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?