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.