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.