in New Jersey on January 7.

Andrew Bailey for some Magic Beans.

I like Josh Reddick. Was he going to be a superstar? No. More likely than not, Red turns out to be unremarkable. Sure, he could turn out to be a good player but he could just as easily turn out to be (especially with that arm) Jeff Francoeur.

For Reddick personally, I like the move. For the Red Sox he was a fungible asset but for Oakland he might end up being their best offense player next season. Plus, with a starting job seemingly locked up, he can buy out his father's landscaping business or whatever he planned to do when he finally made it.

Assuming that Andrew Bailey's arm doesn't shatter like a teacup, he's the best player involved in the trade. A proven closer, if that sort of thing is important to you. The fly balls might be a concern. He's not Bot but he can be effective, if healthy.

Ryan Sweeney is the other piece coming over with Bailey; presumably as a platoon right-fielder. There's not much to expect from Sweeney: he's not a speed guy and not a power guy but he will walk and he'll be decent against right-handed pitching. He does have bad knees which have kept him off the field.

And as for the magic beans, Miles Head is a big first baseman. He has the potential to hit pretty well but (unless God commands Adrian Gonzalez to walk in front of a bus) doesn't have much of a future with the organization. Raul Ancantara might very well develop into a nice little pitcher but at low-A he's a long way away.

A Pretty Penny.

The luxury taxman cometh and he taketh away $3.4 million this year.

Cliche #1: Baseball is a business.

They say that point of owning a business is to turn a profit. They (the Grand Poobahs of sayings) are wrong but it's what they say. Any accountant will tell you that profits are taxable (and taxes are bad) and that it would be so much better to show a loss (which could be netted against previous or subsequent profits) for the year. No, the real point of owning any business is to invest in it wisely, grow the business, and then turn around and sell it for more than you paid for it.

But maybe baseball is different.

As is evidenced by the death grip with which the Wilpons continue to cling to the Mets, there's an emotional element to owning a sports team. There's a kind of vanity that comes from owning the team you grew up rooting for. If John Henry could have purchased the Cardinals, wouldn't he have jumped at the chance?

I think that it might be good for the game to have that emotional attachment. (Unless, of course, you're Peter Angelos; then in which case: No. No, it's not good for the game.) It seems important that the owner should care more about the team and its success than about the profit/loss statement at the end of the year. There should come a point for every franchise when the owner tells his general manager, "Go nuts. This is our year."

But if baseball a different kind of business (one which falls closer to a hobby of the insanely wealthy than simply a way of making money), then should owners care about the luxury tax? Isn't it just a cost of doing business?

Cliche #2: Baseball is a marathon, not a sprint.

The other argument to make is: the baseball season is long. The Patriots (conceding that I know very little about football) can get by with a terrible defense because they play sixteen games in a season. A baseball team plays sixteen games in a couple of weeks; they play sixteen games ten times over during the regular season. If there's a flaw in the make up of your roster, it's going to come out. There's nowhere to hide in a 162 game season.

If you buy better players (thereby increasing wage expense and reducing net income), you should see more success on the field; which would appeal to the vanity of the owners. Theoretically (it doesn't always happen, ask the Rays), success on the field would lead to increased ticket revenue and would consequently lead to higher expenses to keep the business growing. Cycle complete.

The question becomes: is it worth it? Does being called into the principal's office, where Bud Selig scowls, shakes his finger at you, and reprimands you by saying, "You've spent too much" offset the potential ego boost of being the owner of a World Series Championship team?

Obviously, John Henry's extra $3.4 million investment in his team didn't pay off this past season (I suspect that there was no one more pissed off at them than he was.) but I doubt that it changes anything.

Dinner with Tito.

Terry Francona may have been run out of town on a rail but it doesn't mean I don't still admire him. The man knows his sport and it's fascinating listening to him talk about baseball. To that end, on January 30 in Manhattan, Francona will be appearing at the Sixth Annual Bullpen Winter Banquet to support the baseball program at St. John's University.

The Long Road Home.

Two weeks ago, Ryan Westmoreland faced live pitching for the first time since he had his brain surgery. The fact that I can write that is stunning; the sheer will required to get from where he was to this point is monumental. You can't help but pull for the kid.

He did a short interview with SiriusXM Sports today, wherein he talks about how swinging a baseball bat came back to him more easily than tying his shoes.

The Gorilla Song.

It's been something of a red letter week in the legacy of Ben Cherington. First, he signed Kelly Shoppach. Then he went out and traded Jed and Kyle Weiland to the Astros for No-Neck. And then he went and signed Nick Punto, for two years. And he, according to Cafardo, didn't even bother to bid a couple of dollars on Darvish. To the general reaction of raising a hue and cry against him.

Taken on their own, they mostly aren't terrible moves. Shoppach platoons nicely with Saltalamacchia. No-Neck is serviceable and, at this point, Jed had become superfluous and Weiland could, might, maybe develop into something useful.

But Nick Punto? For two years? Benjamin, my dear, what were you thinking?

Says Cherington:

“Nick’s a talented player too. He has good at-bats, plays good defense. He knows how to run the bases. He’s a smart player. He can play all over the infield and work in a lot of areas, so we’re just glad to have him. But the clubhouse dynamic is something that is an area of discussion but not necessarily the drive when we’re making these decisions.”

So...Defense and plays well with others. Got it.

As for not even pretending to be interested in Darvish, it's just not something that I can explain.

*Apparently, Raffi has a The Gorilla Song but my title is in reference to the one from Cabaret.*

Petey's Throwing A Party.

Pedro Martinez is throwing himself a retirement party (not sure if that's as tacky as throwing your own bridal shower) and you're invited. Time and Date: TBA.

My Funny Valentine.

(Getty Images)

So. Bobby Valentine.

The question is: Can a tiger change his spots? Is he the man who can't keep his big mouth shut? The man who believes so unequivocally in his own infallibility that he embarrasses his own players in an effort to prove himself right? The type of man who always has to have the last word?

Or is he the guy who showed up at today's press conference. Not the most articulate guy but, seemingly, genuine; enthusiastic about the opportunity; able to say the right things; un-tone deaf enough to emphasize that he was Ben's choice.

My initial reaction to the hiring was that ultimately this was going to be a disaster. Too many big egos for too small of a clubhouse. It may turn out that I'm just really missing baseball but he's starting to win me over. Maybe people can change and everything will be sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.

But at the same time, it's hard to trust someone with such perfect teeth; especially a baseball player, as they're not exactly paragons of oral health.

Thanks.

Thanks to the people who stop by this little corner of the Internet. I haven't written diligently this year but I do appreciate the space to air my most oddball tendencies. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Also, it's not Thanksgiving without Alice's Restaurant.

Important Dates.

Yesterday, the Sox released their spring training schedule.

Truck Day: Feb. 11
Pitchers and catchers: Feb. 19
First workout: Feb. 21
First full-squad workout: Feb. 25

March 3, vs. Northeastern, 2:35 p.m.
March 3, vs. Boston College, 7:05 p.m.
March 4, vs. Minnesota, 1:35 p.m.
March 5, at Minnesota, 7:05 p.m. (Fort Myers)
March 6, vs. Baltimore, 1:35 p.m.
March 7, at Toronto, 1:05 p.m. (Dunedin)
March 8, at St. Louis, 1:05 p.m. (Jupiter)
March 9, vs. Pittsburgh, 7:05 p.m.
March 10, vs. Tampa Bay, 7:05 p.m.
March 11, at Baltimore, 1:05 p.m. (Sarasota)
March 12, vs. Miami, 1:35 p.m.
March 13, at New York Yankees, 7:05 p.m. (Tampa)
March 14, Off-day
March 15, vs. St. Louis, 2:35 p.m.
March 16, vs. Minnesota, 7:05 p.m.
March 17, at Baltimore (ss), 1:05 p.m. (Sarasota); vs. Baltimore (ss), 1:35 p.m.
March 18, at Tampa Bay, 1:05 p.m. (Port Charlotte)
March 19, vs. Minnesota, 1:35 p.m.
March 20, vs. Toronto, 7:05 p.m.
March 21, at Pittsburgh, 1:35 p.m. (Bradenton)
March 22, vs. New York Yankees, 7:05 p.m.
March 23, at Baltimore, 1:05 p.m. (Sarasota)
March 24, at Miami (ss), 1:05 p.m. (Jupiter), vs. Philadelphia (ss), 1:35 p.m.
March 25, at Toronto, 1:05 p.m. (Dunedin)
March 26, at Philadelphia, 1:05 p.m. (Clearwater)
March 27, vs. Tampa Bay, 1:35 p.m.
March 28, Off-day
March 29, vs. Toronto, 1:35 p.m.
March 30, at Minnesota, 1:05 p.m. (Fort Myers)
April 1, vs. Minnesota, 1:35 p.m.
April 2, vs. Washington, 1:35 p.m.

April 3, at Washington, 6:05 p.m. (Nationals Park)

The Red Sox open the regular season on April 5 in Detroit.

Right now I'm having trouble mustering up excitement for next season but I really can't let that last post sit at the top for any amount of time.

Totally Inappropriate Post.

Here's what I figure: If it's all right to mourn the loss of the Watser and what she brought to the NESN broadcast, then it's perfectly fine for me to write this.

Ben Cherington may have terrible taste in clothing but he does have a really nice, um, pair of legs. I can't stop staring.

(AP Photo)

Easy Street.

I liked Jonathan Papelbon. He was an excellent pitcher for most of his time here and it's a shame that his last performance as a member of the Red Sox was such a dud. That said, it's no surprise that he's gone. He made it clear from the beginning that his number one goal in life was to grab as much money as he possibly could and there's no way any sane person would give any reliever fifty, possibly sixty, million dollars. Best of luck to him, though.

For the Troops.

If you happen to have nothing to do at 8 o'clock on November 11, Clay Buchholz will be appearing on a fundraising special on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The idea of the special is to raise money to support veterans and their families.

Doing Good.

Jacoby Ellsbury has always struck me as a nice polite young man; perhaps a little quiet but never as one of the self-centered divas who ran roughshod over Tito in September. As if to prove my assumptions of him: he has appeared in a PSA for the Center for Native American Youth. The Center works to bring awareness to the struggles of young Native Americans. Good for him.

At First I Was Afraid.

I was petrified.

One of the most stupid things about baseball is that the coaches wear uniforms. It's goofy. But when Terry Francona had had enough of these numbskulls that felt that he needed to up and quit, it occurred to me that he might have been the only one left on this team that I still liked. They were dark days. I might not have agreed with some of the moves/non-moves he made (and bunting is still stupid) but how can you possibly hope to replace the greatest manager this team has had?

But Theo? Theo's easily replaceable.

Don't get me wrong. I liked Theo. Mostly. 2004 and 2007 were wonderful years and changed the fabric of a region but Theo's no longer the best GM in baseball. Hell, he wasn't even the best GM in his division last season. Beyond Friedman, you could make a solid argument--as much as it would pain me to do so--for Anthopoulos up in Toronto.

When Epstein got his job, he was new and different. He shook things up and most importantly was successful. But success breeds imitators and now you can practically pick up a Theo Epstein in your corner store. The way that he runs a baseball team is generally a recipe for success but Theo's eleven herbs and spices were revealed to the baseball watching public long ago.

As such, it's probably time for some new blood; time for someone less likely to be suffering from GM-block. (It's like writer's block. Trust me.) So bring on Cherington. May his head be filled with innovative ways to gain a competitive edge.

And best of luck (and a hearty thank you) to Theo in Chicago. I've said that if Boston can't win the World Series, then it would be nice if the Cubs could win and I still believe that (even if you did abandon ship at an inopportune time).

One and Done.

Yesterday our fantastic starting rotation drove off Curt Young. His main mis-step seems to have been expecting grown men to act like grown men and do what they were being paid millions of dollars to do instead of acting like surly teenagers.

It's no great loss, I guess. While both Bot and Beckett had strong years, it was the pitching that failed them in the end. And he seemed to be unable to do anything to fix the problem when Albers and Bard stumbled. Annoying, though.

So Curt goes back to Oakland and whoever the new manager is gets to pick out his own pitching coach.

Catching Up.

(AP Photo)

Congratulations go out to David Ortiz for winning this year's Roberto Clemente award. David certainly does more than his part for the community and it's a nice change of pace (although he wasn't immune from throwing his own little temper tantrum this summer) from the recent stories of immaturity emerging from Yawkey Way.

I'm not loving the shiny black suit with the maroon shirt, though: the jacket looks too much like a tuxedo and just doesn't go with maroon.

Abadoning Ship.

Word on the street is that Theo has also had enough of Boston and is ready to pack up the kiddo and move to a place where a cake pan is an appropriate dish in which to bake pizza.

It seems like poor form: he saddles his team with more than a couple of disastrous free agent signings, trades away the team's best prospects for a first baseman, who while good, didn't turn out to be the elite player he was supposed to be, and leaves behind a clubhouse full of pissy, malcontent, drunken losers who have already frightened off the best manager that this team has seen in the modern era. It's like he's thrown up his hands and said "I can't fix this."

But best of luck to him, should he move one.

The Morning After.

The season that (with the exception of the first dozen games or so) started out so promisingly, came to a crashing halt last night. Your average sportswriter will gleefully write about historic collapses but this season wasn't lost in September. The season was lost with the torn ligament in Daisuke's elbow and a broken back for Clay Buchholz. (Someone really ought to have warned that little girl with the stripper name about the hazards of stepping on lines.)

Now, there were some good things that happened. Josh Beckett, despite being a surly, insufferably rude jackass, pitched better than he had the previous season. With the exception of last night, Jonathan Papelbon had a good season. And Jacoby Ellsbury (it's a real shame that he's been co-opted by the fangirls and I can't like him) had a terrific season. Matt Albers pitched well until he turned back into Matt Albers. David had a pretty good year. And Freddy was a god-send.

But: Bobby Jenks was useless, except for when he was being worse than useless. Carl Crawford was disappointing. Even Adrian Gonzalez failed to live up to expectations.

Kyle Weiland pitched a lot, given what he showed. Andrew Miller had an exceptionally long leash for a guy who, at times, couldn't throw a strike to save his life. Erik Bedard was...as advertised, so you can't fault him for that.

John Lackey had another rough year. JD Drew barely played this season and wasn't very good when he did. And Kevin Youkilis gave up walking in favor of striking out.

No doubt that this was a failure. But an epic collapse? In August this club was clinging to the cliff by their bloodied fingernails and in September their nails finally snapped off and down they went.

Losing Losers Who Lose.

So. That happened.

Heh. Last night I wrote a long melancholy post about failure and losers and all sorts of sad, depressing things. Then my Internet went on the fritz and when it came back up this morning, all that was saved was: the title and So. That happened. And it seems just right.

Not Dead Yet.

When you win by eighteen runs it doesn't count for more than winning by a single run with the tying run in scoring position, so good enough boys. One can always hope, of course, for a more definitive ass-kicking of the Orioles tonight.

You, my best beloveds, are the Boston Red Sox. No reason to be ashamed of it. No reason to take pity on the Orioles. Be the Boston Red Sox. Play like the Boston Red Sox and everything will *finger crossed* *knock wood* *spin around counter-clockwise three times while hopping on your left leg* turn out alright. Hopefully.

Finish Strong.

There was a time, cabbages, when you were the best in baseball. Better than the Phillies or the Yankees, the Tigers or Texas, ages better than Tampa. Your pitching was good but, boy, could you hit. Now, I know that you've run into some injuries; Youkilis went down, you lost two-fifths of your rotation and your rather good lefty out of the 'pen, and Matt Albers turned back into, well, Matt Albers but for the most part, you held on. You dug your heels in and survived. Sadly, my little cabbages, just surviving isn't going to cut it any more: You need to win tonight and you need to win tomorrow. That's all that there is to it.

Cornered.

Back in July, this team looked like world beaters. Now? Not so much. If you're going to repeatedly lose to the Orioles, then you've got problems. Who knows? Maybe back against the wall, no choice but to win, is what this team needed. A wise man once said, "You either ride or you either die." Let's hope that this holds true.

End Game.

Alright, lads. It's hard to root for a team that melts into a quivering puddle of goo at the least sign of adversity but as much as it pains me, I continue to do it. I've tried my best to get you to win: Ignoring you? Doesn't work. I've tried lining up all of my talismans...nothing.

So let's have a frank chat: All that you have to do today is win one, just one little game. Preferably, you'd win the first game and take the pressure off of John Lackey but either game will do; the other game won't matter as much, as long as you win one.

Now, perhaps it's been so long since you've won a baseball game that you'd like a refresher on how to do it. Never fear, that's why I'm here. There's no big trick to it. It's really pretty simple. The way to win at baseball is to score more runs than the other team. There are a couple of ways that this easy-peasy little goal can be accomplished, 1. (The preferred method with Wake and Burnett pitching) Use brute force and beat the hell out of the baseball. Do not, however, swing at the first pitch until it has been established that today, the inbred-hayseed can throw a strike. 2. The second method is dicier with Wake pitching, given that he can lose it in a heartbeat and Saltalamacchia struggles to catch the damn ball, but using this method you would limit the number of runs that you allow the other team to score. Simple, right?

There was a time, not all that long ago actually, when asking this team to score more runs than the other team wouldn't have seemed like a ludicrous request and, hopefully, today it won't be. As for tomorrow? Well, who knows.

Onward.

Fine. You know, sugarplums, that the plan only works if you win, right? And if you can't beat the Orioles, then I don't really know what to tell you. We'll go to Lenny again for inspiration and hope that it's not too soon after the last time we had to use him.

No pressure, or anything, John Lackey but you've got to be a somewhat decent pitcher this evening or the whole thing will be in shambles.

Giuoco Piano.

Here's my new theory: People say that Joe Maddon and Tony LaRussa are geniuses (and they obviously believes it about themselves) but Terry Francona is a friggin grandmaster.

His opening gambit in this series was very passive; almost to the point where it looked like he wasn't making any effort to win baseball games. You see: for this strategy he couldn't let Tampa sweep the series but he really didn't want his team to win more than one. Right now Tampa is feeling really good about themselves and is flying down to New York for a four game series in which they will try to beat the Yankees in Yankee Stadium.

Meanwhile, Baltimore is also coming into town for a four game series. And while Baltimore is paying lip service to their games being important and saying that they have some say in how the race turns out, they are still, fundamentally, Baltimore.

But Francona has his team lying in the weeds. And as long as Boston suddenly remembers how to play and win at baseball, he's positioned them perfectly to make their move. If Tampa wins or splits the series in New York, then the division is still up for grabs. If New York wins or sweeps, it'd be like handing Boston the wild card.

If they can beat Baltimore, it's really very brilliant.

And you thought that starting Conor Jackson in left and the repeated use of Matt Albers (apologies to Messrs. Jackson and Albers) was a joke.

And Now A Word From Josh Beckett.

Without, you know, the whole going down with the ship thing. That would be the last thing that they'd need.

I've got this image of Josh Beckett strutting out there tonight, bellowing, and then spiking the rosin bag. It would be very dramatic and highly amusing.

Yuck.

Well, ducklings. I wonder: do you ever get tired of getting your collective asses handed to you by this team?

Can't hit, can't field, and can't pitch. It's certainly not much of a recipe for success. I haven't given up on the thought of the post-season simply because Tampa still has seven games against New York (and as much as it pains me to say it, the Yankees are a far far better team than you at the moment) while you are playing the Orioles (although, I'm not entirely sure that a little league team wouldn't give you a run for your money the way you're playing right now) but it's really difficult to believe that this is a team that could possibly do anything.

Let's hope that Theo's lame duck of a team has more of a shot at revival than Theo's duck in Pippin.

200.

(Getty Images)

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Rumble.

So it's come to this, huh? If you're going to make me invoke the magic of Lenny and West Side Story, I'll do it. I won't like it but I'll do it.

No pressure or anything but Wake? We need Tim the Enchanter tonight. We need knuckleballs that skip and fall and confound the hitters. We need strike outs and weak contact. And since, for the most part, the bullpen can't be trusted, we need efficiency: quick outs, and easy innings.

And dearest bats, I hope that you had a nice day off. Remember when, not to long ago, you were the best offense in the American League? Wasn't that fun? Let's have some more of that today.

Win one for Timmy today.

Doom And/Or Gloom

"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."

Alright, boys. I'm just going to save myself the time and trouble and assume that this is some sort of Mets-ian collapse you've got in the works rather than the late August-early September swoon that I had originally assumed it to be. I feel that this will save me a lot of needless frustration as you stumble your way down to third place. But it's been fun and I don't regret spending my summer with you.

Prove me wrong, boyos.

The Shrinking Bard Adown the Alley Skulks.

I don't care about losing to the Toronto Blue Jays. When I think about the Blue Jays (and I admit to their existence completely slipping my mind on more than one occasion) it's usually with a sense of apathy. They're in the same class as the Royals or the Mariners or the Athletics: they're certainly there but whatever or the real word equivalent (because I can't think of it) of meh. Their fans are Canadians (useless, pointless people) so that's certainly a strike against them but they've been terrible since before Tim Wakefield joined this team. So who cares?

But the loss hurts though because tonight was about Timmy. And the way that that went down was just really rotten.

Dan Wheeler I could (and did) yell at: "Come on! When did you graduate from high school? You're not that old and Wakey's been around forever. You must've rooted for him at some point. Do it for Wake." (It was 1996)

But Daniel Bard clearly has no concept of how long and how hard Wake has worked to get to this point; the way he's dealt with utter nonsense with quiet grace and dignity. Tim Wakefield is a true gentleman and a genuinely good person; a rarity among baseball players--certainly the only one on his team. If Daniel Bard understood, then he would have figured out a way to pitch better. This may be petty but I was glad the Matty Bumpo allowed those runs in: Wakey may not have deserved the win but Bard certainly deserved the loss.

Perhaps things will be different next time, if there is a next time.

The title is from Robert Burns' Epistle from Esopus to Maria.

Boo.

Daniel Paul Bard. What is wrong with you? How could you do that to Wakey?

Don't Panic.

There seem to be two options: We could engage in a flurry of Gordon Edes-style panicky whining or take the Douglas Adams zen route and calmly accept that for the past week, this team has not been good at baseball and hope that they right the ship. Soon.

May Jon Lester be our buoy.

Sleepwalking.

If life hands you lemons but forgets to give you water and sugar, your lemonade's gonna suck. Life (or MLB) made them play in Canada but forgot to wake up the offense and that sucked. Just terrible.

I'm going to watch Canadian Bacon to feel better.

Life Support.

Well, pigeons. That was unimpressive. I suppose that it was impressive in it's awfulness but unimpressive in all the ways that count. It was lifeless and sad. Hopes of a triumphal march through September into the post-season are quickly fading.

Annoyed Mid-Game Post II

(These are kind of fun.)

Ha! Have a mentioned how stupid bunts are? Bunts would be a legitimate play if they were executed properly but so few players are able to do it well that should just be eliminated from the game. Bedard really should send Ron Washington some flowers for that.

Annoyed Mid-Game Post.

I feel like I ought to apologize to Erik Bedard. Here he was thinking that this was great! He had been traded to a team that actually had some skill at baseball; they could win at this quirky little game. When in fact they play this ridiculous game of hot and cold and when they're cold they are the Mariners. Blech.

Open Letter.

Dear Team:

Do you remember winning? With the high fives, and the music blaring, and everyone feeling good about themselves? I do. It was lots of fun. Maybe you should try that again.

Wow.

Lime in the Coconut.

I was strolling through Stop and Shop yesterday when I noticed that Dustin Pedroia is shilling for a company that sells coconut water. The product is supposed to be better for you than regular water because it's packed with vitamins and minerals and better than a sports drink because it's natural. Or something. Anyway, the whole point of this post was to write that while Dustin looks both terrible and terribly photo-shopped in his publicity shot, Alex Rodriguez looks at least eight times worse. But then I was distracted by the marketing mumbo-jumbo and grew concerned. (What can I say? I'm a worrier.)

This product alone isn't likely to present a problem but given that his personality seems to lean itself toward excess (if the five Red Bulls a day is to be believed) he really ought to cool it with the potassium. One box of this stuff contains over 1000mg of potassium, he's got that big container of supplements in his locker, depending on what he eats in a day (and with the mineral's role in muscle health, it's probably safe to assume that he's on a potassium-rich diet), you're talking in excess of 5000mgs of potassium a day, which is pushing it. (The average person needs probably 2000mgs and starts to feel ill at around 4000mgs.)

Chronic high levels of potassium in the blood can lead to kidney problems and potassium overdose will cause heart failure. [Potassium overdose isn't really an issue here. Unless he's downing these drinks twelve at a time, he likely isn't ingesting it fast enough to stop his heart.]

Proof positive that, after all, coconut is poison.

The Bright Side.

(Getty Images)

I know that I should be annoyed that they lost tonight and that New York will likely be in first place in the morning but TRIPLE PLAY! Usually one would be concerned when one's team plays two games and manages all of six hits but TRIPLE PLAY! Seriously: How amazingly fun was that?

Also, Jed's pissed off face when something doesn't go his away is absolutely adorable. TRIPLE PLAY!

I Dreamed A Dream (A Dream About You, Baby).

I had a bizarre dream last night (the sort of bizarre dream that ought to be recorded for posterity) starring, in large part, Marco Scutaro.

There was a very strange bit at the beginning about arriving at Fenway and parking my car and then having to change from my work clothes into more appropriate baseball game attending attire and leaving the work clothes at the coat check. So then I bought a seventy dollar ticket (It's weird that I remember that it was exactly seventy dollars) and talk about obstructed view, the ticket that I bought was for a seat on the first base side but the seat was turned one hundred and eighty degrees from the field and looking at a television. I was going to leave but then there were all these people I knew in high school, so I stayed. And then after it was an official game, they called it not because of the weather (it was bright and sunny) but because they were going to premier Marco Scutaro's movie. And no one had a problem with this.

I don't actually remember too much about Marco's movie other than at one point he was flouncing around a library, badly overacting, while wearing a too tight, bright blue, velvet smoking jacket. Anyway, it must have been a very long movie because when it was over it was already two in the morning but the people seemed to really have enjoyed the movie.

But then there was a snafu with getting my work clothes back from the coat check girl; she couldn't find them. After looking around for awhile they told me that if they couldn't find my clothes in two hours, then they would pay me $80,000 for them but I had to be there looking for them for two hours, if I left then they wouldn't pay me. The problem was that I needed to catch a train (which is weird because my car was right there) and if I waited for two hours, then all the trains would have left. I was in the middle of trying to decide what to do; wait around for two hours and be paid $80,000 or be able to get home when I woke up.

And since then I've had Ethel Merman stuck in my head, telling Marco: You'll be swell. You'll be great. Gonna have the whole world on a plate. Starting here, starting now. Honey, everything's coming up Marco.

It's very strange.

Open Letter.

Dear NESN CFO:

I realize that it must be expensive to broadcast a baseball game all the way from Minnesota. I also understand that your job is to keep your company fiscally sound. Broadcasting the game via a couple of tin cans a length of string is just not a cost-saving measure that is acceptable. I'm sorry.

Thanks in advance,
Liz

Aqua Sucia.

Here I was thinking, "Well, at least they still have moral superiority." (because when the team is losing as the result of a Brett Gardner home run, the game takes on a feeling of things are just not going to turn out well) so I switched off ESPN and turned on Uri Berenguer (I'd say that I get about 75% of the words unless something good happens and then they start going fast and talking over each other and then my understanding drops to 30 maybe 40%; I had no idea what happened in Adrian's at bat that inning, just that they'd gone to commercial) and presto-changeo, Marco (who clearly is not ready to sit on the bench) knocks one off of the wall and soon enough they're all tied up. And before you know it, Red's driven in the winning run. A most excellent win.

Wild Rumors.

(Getty Images)

Do not trust this man.

Erik Bedard kicks puppies. He's been known to take a penny but he's never been known to leave one. He gives out raisins on Halloween. He doesn't turn his cellphone off when he goes to the movies. His favorite meal is veal tartar. He cuts the line at the post office. And he always takes the last slice of pie.

Never Mind.

So much for that. It appears that Rich Harden will in fact be staying Oakland.

Trading Foreigners.

Resident of Planet Moonbeam, Lars Anderson (I like Lars and hope that he and his hippy-dippy ways can find success out where people don't care about baseball), has been traded to Oakland for her majesty's loyal subject, Canadian Rich Harden.

It's not a bad trade. With the acquisition of Adrian Gonzalez, Lars didn't *spin around in a clockwise circle three times, jump into the air, and spit* have a place in Boston and maybe Harden can prove useful for a couple of starts. Perhaps he could hold down the fort successfully until Clay can prove to be healthy *spin around in a counter-clockwise circle three times, jump into the air, and spit* and effective.

The thing about Rich Harden is that he looks similar (it's the turned-up nose) to my cousin's Yankee-loving husband from Vermont and on that basis alone, never mind the walks or the fly balls, like the woman in the commercial, it makes me nervous.

Like a Phantasma.

Last night I had a dream that my sister and I had taken a ferry to the Cape (oddball thing number one) and gone to do a presentation at our old elementary school. We were in the classroom of my first grade teacher (oddball thing number two; Mrs. Caswell was ancient when I knew her, there's no way that she's still around) and my sister was going to play her cello for the class. She was, however, reluctant to do so (oddball thing number three) but with a little goading she agreed. So she goes to start tuning the cello and her hand begins spurting blood; it turned out that she had cut off her finger while mowing her lawn (oddball thing number four; she rents and doesn't have a lawn to mow) and didn't want to tell anybody, so she reattached it herself. Then we were headed back to the ferries (there were two; after all, it's busy on the Cape) and everybody was saying that you didn't want to get on the first ferry because the Captain had sunk a boat just the week before and it was really dangerous to sail with him. As we're all waiting around for the second departure these people come running down the gangway screaming that there are people with guns on their helmets (I don't know) and there was a stampede. Then I woke up.

All of that makes more sense than losing to the White Sox.

Dying For A Cause.

(Reuters Pictures)

It would appear that last night, I unfairly blamed Red for getting caught off third. It seems that Francona (who I will not apologize to because bunts are stupid) handed Marco a knife and told him to end it all. But Marco missed the sign and stood there dumbly while Red attempted to do his part. Or in my suicide analogy, rather than cutting down the length of his arm Scutaro slashed across his wrist, nicked the tendons, caused himself a lot of pain, but couldn't get deep enough to complete the act. A shame all around.

Apologies Red, my brother does stupid things, it's easy to assume that you would also do stupid things.

Royal Blues.

You can tell that it's late at night and the Red Sox are being frustrating when I start swearing at the television (I generally keep it under control but I could make a sailor blush when I let loose). You can tell that it's late at night and the Red Sox are losing when the accent (when I was a kid I ended up in speech therapy because I had this out-of-nowhere extremely thick accent and nobody could understand a word I said. I was taught to talk properly.) comes back and I sound like a character from Good Will Hunting while swearing at the television.

Maybe it was the weather but from the outset this game felt like one of those late September games after a play off spot has been secured, when the outcome doesn't make a difference and so the only people who are really trying to win are the members of the other team. The whole thing was utterly unenergetic and rather blase, a tone undoubtedly set by Jon Lester, who is dry toast personified.

Now, it wasn't all your fault. There was some god-awful umpiring and it didn't seem like Francona put you in the best position to win but boys? That was a pathetic showing. The best offense in the American League manages one run against the Kansas City Royals? Really?

And brother-from-another-mother Red (Seriously: Josh Reddick is the spitting image of my brother when my brother was like eighteen. It's creepy how much they look alike.), my darling, way to fall asleep out there or whatever the hell that was.

May the next one come out better.

WaK(2 x 10^3)e.

When people get up in the morning they should say to themselves: Today I will try my best to be like Tim Wakefield. As an example of decent humanity and an all-around good egg, Tim is right up there at the top.

The Boston Red Sox existed before Tim Wakefield and (short of alien invasion or the success of my bionic arm project) will continue to exist after he goes his merry way but it's hard to imagine this club without Timmy. It seems like he's been here forever and as a testament to his longevity, today he struck out this two thousandth batter while pitching for Boston.

Congrats to him.

Beginning to See the Light.

"My takeaway is that we can beat the Red Sox and they know it. My takeaway from the 1-0 loss to the Yankees is that we can beat the Yankees, and they know it. We're not going away. It's just a temporary inconvenience right now."

Ah, Joe Maddon, my favorite aged hipster. They say you're a genius but I never really believed it: I saw a team of good players being led by Mike Scioscia-lite with questionable bullpen management. But this new strategy of not losing, just choosing not to win takes the cake. I can see it's value: you lie in the weeds all season and then right at the end, once you've gotten over the inconvenience of most of the season, pow! Nobody will see it coming. Of course, it probably would have been a more effective strategy if you hadn't said anything.

I'll be rooting like crazy for you and your stupid-little-hat loving self to choose to win your baseball game tonight but you really make it so very difficult.

Time For Bed.

(AP Photo)

Guys? I hate to say this but this one might have been my fault. Earlier today (or really yesterday) I had this thought that I'd look up the longest game that they'd played this season. Apologies.

Nicely done by Beckett, the bullpen, and Pedey.

Astounding Turn of Events.

I like John Lacey.

It's true. I'm not exactly sure how or when it happened but it occurred to me today that I like John Lackey. I think that it might be that anybody who can piss Tim McCarver off that much just by being himself is alright in my book.

Do You Want to Know the Terrifying Truth or Do You Want to See Me Sock A Few Dingers?

Dingers! Dingers!

Hopefully, Adrian Gonzalez has stayed holed up in his hotel room today because he might be harassed for strolling through the streets of Phoenix. Alex Avila, Robinson Cano, Asdrubal Cabrera, Jose Bautista, David Ortiz, Felix Hernandez, Alexi Ogando, Michael Pineda, Jose Valverde, Miguel Cabrera, Jhonny Peralta, and Carlos Quintin might not want to take that risk either. Hell with those cheeks bones and that coloring, even Jacoby Ellsbury ought to stay hidden just to be safe.

Troll Alert.

(Getty Images)

Everyone knows that the best response to a troll is to ignore it until it goes away. It would have been best for David to follow that policy as charging Gregg was probably not terribly satisfying and now there's a suspension in his future. But it did liven up a dull game.

I don't totally understand what happened. But it seems that Kevin Gregg was frustrated with playing for a crappy team like the Orioles. He felt, somehow, that hitting David would reassert his right to pitch in Fenway Park--I'm pretty sure that that one's not in the Constitution: Where is that great Constitutional scholar, Luke Scott, when you need him? When he couldn't successfully accomplish that and had been told by the ump to knock it off, he decided to screech at David some more to get a reaction. I can't imagine what he said to David to piss him off that much. So punches were thrown and when the dust had settled Ortiz and Saltalamacchia were given a early evening and Josh Reddick was called out for abandoning his base (that has a very militaristic ring to it).

As for Josh Reddick, if that's the rule, then that's the rule. But Showalter is nearly as bad as Joe Girardi and his prissy little "We're playing this game under protest."

Also, Kevin Gregg is a moron and a terrible liar. Here's a free tip, cabbage: A good lie will be at least somewhat believable. No one, who isn't as apparently as dim you are, is going to believe that you threw those pitches with the intention of getting David to chase them; especially since, you know, while you're not a good pitcher, you're not that awful. And it's not believable that you yelled at him to run to first base because, if you look closely, David was running; it wasn't a sprint but that's pretty much as fast as he goes.

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost.

(AP Photo)

Ballparks don't get more atmospheric than Fenway Park and it's easy to entertain the romantic notion that an old ballplayer or two has chosen to take up permanent residence in the old girl. Kevin Gregg, however, isn't afraid of Boston or their payroll (they threatened to convert it into pennies and drown him in it). So there.

Unfortunately for Kevin Gregg, Boston isn't afraid of him either. Evidence: All 180 pounds of best beloved Marco Scutaro jumped in and took down the 230 pound Gregg.

Also, John Lackey: Good in a scrum.


(It's stuck in your head now too, isn't it? I apologize.)

Vote for Victor!

The All-Star game isn't something that I look forward to or care about or have any interest in. I do vote for it, though: I vote a straight Yankee ticket as many times as I possibly can. But I may be forced into voting for the extra player.

The Tigers put together a video of Victor Jose stumping for his father. Victor Jose has his priorites straight: he wants to go to the All-Star game so he can hang out with D'Angelo. How can you say no to that kid?

Sour Grapes.

Says John Farrell about last night:

"We should still be playing right now. The play is right in front of Brian Knight. It was clear that Edwin did a good job sliding around the plant leg of Tek but his swipe tag missed him by no less than a foot. So right now, we should be out on that field playing.”

He may be right that the foot got in before the tag. Here's the thing about bitching about umpires: Nobody ever complains when calls go their way. Because if baseball were to go to robot umpires, then there's no way the game would ever have gotten that far. Assuming that baseball was played in a vacuum and everything went exactly the same, Papelbon struck out Corey Patterson, which means that Bautista's home run gives the Jays one run. Down by two, Lind stikes out for out number two and Snider (and his nasty looking moustache) flies out to left to end the game.

So no, John Farrell you shouldn't still be playing the game.

Fireworks!

(Reuters Pictures)

Correct call or not, that was certainly an exciting way to end the game.

The Death of General Lackey.

John Lackey hates America. That is the only plausible explanation that I can come up with for that performance. My father, who was very much a product of the 1950s, was awfully fond of accusing people of being un-American, if they didn't agree with him or did something stupid; it was his go-to insult, which I found hilarious. But today, for probably the first time ever, I say to John Lackey (in my father's voice): What are you? Un-American?

I really thought that simplistic, yay-rah-rah, America=Awesome patriotism would work for John Lackey. And now I'm just sad that they lost to the British (and undoubtedly, I would never have thought of it that way because who thinks of Canadians as British?) on the Fourth of July. It's tragic really.

But, like at Bunker Hill (I'm sure I'll get off the Revolutionary War kick eventually), the Bostonians ran out of ammunition and couldn't hold off the British charge. And like General Warren, the British left Lackey beaten and mutilated and tossed in a mass grave. Perhaps they can refortify themselves and expel the British tomorrow because that would be nifty.

For Freedom!

Alright John Lackey. Listen up, buddy.

I'm not normally a flag-waving, chest thumping, jingoist but there would be something terribly wrong about losing to the British (Canada can pretend that it's an independent country all that it wants, as subjects of the crown they're British) on today of all days. So keep your act together: throw strikes but not meatballs; get ground ball outs. And if you won't do it for yourself or for your team, then do it for America, do it for the French, do it for Sam Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere, do it for self-government, do it for "all men are created equal" or "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness", do it for the Quebecois still under mother England's thumb, do it for freedom.

Congrats.

Congratulations to David and Adrian, Josh and Jacoby on their all-star selection. I would have preferred that none of them had gone to the game but, sadly, I'm not in charge of the whole thing.

PiPhobia

Apparently, what this team needs more than anything is to not play teams with names that start with the letter P. They couldn't beat the Padres, they couldn't beat the Pirates, and they couldn't beat the Phillies; but give them the Astros and they go to town. If word comes overnight that Toronto has changed their name to the Plue Jays, then there could be serious trouble tomorrow.

Out(s)! What a Nice Word.

Alright Andrew Miller. It would appear that you are the last great hope. But these aren't the Padres you're facing, these are the mighty Pirates. And so as we do in all times of great distress here at The View From 312 Feet (I really don't like my title), we turn to the world of musical theater for advice and inspiration. Today we learn from Sweet Charity that you need to "Get up, get out(s), and do it!"

Something Better.

Saturday night monster movies are a tradition in my house. It's impressive how many movies I've seen about giant spiders or dinosaurs crossed with crocodiles or radioactive bats. Generally, the creatures are the product of irresponsible, greedy scientists (it's almost enough to make you distrust the scientific community) and almost always come with the moral to not be irresponsible or greedy, don't genetically modify or radiate or cross-breed animals in the hopes of creating super creatures, and, for goodness sake, leave the weather alone.

Last night's premier was called Swamp Shark. And much like the title indicates, it was about a particularly nasty shark that got into a swamp--I believe as the result of greed, although I'm not entirely sure what the sheriff was up to. The basic premise is that the shark starts eating people and then they have to kill it to keep it from eating more people.

Normally, I keep my love of cheesy creature features locked up tight, out of public view. Tonight's movie, however, featured something that required outing myself. Playing the role of Deputy Stanley was Mr. Wade Boggs. I wouldn't begrudge the man a job but it just seemed like it ought to be mentioned.


Now, it's not Boggs' first dramatic turn: he did have very strong feelings about Pitt the Elder on The Simpsons. Clearly the man is a star because despite having only two and a half scenes, he gets a credit in the titles.




His role consists almost entirely of first arresting the big dude and then guarding him while he's in the cell. And how's this for dedication to the role? Despite the movie being set in Louisiana (or somewhere very close to Louisiana with all the talk of bayous) Wade is the only actor who attempts any sort of an awkward southern accent. The conversation he has with the big dude when he's in the jail cell is clever though: it turns out that the big dude (I don't even know if he had a name and I stopped watching it ten minutes ago) used to be a professional football player. So Deputy Stanley tells him that he used to play football too, only it turns out that it was high school football, his team nearly went to the State competition, and he was only a backup.

For this role, Wade shows a wide range of emotions:


Confusion


Wariness


Concentration


Panic at being choked (And who hasn't wanted to, if not choke Wade Boggs, at least inflict some sort of pain on him? Big dude got to punch him too.)

Swamp Shark. Check it out. But if you're only watching it to see Wade Boggs, you could skip the first hour and a half.

Short Reactionary Post.

What a stupidly annoyingly frustrating horrible team. Seriously boys? That's the best you can do? They're the freaking Pirates! That was just terrible. Blech.

Rain.

(Getty Images)

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

--Shel Silverstein.

Everytime I Got Up to Pitch I Said A Hail Mary.

I had thought that if I slept on it, I wouldn't feel like posting this. But since I'm still bummed about last night and nicknames are slippery things, it's best to do it before I start calling him Freddy more permanently. Plus who knows *knock wood*, maybe he won't screw up again for the rest of the season and it would be an opportunity lost.

So the World May Hear.

(AP Photo)

Jed may be headed out to California to have his shoulder examined but first he took some time today to help with the Starkey Hearing Foundation Boston Red Sox Hearing Mission at Fenway Park. The mission passed out more than sixty hearing aids to patients.

Home Coming.

Tonight, in his capacity of first base coach for the Padres, Dave Roberts returns to Fenway. It might not have been his home for long but it certainly was an important stop along the road for him. Welcome back.

Also, coaching tonight for the Padres is former Sox shortstop Glenn Hoffman. So welcome back to him too.

Behind the Lens.

I imagine myself to be pretty good with a camera. I can reliably properly expose a photograph. I know the lingo: ISO, f-stop, shutter speed, blown spots, stopping up or down. I've got a rocket and have used it to clean the camera. If I found $1000 on the side of the road, I would buy myself the Nikon 105mm f/2.8G ED-IF AF-S VR Micro lens, just because I really want one. All of that said, my pictures are generally really boring.

Someone who does not take boring photographs is Mike Ivins, manager of photography for the Red Sox. There was an interesting little write up about him today from the BU Communications department.

As a side note, because my camera has a cropped sensor, my long glass is effectively longer than his long glass. So take that professional photographer man.

Congrats.

No matter how much NESN tries to convince me that hockey is awesome and that I'm missing out and that I should care about hockey. I don't. I am not a hockey fan and will not be a hockey fan. But congratulations to the Bruins. My brother, possibly the biggest hockey fan this side of Canada, tells me that the Vancouver goalie is a jackass and so, even though he's not really a Bruins fan--by some weird turning of fate, he started out his hockey fandom as a supporter of the Whalers--he was willing to root for Boston.

Also, I hope that my boys get to wear some slick black and gold uniform tops.

And the Walls Came Tumblin' Down.

(Getty Images)

After last night's sad affair, Joshua comes out and is almost nearly perfect; throws only ninety-seven pitches and makes really quick work of the Rays. Then Youkilis, who I might have called useless a couple of times in the last day or so (What can I say? I'm fickle), comes up and brings home three. Nicely done boys.

Never A Doubt.

I can admit when I've made a mistake. I may have jumped the gun when I wrote of the possibility that this team might lose every game this season. I may have expressed doubt when they repeatedly bumped against the .500 mark but couldn't break through. In the beginning, there was room for doubt.

Sixty-two games in, however, they're on top of the world. They're ten games over .500, in sole possession of first place, and have the best record in the American League. They lead the American League in runs scored. They lead all of baseball in doubles. The pitching staff also leads all of baseball in hit-by-pitches but I choose to believe that this is strategy.

If over the one hundred remaining games they can play .600 ball, they'd finish with a record of 96-66. Winning the one hundred games that some pundits thought that they would win is within the realm of possibility. Of course *anti-jinx*, they could revert back to that horrible start and finish under .500 but hopefully, that isn't the case.

Go team! Go!

Justice for All.

(Getty Images)

When I was in elementary school, you could tell who the Catholic kids were because after mindlessly intoning the pledge of allegiance every one of us would drop an 'amen' at the end of it. Not that I pledge allegiance to the flag very often any more but I still have a difficult time not letting an 'amen' slip out.

Anyway.

Team! Look at you! It may not have started that way but how much fun did that turn out to be?

Lesson learned, if you're the Yankees: You might plunk Papi because the media pressured you into doing it (Which shows a really impressive lack of character; if the media told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?) but you're not going to be able to beat him this year. I hope, dear Yankees, that you feel avenged for the flipped bat because I certainly feel good about the outcome of the game and the series.

There really were so many lovely things in this game: Beckett pitched wonderfully, David, Jed and Nick Swisher, Cam (Yay, Cam!), Ellsbury. All in all, it was a really great win.

Freddy My Love.

(Getty Images)

Go team, go!

I certainly wouldn't have called it but the Timmy-Fredo combination seems to work out well. Timmy gets the win, Fredo gets the save, and the offense and defense bail them out of trouble. And we all go home happy.

A couple of days ago, I would have been perfectly content with two out of three; it really is a wonderful outcome. Today I want all three. And really, at this point, it would be unfair to Joshua to not score any runs for him.

Have at it boys, no mercy.

Just Because It's June.

If life were really like a musical and I could break out into song and dance whenever I had the compulsion, then I would be a happy camper. Since it's not and singing in the streets is generally frowned upon, I will do my best to refrain.

The similarities between this baseball season and 'June is Bustin' Out All Over' from Carousel are, however, too plentiful to not comment on.

April cried and stepped aside: That seems like an absolutely appropriate reaction to the way they played in April.

May was full of promises: Like clawing your way from last to first.

But she couldn't keep 'em quick enough for some: Like, in all likelihood, falling out of first on the last day of the month.

A crowd of doubtin' Thomases was predictin' that the summer'd never come: It has been cold and rainy and horrible.

But it's coming by gum: We can only hope.

June is for busting out. The song says so. So have at it boys.

Pssst.

I don't know how it happened, John Lackey. Personally, I've never been a fan. (Although, lately I have grown to admire the fact that you seem to believe that you've never thrown a pitch that wasn't a strike. You could throw a pitch that sailed wide and smacked your third baseman in the chest and you would still want that call. People would be running over to check on Youkilis, who would undoubtedly be stunned and doubled over, and you would be standing there glaring and panting at the umpire because he had the gall to not call that pitch a strike.) Perhaps, you didn't kowtow enough to the media because it appears that you have somehow become persona non grata.

Evidence: When the Rob Bradford (and his OMG! desire to be besties with the baseball players) approved [Aside: I don't actually know that he's approved the article but if you get a chance to take a shot at Bradford and 'EEI, you should absolutely take it.] 'EEI blog makes fun of you--and I'm assuming that they're making fun of you because whenever I included the 'for sure', it was to make fun of you--something has gone terribly wrong.

But, Lackey pitched pretty well down in Pawtucket: 5 2/3 innings, 4 strike outs, 1 earned. He should be ready to come back on Sunday. Joy.

Pathetic.

(AP Photo)

Alright, boyos. Perhaps you're like my mother and this whole thing is an effort to be nice: Losing teams win so rarely, so it's nice of you to allow them to win. Maybe you're more like my brother and think, "This should be easy" and so can't be bothered to put any effort into trying to win, just assuming that you will. Whichever your motivation: Enough is enough.

Because, pigeons, you have a stunningly fantastic inability to beat crap teams. It's impressive really; the teams you're supposed to beat if you're going to be a contender, well those teams just have their way with you. They can literally manhandle and abuse you and you just stand there with a slightly bemused expression on your face and do nothing about it.

I can't imagine how much losing teams must look forward to Boston coming into town. The Baltimore's, KC's, and Chicago's of the world must throw themselves a little party every time yo guys come up on the schedule. They've got to know that they stand a good chance of winning two out of three or even sweeping the series.

It's really rather pitiable.

Let No One Ignorant of Geometry Enter.

(AP Photo)

Good on ya, Wake. It wasn't the prettiest outing but it was more than sufficient.

You have to wonder if the strike zone being shaped more like a dodecahedron than a rectangle is more of a benefit for Wake than other pitchers. As a hitter you're not going to be certain that the pitch coming out of Wake's hand is going to be a rulebook strike and then you have to wonder if the pitch will find the particular pockets of strike-iness or ball-iness of the umpire's strike zone. So you swing at pitches that you shouldn't because you don't have a choice and make generally bad contact.

Of course, the same could be said for a conventional pitcher. But it seems as if even the most mercurial of strike zones, can sort of be established concretely for most pitchers. With Wake, however, I think that the element of nobody-knows-where-the-hell-that-pitch-is-going-to-end-up adds a peculiar hitch to the deciding whether to swing or not process.

Fun game, though, even if they only plated six runs. (Slackers.) I've come to really enjoy Carl Crawford but I think that his home may have really been in the AL Central.

Doggone.

Adrian Gonzalez has a dog. That's nice. I like dogs. It's a poodle. Oh? Well, you know when they're not shaved, poodles aren't bad looking dogs. Maybe a little high strung but not bad dogs. It's a miniature poodle, weighs all of four pounds. Huh. Really? Its name...wait for it....is Princess.

Tim the Enchanter.

(Getty Images)

Well done Timmy! Wakey versus the National League is by far the best part (and possibly the only good part) of interleague play. If they abolished interleague, I would miss those couple of games.

In addition, it was certainly a nice way to end a very successful home stand. Let's hope that they can keep the ball rolling against Happy tomorrow.

The Big Spot.

(AP Photo)

Carl Crawford needs a better name. In your best Hub, Carl is too long and too soft to chant and Crawford doesn't work because the "-fid" is awkward. His teammates refer to him as CC but if you start going CCCCCCCCCCC, how do you know when you've got an appropriate number of C's? You can hear it on the broadcast: try as they might, the Fenway crowd just can't figure a way to cheer him on.

If you could teach everyone to say Carl with an R, then you could do "Carl Crawford" to the "Let's go, Red Sox" chant but that seems very formal. I personally would nominate "CDC"; it's forceful and fits into "Beat L.A." so nobody would have to learn anything.

If the man keeps coming up big when the team needs him the most, he definitely needs something more than just "Woooo!"

The Band Played On.

(AP Photo)

Rain Delay? What'dya talkin' about? We could so play through this. Bunch of wimps.

Being a sturm und drang sort of soul, I've always loved the rain. When I was growing up we had a tin roof on the old homestead and I loved just lying in bed listening to the rain. I love a good thunderstorm, especially when a thunder clap breaks relatively close to you and resonates in your guts. I love running in the rain because you look like a real bad ass. Plus, I have a very stylish umbrella.

If, however, this deluge were to let up for just a little bit, I don't think that I would mind.

Zeus willing, tonight's match up of Verlander at Beckett should be a good one.

Happy Birthday Josh!

(Getty Images)

Happy thirty-first birthday to Josh Beckett or as I've taken to calling him lately, Becky. [Aside: I know I shouldn't do it. I do still oppose the misogyny in sports; especially using feminine names as an insult. It just came out one day and really I don't even mean it in a derisive manner. I suspect that it's a Tito-ism; for a while there he was Becks and then suddenly he became Becky.] It was quite a performance and an excellent way to close out the year. Many happy returns of the day.

You're Doing It Wrong.

(Reuters Pictures)

Emo John.

See, now I feel bad.

Apparently, everything sucks in John Lackey's life right now. I don't know if he means it or if he's exaggerating but I've been to a similarly dark place. I hope, for his sake, that his troubles work out satisfactorily for him.

So to lighten the mood, and because I'm big on themes, we'll go with the boat scene from the immensely clever Rosencrantz and Guildernstern Are Dead (If you haven't seen it, you should.) and giggle over "I've frequently not been on boats." and "Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean?" Feeling better already.

Has This Fellow No Feeling of His Business, That 'a Sings at Grave-Making?

Well, that was awful.

Since I'm not likely to type up my Hamlet, know that I cast Clay in the title role. Also, John Lackey as the first clown isn't bad casting either and really it's only fitting that the part was played by Billy Crystal here.

I don't really have too much else to say.

Mea Culpa.

*Hangs head in shame.*

I knew that I shouldn't have written that last night. I knew that I was tempting the fates but I did it anyway. What's worse is that they tried so hard to overcome the bad juju that I inflicted on them but couldn't get past my arrogance. I am truly, terribly sorry. From now on, I will keep any prognostications and weirdo songs from Pippin to myself. Forgive me.

You've Got to Be Dead Before You Find Out if You're Any Good.

So...Pippin works for you, huh? To each his own, I suppose. I will admit that posting this makes me just a little bit nervous because every time I've written something similar, you guys have promptly forgotten how to play but I'm putting it up anyway because I have a good feeling. *Knock wood.*

Well done, Carl! It's really a great thing to see. Keep it up boys.

There's Plenty of Fun When You Win.

Fine. You want me to bust out the show tunes again? Because I will. And since the only way to respond to that level of awfulness is with even more blatant awfulness, I give you the bizarre Pippin. Perhaps though you should go with young Pippin's advice: You're stronger and braver than them, so why don't you just kill them.

At least that disaster had something good going for it: it was over pretty quickly. There's not really too much more to say.