The Last Hurrah?

 Nuh-uh. Do it again.

(Which appears to not be the actual lyric but it is the way I've always sung it. To be fair, stomping around like a maniac doesn't mix very well with close listening.)

So. Gentlemen. Who would have guessed that we'd end up here? When you start the season by dropping three in a row to Baltimore (Baltimore! Of all places!) it doesn't instill a whole lot of confidence. But you just put your collective heads down and played. As Kyle Schwarber said, "A bunch of grinders." (And I know he's not from here but it still made me giggle. And subsequently start assigning grinders to players: Bobby gets cold cut combo, Iggy--sleek, slim, efficient--gets turkey, Xander: roast beef, Devers: meatball, and to round out the infield and really just for old time's sake Christian Vazquez gets Chicken Parm). And then seemingly everybody got sick, things went to Hell, and visions of chicken and beer danced in our heads. But you white-knuckled it and held on. For a team that was supposed to lower third, eighty wins: it was impressive. I was impressed.

Now, kittens, come what may, we'll say thank you. It was a hell of a ride and a fun (at least the first half) summer. But wins are better, so let's go with those.  

And in aid of that, we turn to the most Boston-y, get-up-and-go song ever. (Which listening to it today makes me think that I may have been misinterpreting it for twenty-odd years.  But whatever. It's a song for jazzing yourself up and can't be changed at this late date.)

 

Waiting to Exhale.

 Brock Holt is an awful hypocrite but that was great fun. Just delightful.

Best game of the year? Possibly.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs.

Earlier today, a five pound bag of sugar fell on my face. That was a more pleasant experience than watching this team play baseball.

Clueless.

Well, kittens. It's not good.

This team is just not good at baseball. The pitching has been terrible. The hitting is atrocious. The defense is sloppy. And you've got this stupid trip to London coming up.

Worst of all, I don't think that I care. If you were trying, despite being bad at baseball, I would care. All you really need is heart but you don't even seem to have that.

In my head, they give a David a cane when he gets out of the hospital (and there's no doubt in my mind that he gets out of the hospital) but he is unable to use it because he's too strong; when he presses down on the cane it breaks. David, in my imagination, twenty months out from having played baseball and recovering from major surgery, is still strong enough to bend steel.

I can't imagine that there is anyone on this current team that I would picture in the same way.

Blech.

The American President.

That...seems about right. The White Sox (which is so damn clever I wish that I had thought of it) and a gun-crazed lunatic, who believes that he is being patriotic by advocating for the armed overthrow of any duly elected government that tries to take away his guns.

I'm disappointed in Slick. He seems so much more urbane than the rest of these chuckle-heads.

I'm truly disappointed in Matt Barnes. In interviews, he seems intelligent; like he might be capable of actual rational thought. Guess not. Anyway, he is currently sporting that ridiculous Hitler youth haircut so maybe he was in his element today.

But the one that's really killing me is Brock Holt. Brock Holt pretends to care about sick kids but stands grinning next to a man who dreams of taking away their access to care.

--And if we learned anything from Tim Thomas (and seriously I know nothing about Tim Thomas), it's that standing next to someone means a complete endorsement of their beliefs. It means fully embracing the lying, the cheating, the racism, the misogyny, the jingoism, the xenophobia, the cruelty. It's saying, "I got a couple more bucks in my pocket, I'm good man. Do what you want."-- 

The health care class system is A.O.K. in Brock Holt's view. You've got your haves: the folks who get to walk into a hospital and maybe walk out with a cure. And you've got your have-nots: the folks who can't afford treatment so they forgo it, or they go massively into debt, or beg strangers on the Internet for money. 

And while all those concussions that he's suffered are probably melting his brain and will lead to further mental deterioration down the road, Brock Holt's care is covered. Anybody else gets a concussion and can no longer get health care? Sucks to be you, says Brock Holt. You get to suffer.  The upside though is that everybody's stock portfolio is worth a little bit more so win...win?

I suppose it's good to know where folks stand.

The Pallbearer.

One doesn't like to be all doom and gloom. But maybe, it's time for the Red Sox twitter account to stop pretending like a game Chris Sale pitches is an event worth looking forward to.

Fools Rush In.

I don't know if they also head for the hills first.

This? This stinks.

Normally, I'm a cautious sort of person: gather the data, consider the options, make a fully-informed decision. Last year's team was so much fun, though, I just jumped in with this group. I believed.

Now, I'm starting to think: Alex Cora can't spin gold, you do need a competent bullpen, and this team has serious flaws that can't be papered over.

So. Do I bail? They're certainly not entertaining. At the same time, though, they can't be this bad for the next five and a half months. Right? They have to get better at some point. But is there any real reason to think that?

It's demoralizing.