John and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Offense.

What a sad, frustratingly pathetic, impotent showing that was. I don't even know what to say; other than, of course, They're the Mariners. What is wrong with you?

I haven't watched the pregame show in ages, so I was all excited when I turned the game on and Eck was the announcer because that's generally a lot of fun but then the first inning happened and then the second inning happened and then the third inning happened and then the fourth inning happened and then the fifth inning happened and then the sixth inning happened and then the seventh inning happened and then the eighth inning happened and then the ninth inning happened and nothing good happened. It really took the wind out of my sails.

Apologies to John Lackey, because undoubtedly the bums he hangs around with won't say it, you pitched well enough. It's unfortunate.

April Come She Will.

But, frankly, she can't go fast enough.

Fine, boys. Win tomorrow, finish up April on a positive note, and then hope like crazy for a better May. Undoubtedly, this was a disappointing way to start the season but it really can only get better. Right?

Mike Cameron, I loved you to bits before today but congratulations on becoming my new favorite.

Robert, I have my eye on you.

Resurrection.

(Getty Images)

Not to put the cart before the horse or anything, but that was a lot of fun.

Casting Call.

(Reuters Pictures)

We here at Rain Delay Theater are in the midst of casting a production of Hamlet for this summer's season. Daisuke Matsuzaka was in serious contention for the title character but if he continues to pitch the way he pitched tonight, he may have to forfeit the role.

There was very little indecision on his part. There was no mucking about walking batters. There was just effective pitching. And perhaps most telling, it was a west coast game that started at night--albeit a little bit earlier than usual--and the game is over, even though it's not yet midnight.

Stunning job.

Angels in the Outfield.

(Getty Images)

I'm not particularly maternal but had Bobby Jenks seen the look and heard the tone of the "Robert." that I leveled at my television set today, maybe that wouldn't have happened. But a win is a win and when you manage to win despite yourself, that must qualify as an extra special win.

Good on ya, Pap. That wasn't half bad.

The End.

This is my favorite Manny Ramirez photo (and I wish I knew who had taken it); in his last game for the hometown team, he walks out to take left field for (nearly) the last time in a game the Red Sox will lose, shoulders straight, head up, seemingly unaware that the crowd--which not even a year before had stood in exaltation after he sent the same Angels home--had been turned against him.

My Manny, the one I spent a lot of time defending, was one of the best hitters that I have ever seen. My heart tells me that my Manny was clean (my head replies that I'm naive) because you get caught once: okay, so you messed up your schedule, you get caught twice, though: you're a moron. It's not like you could successfully avoid testing positive for (in his case) four years and then suddenly, repeatedly forget how to beat the test. This is not my Manny.

It's a shame that it's going to end this way; that he'll be remembered for failing drug tests, pushing an old man, refusing to get on a bus, and that pinch hit in New York where he, supposedly, acted like a petulant child and refused to even take the bat off of his shoulder. Yes, he did those things and yes, he didn't swing--although whether he should have swung or not is debatable--but my Manny was better than that. My Manny had joie de vivre and spectacular at bats.

While he was still here, he said that he just wanted to have a beer with his sons and while I'm pretty sure that they're still not old enough, I hope that he finds peace in his family and whatever comes next for him.

Winner! Winner! Pizza Dinner!

(Getty Images)

Nicely done, boys. Do you see what a little Bernstein can do, especially mixed with a dash of Pedroia?

It Begins.

New Era's new advertising campaign is about the rivalry between Boston and New York; it features the lovely, tall John Krasinski representing the Red Sox fans and the overweight, wearing too much eyeliner Alec Baldwin representing Yankee fans (I think that that's a pretty accurate representation of their respective fan bases.) and asks for votes on which is the better team or something. It doesn't really say what you're voting for.

Baldwin is currently winning but I suspect that that's only because Yankee fans probably buy new hats all the time.

You're All Worthless and Weak.

*Upon re-reading, this may be a bit of an overreaction.

I would have gone with Twisted Sister but I used it last year and if there ever was a situation that called for the magic of show tunes, this has got to be it right here. Lenny will save the day, since nobody else seems to be able to.

But who the hell are you, Dustin Pedroia? Don't tell me how to feel or what to think. Don't lecture me on supporting a team. Don't tell me, in essence, that because I don't see the peaches-and-cream of your current situation (despite my perpetual Pollyanna-hood), I'm a bad fan and should abandon ship.

For better or worse, this is my team. This has been my team since before you were even aware that they existed. I've followed this team through much worse times than this. I've rooted for some not-so-fabulous human beings because they wore a B on their hat and Red Sox across their chest. You, dear heart, are temporary but Boston baseball is about as permanent as you can get. In the, relatively, not to distant future, someone else will be playing second base for this team and I will be wholeheartedly rooting for that kid. Don't pretend that there's anything you can tell me about being a fan.

So, yeah. I will be watching tomorrow, just like I've watched the first six disasters of the season. I might be positive that you'll get your feet under you and win but I'll be there. I'll be there when you lose and I'll be there when you win. It's a simple as that.

I will forgive you for, what is generally, an unforgivable offense--I've ignored mostly everything Lou Merloni has said since he proclaimed that Red Sox fans should hate Manny Ramirez--because I love you to bits. But it's really not cool.

One in Five Quindecillion.

or:

1 in 5,846,006,550,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.

I didn't even know that that was a word but those are the odds that given two possible outcomes (heads or tails, red chip or black chip, wins or losses) the same outcome will occur one hundred and sixty-two times in a row. It's statistically improbable but could this be that historic season? Time will tell.

Meanwhile, even though it seems a forgone conclusion that they will be coming home with an 0-6 hanging around their necks, the odds of losing six in a row are 1 in 64. It seems like even a bad team could beat those odds.

Just Remember That Ant.

I gotta say dumplings: this is not the brightest beginning.

Don't get me wrong, there are elements that are working well (Ells, Papi!, Adrian--I think I'm in love) but the pitching leaves something to be desired. Maybe it's just Texas, which is a terrible place to pitch, but it's a bit unnerving. Tomorrow's got to be the day? Right?

Clay to the rescue. I'll say it with confidence and pretend that I believe it.

Opening Day.

Is there any day more anticipated during the course of the year?