Not Colin or Will.

"Every one who got to where he is had to begin where he was." --Robert Louis Stevenson

So. John Farrell, huh? I guess that he's not the worst choice.  With their current situation, and the likelihood that they aren't going to improve all that much next season, I might have preferred that they throw caution to the wind and really take a chance. But what's done is done. At least the announcement saved me a lot of typing -- we here at Rain Delay Theatre had cast Farrell into Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard and were in the process of trying to shoe-horn people into the other roles.

I don't mind Farrell's losing record. A team's record is largely a function of the talent on the field and that's not totally the manager's fault. Admittedly, I don't usually watch more that eighteen Blue Jay games a year but talk of immaturity, clubhouse anarchy, and laziness are a concern given the knuckleheads currently on the roster. Lackadaisical seems like a good descriptor of the team in Toronto, whether that was a failure of talent or a failure of management to correct the talent, it certainly seems like an issue that would need to be addressed.

But poor Clay! I really grew to like Clay this year but if we have to go back to deer-in-the-headlights, timid Clay who's ratio of pick off attempts to pitches is 60-1, I don't think that I can take it.

Hanging Out.

You know how last year Jacoby Ellsbury didn't have any friends and the only person that he could talk to in the entire clubhouse was Jed? And then Jed got traded and he was going to be totally miserable and how was he ever going to cope? Remember that?

Turns out that he's not completely socially inept. Yesterday, he attended the Oregon-ASU football game with Dustin Pedroia (and co.), Cody Ross, and (probably because he also didn't have anything worth doing) Jonathan Papelbon.

It's progress.

Doing Good.

For most folks locally cancer research dollars are already tied up. But Jon Lester is not a happy, smiley person and his grin in this ad for Stand Up 2 Cancer seems so very genuine, that it seemed necessary to share.

Bah. (That'd be Texan for Goodbye.)

Dave Magadan has reportedly flown the coop for the hitter's paradise known as Rangers Ballpark in Arlington. He'll look like a genius. But if he was looking to get away from the hackers that showed up in the Fens last year, he's probably should have continued his search else where.

Aim At Eternity.

I'm sure that I've mentioned it before but I was an odd duckling as a child. One of my weird little quirks was that while other kids doodled flowers and hearts and happy faces, I drew floor plans: floor plans for houses both real and imaginary, for dance studios, for schools, for theaters. It probably wouldn't have been such strange behavior, if I was the child of an architect. But I wasn't. Both of my parents were accountants and I had never met an architect in my life.

One of my clearest memories from third grade, though, is my teacher, Mrs. McNeil, asking the class what they wanted to be when they grew up and replying, after I told her that I wanted to be an architect: you can't be an architect, if you can't draw a straight line. It's true that I can't free hand a straight line. I can't trace a straight line. I can't even really draw a straight line with a ruler because it always ends up angled. My drawing ability pretty much extends to stick people. It seems like a terrible thing to tell a kid though; it's not like drawing a straight line isn't a skill that one can acquire. And so died my architectural dreams.

Christopher Wren said, "Architecture aims at eternity."

With the lack of long term commitments on his books, Ben Cherington has the opportunity to design his own team from the cellar up, largely without the influence of the previous administration. He can choose his building materials. He could opt for rafters or trusses. He could choose to add filigree.  He could choose to build a team that would soar to heights that would awe even Wren or he could elect to build a squat, no-frills functional team.

I hope that Cherington's design is aimed at eternity and not just at putting butts in the seats for 2013. And in case he isn't aimed in the right direction, say no to Farrell. There are better options out there.

Happy Day.

So there's a happy ending to the 2012 baseball season after all. (World Series--I know. It's not important.) It's probably not healthy to enjoy the Yankees losing more than I enjoy the Red Sox winning but what are you going to do?

Also, please Brian Cashman, please trade Alex Rodriguez for peanuts. It wouldn't at all be a reactionary move and building a team to suit the talk radio goons. The man had a pitiful post-season (which was great fun to watch) but during the season he was still productive. And dumping him (considering your other options) doesn't make the team better. You should especially consider the Heath Bell deal: make your team worse in two instances. It'll be excellent general managing.

What's that Smell?

Here's my little fact about Cleveland: Cleveland and its environs was originally known as New Connecticut.

Other than that? Terry Francona has been hired to manage their baseball team. Good for him. There's not a whole lot there but get that man a pitcher or two or eleven and it's a weak division, maybe he could do something.

Rain Will Make the Flowers Grow.

Despite a broken finger, Dustin Pedroia made the choice to play baseball tonight. Your intrepid Boston media doesn't see it as an opportunity to talk about Pedroia's stupidity or selfishness or prideful-ness (because you could certainly spin it that way) but, rather, uses it as a referendum to pick on Jacoby Ellsbury. Because that's original.

You look around the Boston press corps and there's not a looker amongst them; they're paunchy and sallow, they make poor fashion decision, and I'm pretty sure that Ian Browne cuts his own hair. But of all of them, Peter Abraham carries his flab like someone who has been fat his entire life. (Maybe he hasn't always been fat, maybe he has some other social defect that caused his peers to reject him early and often in his life but I really suspect the fat based on the fact that he waddles the waddle of an individual who's knees no longer wish to carry that weight.) His writing comes from such a bitter place; the cynicism is so bleak, and his world is so hopeless, that you've got to believe that someone screwed up his psyche as a kid. Plus, he's a condescending jackass and the fat kid from my high school, who had the same sardonic defense mechanism as Pete Abe, was also a condescending jackass. So that's good enough for me. And you start to think: If he only had a friend, maybe his life wouldn't be so unbearable, maybe he could be happy, maybe I wouldn't have to pity him, But people don't like to be friends with such unpleasant people and so he'll grow more and more bitter until one day he ends up in a home, old and alone, glaring at the nurses and accusing them of stealing from him. Tragic really. So the moral of the story is: don't pick on the fat kids because you run the risk of producing more Pete Abes to populate the world. And who would want that?

Or Not.

Fine. Be that way. It's not like I really care anymore anyway.

Fickle Finger of Fate.

For the past year, dumplings, fate (or whatever you want to call it) has been chewing you over and like a cow and it's cud, whenever it looked like you might have escaped, it simply regurgitated you and broke you down some more. Hopefully, fate is finally done with you. It's spit you out, broken and hopeless, but with still a chance to affect the playoffs.

Win tonight or lose tonight, it doesn't really matter, as long as you do what Tampa does. Then, New York and Baltimore end up tied for the division and they have to play a one game play-off to find out who plays the one game play-in. It would be fantastic.

Have at it boys.