Never thought I'd say this when we first acquired the Freddy-Krueger-looking, phone and opponent-punching, clearly psychologically unhinged reliever from the Cardinals, but....I'm sorry to see Jules hit the road. I really am. The team won't be quite the same without him.
Didn't see the end of the game last night live. But I've seen the highlights and read the following quote from Papelbon:
“The last outing that I had there were three bloop hits and a broken-bat hit,” he said. “You can’t do nothing about that. Tonight I could do something about that. Tonight was a totally different story. This has no correlation with the last outing, none whatsoever. It was just a simple fact that tonight I didn’t execute a pitch when I had two strikes and one out to get.”
God bless his goofy heart that he's so candid. It's part of what endears him to me so much. Remy supplied the additional information by way of John Farrell that the particular problem Papelbon had, both here and in Detroit, was over-striding as he threw, flattening him out too much horizontally and leaving his pitch, a splitter, up in the zone, where it met the bat of Lamb.
I decided to use my TiVo to see if I could compare his final pitch tonight, a strike to end the ballgame at the dreaded Dome (if that stupid ceiling can make Tek miss a pop up, then it is clearly the work of Satan and I wish ill upon it) to his final pitch last night, the one Mike Lamb turned into a two-RBI walkoff hit.
After watching both in slow motion a couple of times, it does seem that on the less successful pitch, he starts off hunched over, maybe you could even call it slouched, with his left foot further toward first base and home plate from his right than it was as he set up tonight. It's kind of hard to see with the center-field camera angle, but it does seem like he drops his foot lower on the mound and just the tiniest interval later on the pitch to Lamb than the one to Young. As Young swings through his fastball, Papelbon's legs are already starting to come parallel to each other, while as Lamb swings through the splitter his right leg is still up in the air.
They are probably still apples and oranges to some extent because they're different pitches, but with the second pitch he does seem to use his lower body to cantilever himself forward more efficiently than the first pitch, which he threw more with his arm alone. Or, at least, that's what it looks like to me.
And yes, I *do* take Papelbon blowing back to back saves this seriously.
Kristen wrote something the other day about his blown save against the Tigers that first made me laugh and then made me think:
It's best we get it out of the way now before he gets to something ridiculous like 40 straight and we start having fireworks and laser shows and he enters wearing a cape and a horned helmet and THEN he blows one. That'd be way more embarrassing.
Thing is--and I say this knowing I have repeatedly and enthusiastically enabled it myself--after a while even I have to admit that maybe Papelbon has been going a little ways down that path. How can you blame the guy? If you were a 26-year-old millionaire who was about as close to perfect at your job as anyone on the planet, who had also recently been treated to a ride through Boston on your own special float featuring the Dropkick Murphys just because everyone wants to see you re-create a dance you did while you were loaded, you too might start to think warrior-king garb was not too far out of line. Of course I'm far from informed enough for this to be anything but speculation, but that feeling has been known to make people get a little sloppy. This sloppiness in turn has a tendency to generate rude awakenings.
The term Bill Belichick has used for this process among his football players is Humble Pie, and it's often used to refer to his routine of showing the Patriots players only their mistakes during some film reviews, often after a win, to keep them from letting up on their intensity. Now it looks like Jonathan got a little of that treatment himself this week, though it was through the natural selection of the baseball jungle, rather than the habits of a strict coach. And while I will always look forward to the next time I can make an absolute fool of myself under the spell of his charisma at Fenway Park, even I have to admit maybe that's for the best.
Meanwhile: I don't wish injury on any player and certainly wouldn't wish a concussion on Julio Lugo, no matter what my distaste for him otherwise. So I'm not glad it's for that reason--but when Jed Lowrie hit his first Major League home run tonight, I was pretty glad Julio hadn't started. It might be better for him to sit for a while, too. Humble pie all around.
Last night, Josh wasn't pouring on the gas quite as much as we've seen him do in the past. His fastball clocked in at about 92 or 93, 94 tops. I still don't know if I should be worried about that, or what.
But.
That fastball had action on it at times that was simply eye-popping. Hitter after hitter for Detroit was frozen in the wake of a ball that would seem as though it was headed in at about chest level, and then dive, unbidden, into the zone for a called strike. Many of them cursed visibly at the experience.
And.
Setting off that sidewinding fastball main course were two exquisite side dishes: a curveball in the mid-seventies and a changeup in the low 80's.
It's amazing how things can change in just a few years. When the Sox first traded Hanley Ramirez for Beckett, I didn't like the deal one bit. Not at all. I sized Josh up as a pigheaded, immature, DL frequent flyer. (Even as recently as last night, I was a participant in a vociferous discussion about the shortstop-sized hole in our hearts since Nomar--not that we'd ever question the trade, mind you, but we've been missing something to fill that gap ever since, and this revolving door has only led us to misery.)
Then, in 2006, I seriously thought about creating a dartboard with Josh Beckett's face on it. I know I joked around about it here some, but I mean literally. Seriously. I contemplated carrying out that little arts and crafts project, for real.
In some ways, I think I was taking out my frustration with a frustrating season on this guy I'd never wanted in the first place, who wasn't one of the 25, and therefore fair game. I'd seen quite a few other players fail to satisfy who'd been just as well-advertised, after all, and so far didn't have convincing evidence he'd be any different.
But what really baked my biscuits about Josh was the fact that it was quite obviously not a matter of talent with him. Every few starts, he'd pitch a gem that had me grudgingly conceding I'd been too harsh. And then he'd start a road game, give up a bunch of six-run homers, and all of it seemed to be because he just couldn't get off the fastball.
To this day I think it was at least partially a matter of maturity and even a little bit of truly malignant arrogance (as opposed to the normal level of egotism that seems to be necessary for a power pitcher). For him, it seemed that conceding, perhaps the game had been a little different in the National League, perhaps he could no longer simply blow it past 'em, whether it was for reasons of age or fatigue or heightened competition, was, I still think, a very hard thing for him to do. I think there's been just as much of a mental process going on with him as a physical or a mechanical one, for all his talk about just executing pitches.
But in the intervening years, there's been talk of his blister problem, and how he'd avoided the curveball because it literally rubbed him the wrong way. He also made a startlingly obvious overhaul of his mechanics before re-emerging as Commander Kickass in 2007. I have realized that it wasn't all just a matter of him being a big jerkface, and admit to chagrin that I ever perceived it as such.
Last year, when I first began to realize this transformation had taken place, the cognitive dissonance was overpowering at times. Off the field, he still seemed like a total jerk at times. On the field, he'd become the most beautiful pitcher I'd seen since Pedro Martinez, and I don't make that comparison lightly. The gifts, and moreover, the sheer power that Josh has been blessed with, all in one flawlessly coordinated package, are truly rare. It's still a part of his swagger; he has worked tremendously hard, but that's on top of the fact that genetically, he won the lottery, and he must have known it since he was 16 years old.
Since then, cognitive dissonance has given way little by little to fascination, and admiration, for the way he's turned out. I understand more now than I did when he was acquired about what's gone into his development, just because I've learned a little more about the game, what pitchers do, and how they do it. While I still maintain my armchair psychoanalysis to a certain extent, I've learned that it wasn't the ONLY reason for his early struggles, and realized that all of it had probably been anticipated, and accepted, by the one who did the trade. I further realize that this outcome was also probably the plan all along, and while there had been the obvious risk of that plan failing, someone had seen clear to this masterpiece Josh would become.
So I feel the need to say to Theo (even if only figuratively) once and for all: I'm stupid. You're smart. I was wrong. You were right. You're the best. I'm the worst. You're very good-looking. I'm not very attractive.
They brought him in, sanded down his rough edges, cleaned him up, got him to stop swearing into microphones, and finally, finally taught him that it totally did not make him a wuss to throw an off-speed pitch every once in a while.
Then the 2007 postseason happened. And I was history.
Nights when Josh is pitching now, I sometimes fast-forward through the Red Sox at bats if I'm watching on TiVo, and sometimes wish I could if I'm watching live. I want them to get their business done, of course, and will stop if someone hits a tremendous bomb or nice-looking double, but I look forward to seeing Josh's halves of innings like a special treat all week. When they finally arrive, I just want to sit down and watch every single moment of him pitching. That's all I want to do--see which way that ball's going to break this time.
I'm starting a fresh post, because I wrote most of the below in the early innings, and it really feels like a whole different game all of a sudden.
I'll have to admit I had conceded this one even before YoYo took the mound to pour on the gas. With the score 8-4 Tigers, I headed out to run an errand, and was driving back just in time to hear Joe Castiglione explain that Detroit's Francisco Cruceta probably didn't want to face Mike Lowell, per se, but with the count run up on Manny, he might as well put him on base along with Jacoby Ellsbury and take his chances...
Turns out that's what Cruceta did. NESN cut to commercial on a shot of him looking balefully out to the bullpen, where help was not exactly on the way. The score was 8-5 Tigers after Youkilis went deep for the second time tonight. (Beard Power! Youkilis also had a fit at the home plate umpire before all was said and done, accentuating his ferociousness.)
When the game resumed, Mike Lowell took an exceptionally high "strike" from Cruceta, then waited through two more pitches for his meatball, which he crushed into the left-field seats. Tie ball game. 24 combined hits. The Tigers must have been wondering what vengeful god they angered over the last week, because this game was pure insanity, and it looked like another one was slipping away.
BUT! Those tables were turned again before long (while the insanity quotient remained very much the same). There was a pinch hit from Dustin Pedroia that made the score 9-8 Sox, but a totally Twilight Zone ninth inning consisting of an 'excuse me' infield single, a horrible error (You are the weakest link, Julio), a groundout to force across the tying run, and, for the final ridiculous flourish, a broken-bat blooper into left ended things on a disconcerting note, to say the least.
Did I say this felt like two different games? Make it three. Or four. Honestly, I lost count. All I know is, I started off being at peace with a loss, got sucked back in to a possible win, and then somehow wound up watching Jonathan Papelbon show off skills learned at the Josh Beckett School of Water Cooler Abuse in the dugout.
It's hard to complain about the first loss in five games. Especially when the team on the other side hasn't won in just as long, and you see their home fans jump up and down and scream in disbelief...and...I, uh...wait, did Papelbon just blow a save?
P.S. From the "I don't know quite how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal" department, Further Fenway Fiction got a nice writeup in the Globe today.
With Jacoby Ellsbury whining about how his groin hurts and hurling the ball willy nilly in the general direction of the infield and Jed Lowrie tripping and falling on his face and getting doubled up at first base and then diving OVER the ball after taking the field the next inning, and Clay Buchholz balking and kicking a foul ball fair, basically, tonight was one of the thankfully rare occasions our rookies really looked like rookies.
Tito's probably buying Excedrin in bulk these days with all of them flailing around in the field like newborn giraffes and finally forcing him into a crisis during which he completely lost his composure with an umpire over a balk call that even a complete homer like Jerry Remy couldn't really take issue with.
Can't blame him, though, really. It must be like trying to herd kittens--somehow, I feel like he got even balder during this game.
The older guys, too, seemed nonplussed by the display. Kevin Youkilis cut off Jacoby's errant throw with a nearly palpable eyeroll, and Papi and Wake were caught on the dugout camera looking on thusly:
As I'm sure I've mentioned, I get score updates on my cell phone in the form of text messages, which delivers them with a cheery BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! about five minutes or so after the score actually changes. When I'm watching live and still have my phone on, that BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! has a tendency to put either a cheerful or obnoxious note of punctuation on the situation, depending on whether it was the Sox who scored the run.
When I'm watching on TiVo, I've discovered that new wrinkle of modern technologically-created consciousness that is struggling with whether or not I should peek at the score while still several innings behind, or trying to guess by the number of texts and their frequency against approximately how far I am behind in the game, thereby trying to extrapolate which team is likely to be up now and therefore scoring the runs. It's fun.
Tonight, at first, the BEEP tolled for Clay. But he's young, yet.
Julian Tavarez, in the meantime...
P.S. I definitely need to get my hands on this book, if only because I was unaware until I read this post from Surviving Grady that Josh wrote the foreword. First of all, Josh, writing, whuh? This does not jibe with my IBW and therefore gives me cognitive dissonance. Then, there's the fact that the excerpt Denton extracted over at SG is the second time in about a week I've seen / read Josh wax downright sappy about a teammate. I'm still carefully trying to process this information.
P.P.S. I know it's unlike me to venture beyond the borders of the Nation, but my friend Andy actually wrote on his personal blog a little while ago about a Nats tradition known as the Presidents Race, which in turn led to the revelation, for me anyway, of a website entitled 'Let Teddy Win', which is quite frankly one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
Tonight saw another lovely victory for the Sox, all of whom are suddenly hitting like their asses are on fire. Tim Wakefield delivered a gem from the mound in his usual understated way, keeping up a breezy pace through eight innings. Remy's repeated comment on his performance was that he "made it look so easy."
Life was not so peachy for Detroit pitching. That staff's woeful night began with Nate Robertson, who suffered through six and one third innings while surrendering four runs. The coup de grace for him was delivered by Big Papi, who took a meatball Robertson left in the center of the plate, near the bottom of the strike zone, and blasted it 20 rows into the bleachers. To see Papi homer on back-to-back nights was encouraging enough, but to see him lace this nuclear bomb out of the park with such authority had me breathing at least a partial sigh of relief. I hope this means the big man's really back.
Another thing which delights me is seeing Papi go the other way on the shift teams now routinely deploy against him. Several times over the last week he's sent a double pinballing around an empty left-field corner, and each time it has filled me with glee. Shift this, mofos.
Things were to get even more interesting for both teams after Papi sent Robertson to the showers. The Tigers brought out one Freddy Dolsi from their bullpen, a brand-new rookie fresh from the farm. Remy and Orsillo pointed out, as the slight Dorsi was throwing his warmup pitches, that he'd been up in the bullpen several times throughout the game. "He's practically pitched a whole game in the bullpen," said Don.
"Hopefully he worked out some of his nerves," replied Jerry.
Unfortunately for Freddy Dolsi, the next man up, and his first-ever Major League hitter, was to be Manny Ramirez. The Bad Man took all of a second to take Dolsi's first ever Major League pitch deep to straightaway center and through the hedges out of the park. Welcome to the bigs, kid, and have a nice day.
In fairness, Dolsi was left in for five outs after that, and got them without giving up another run. Still, the winners were the Sox, putting them solidly in first place in the AL East with a 22-13 record. And it's now only two days until we can kick off the radar-gun rodeo, starring Josh Beckett and Justin Verlander. Which, as you can imagine, has strong potential to be the highlight of my week.
It's sad but true: nowadays incidents like the drunken road rage that took a life in Nashua over the weekend are all too common. When something's all too common (but not part of a larger trend you can reel in an audience with), if you're in the news business, you need a 'hook' for that kind of story. Sad but true, just the fact that a drunk driver ran down a pedestrian on purpose is not necessarily enough to get the big-time eyeballs.
So for the sake of my sanity, I'm choosing to believe that the news coverage of that incident is focusing perhaps overmuch on the role of the Red Sox - Yankees rivalry in this feud, the better to have a 'hook' on the story.
The story related in this newscast says that the two antagonists fought as they were leaving separate bars. It seems the fight took place as they ran into each other on the street, and the driver of the car who later ran down the other one(within a group of pedestrians) is known to have been intoxicated. Then, the newscast points out, the one with a Yankees sticker on her car ran down the one who was a Red Sox fan, and the two are said to have bickered about their respective teams, among other things, prior to the incident.
Having left a bar late and possibly overserved on more than one occasion myself (sorry, Mom), it's not hard to imagine virtually any source of conflict generating a ridiculous, overblown brawl or 'incident' among irresponsible and (at least in the case of one party for sure) clearly idiotic people.
In other words, if it hadn't been that, it might've been something else. A T-shirt. The classic "looking at me funny". A disparaging comment about appearance. Anybody, no matter how drunk they are, willing and able to run down someone in their car isn't best defined as a fan of a Major League baseball team. Rather, they're best defined as your general "moron and / or psychopath." What baseball team sticker she had on the back of the car she used as a murder weapon is not relevant, in my opinion.
But we also have a tendency to do this in this country, beyond the vagaries and scruples of the 24-hour news cycle. We blame Nintendo when two kids manage to stockpile a huge arsenal of weapons and explosives right under the noses of their parents and then shoot up their school. We blame Marilyn Manson. We blame that rock and roll music.
If you ask me, bringing baseball into this story is just another way of missing the same point.
P.S. Toldja.
"In fact, dude? I say WE should sweep THEM.""I concur. Let us make it so."
So it appears the Sox somehow managed to find all the runs they couldn't locate last week against Tampa Bay, and they were ready to pummel the Devil Rays with them like retaliatory water balloons this weekend. Ironically, neither Josh Beckett or Jon Lester were as sharp this series as they had been in their previous starts, but both picked up deserved wins, thanks to the run support.
Who is this lineup and what happened to them last weekend? I would say it doesn't really matter, so long as they're back now, but if last season is any indication, that might not be the last run-scoring drought we see this year.
While the collective slump remains a mystery, the catalysts for the resurgence of the Sox bats are clearer: Dustin Pedroia, and Kevin Youkilis.
"Dustin Pedroia has sparked this team," was how Remy put it last night. If you think about it, Dustin Pedroia has adapted to an atmosphere of pretty much constant discouragement. I don't think he even registers such a thing at all, at this point, and his play reflects it. Friday, he drove in three runs, including a two-run single in a five-run fourth inning that could be called the beginning of the weekend's rally; he contributed another 2 runs, 3 hits and an RBI Saturday; yesterday he swung at a pitch that came in up around the "B" on his batting helmet, just barely missed it, and screamed obscenities after striking out. All of which = love as far as I'm concerned.
According to one of NESN's info-graphics (and ESPN), Dustin currently ranks 7th in the American League in batting average, three thousandths of a point behind Manny Ramirez, dead tied with Torii Hunter, and one one-thousandth of a point ahead of Carlos Guillen and Derek Jeter.
It's one thing for him to be a quick, fearless second baseman, which he is. It's quite another for him to be up there with the big lumber in the batters' box, not just on the Red Sox but in the entire American League. People still talk about how good a player Dustin is "for his size". Pretty soon I think you'll hear people just leave off the size part. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
Then there was The Sweaty One Whose Beard Causes Milk to Sour, who pretty much singlehandedly secured the sweep of the Rays yesterday, going 3 for 4 with 2 runs scored and 4 RBI. The Rays' Dan Wheeler can go ahead and call Youk his daddy: Youk's solo shot to make the score 5-3 in the seventh inning was his third off Wheeler this season. I'm sure there are guys on this team (JULIO LUGO) who don't have three homers this season total.
What else is there to say except, let's hope this continues?
Wednesday night's game turned out to be a near-rerun of Tuesday night's walkoff victory, except this time it was 2-1, I wasn't in attendance at the game, and it was Jason Varitek instead of Kevin Youkilis filling the role of Big Stud with the Big Hit.
And it was a studly hit, bounding with authority into center field while Manny hauled ass to score from second. Also in contrast to the previous night, Vernon Wells had not bobbled the first dribbling single hit his way in an attempt to score Jed Lowrie, and had cut the Sox rookie down at the plate with a surehanded throw. After Manny crossed the plate to finally shove that run across, he flung down his batting helmet, an exclamation point on the victory.
I've heard it said that it has been determined by scientists that if you were to model the entire history of baseball using a series of totally random coin tosses, you would essentially get the same historical record of statistics as actually exists. I can't help but think of that when I think about how a team with so much of the same personnel can have such a totally different character so early into a new season. Last year, I grudgingly got used to the fact that the Sox were not a big comeback team--this year, they seem to have done nothing but come back.
It has been exciting, but I'll also confess to some relief last night, when they finally laid a good old fashioned smackdown on somebody, that somebody being the Tampa Bay Rays, restoring some order to the universe after occupying the receiving end of last weekend's sweep.
After it was pointed out by a coworker that my attendance at the first of the five lost games last week may not have been coincidental, I predicted that my reappearance at the park Tuesday would be like a double negative, turning their luck again. I'm often mocked for my superstitiousness, but that night turned out to be the first of three victories this week and the consensus best game of the season so far. Now, it seems the reappearance of the Rays is having a similar effect, restoring the Sox to normal baseball just as they threw them off track in the previous series.
This is the thing about that series of random coin-tosses that make up baseball. Randomness is full of patterns.
***
I finally got around to editing, posting, labeling and tagging the last two weeks' worth of baseball photos on Flickr. Here are some highlights from Tuesday's Blue Jays game (click for photo page):
I also want to point out one more thing about Tuesday's game, now that I've watched the TV broadcast as well. I was particularly paying attention to Jonathan's inning, of course, and I was struck by the closeups the NESN cameras got of his reaction to Dustin Pedroia's showstopping play. Let's just say that if someone looked at me like this:
Somehow I don't think my first thought would be that congratulations were in order.
***
Way back in the hoary mists of last week, I took some photos of a game against the Angels, too:
***
Next item of business for me in this catch-up post is a blog recommendation.
I first discovered Magazine Man's blog in October 2005, after I wrote a post about the anniversary of Carlton Fisk's famous Game 6 home run in 1975. A commenter posted a link to MM's blog, specifically his post talking about the letters he had exchanged with Pudge as a kid. I got in contact with him right away to ask if he'd ever found the letters, particularly the reply he got from Fisk. He said no, and with my usual rationality I told him to PLEASE FIND IT. He promised to try.
Since then, I've kept up with MM's blog whenever I can. I've chuckled at stories about his kids' hjinks with the dog; gasped aloud at the quest he had to go on to save said dog from an unhinged former owner; joined his substantial audience in mourning when his parents were killed last year in an horrific car crash; and regardless of the subject, I have always, but always, thoroughly enjoyed his vivid and suspensful writing.
And finally, two and a half years after Carlton Fisk first brought us together, I got an email, this time from MM himself, telling me he had some news I might be interested in.
Dear [MM], I am 6' 2 1/2" and weigh 212 lbs. I was born in 1947, the day after Christmas, in Bellows Falls, Vt...
See his post for scans of the orginal letter and autographed picture, finally found.
***
Finally, a DVD recommendation. You might have dismissed the cheesily-titled sequel to the cheesily titled Still, We Believe movie that they're selling these days at the grocery store. And while admittedly, it is all those things, I picked up Blessed: Still, We Believe 2 at the Star market last week on a whim, and have not regretted it for a single moment.
The Beckett content alone, particularly his glowing remeniscences about Clay Buchholz's no-hitter, has to be seen to be believed. And if that's not enough to interest you, might I suggest the later scenes featuring a generous walk-on role for Billy Mueller? Between those things, plenty of drawling appearances by Jonathan Papelbon and the fact that just about every game they show on the DVD is one I attended last year, they might as well have titled this movie "Baseball Porn for Beth." So if you share any of my particular obsessions interests when it comes to baseball, I'd recommend giving Blessed a gander.
Sitting in Section 26, Box 64 for this game, my dad's friends Marshall and Woody, my dad, and I started playing the "hat game" around the third inning. The way the hat game works is, everyone puts a dollar into a hat to get started. One person holds the hat for each Red Sox hitter up. If that hitter gets a single, the person holding the hat takes a dollar out. A double, two dollars. A triple, three. A homer gets the pot. An out means the holder puts a dollar in the hat. Walks and errors are a push.
By the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs, we had twenty-five bucks in the hat.
Save for a hit by Youkilis early on and an almost accidental single by Brandon Moss, the Red Sox bats remained disturbingly lifeless through yet another gem from a starting pitcher, this time an 8-inning, 1-hit, shutout performance from Jon Lester.
"Holy shit, boys and girls," Woody remarked as the Sox walked off the field still scoreless after the bottom half of that inning. "How does a whole team just stop hitting, all at once?"
It had been 20 innings since the Red Sox had scored a run. In the last 35 innings, the team had plated just five runs. In the last 18 innings, the Sox had mustered a total of just five hits.
This while the pitching staff turned in a two-run, three-hit gem; a three-run, thirteen strikeout gem; and aforementioned eight-inning, shutout performance, in that order.
Tonight, though, there was a different feeling than usual at the ballpark. These days, you usually know more about a game if you've watched it on TV than if you've been there in person--on TV, the broadcasters review key plays in slow motion, summarize the key moments of the game midway through, and then again after the last out. They reinforce what's happening by telling you verbally what you're seeing, and all the appropriate stats are flashed on the screen at the precise moment they're relevant.
At the park, in between the incessant cries of "PEANUTS!" and gabbing from people around you and craning your neck to see the hitter and yelling "down in front!" at least once a game, not to mention lacking a close-up or slow-motion on anything, it can all be a blur. The same was true of this game until Lester walked off the mound in that eighth inning.
I've been there on other nights when the game is out of hand by the top of the fifth and the crowd seems to resign itself to sticking around till beer sales end and then calling it a night. But after Lester left, the ballpark took on an electricity I can only remember experiencing once or twice before--a buzzing tension that said, we are not leaving here without a win.
It's not entirely logical, but the players really do seem to take a cue from this, at least sometimes. And on nights like tonight, they seem to be nudged to life by the energy in the stands.
Despite another listless effort from the lineup in the bottom of the eighth, the mere appearance of Jonathan Papelbon was enough to keep that energy going. By the time 'Shipping Up to Boston' was playing, the whole place was on its feet. I was practically jumping up and down, in between taking enough pictures to make a flip-book of his first throws from the mound.
All of this, and he was still just tossing warmup pitches. NESN had probably gone to commercial. But there we were, going out of our damn minds.
"WHOA--OHH--OHHHHH..." the crowd boomed along with the chorus of the song. "WHOOAAAHHHHH!"
Six pitches and nearly two outs into his appearance, and Papelbon was working with 100 percent strikes. The Toronto hitters were frozen by his fastball and waved at his split. He was an explosion of power with each delivery, curling into himself and unfurling with a single quick, smooth motion, just snapping the pitches out. He electrified the place.
Not to be outdone, however, was Dustin Pedroia, who in the end deserves the credit for the save. The Happy Scrappy Hero Pup made the diving play of the game at second base to record the final out for Jonathan with a man on second--if it weren't for him, the 9th would've ended tied at 1 instead of with a mob at the plate.
The crowd was still on its feet when Coco Crisp came to the plate for the bottom of the ninth. When he flied out to center, everyone sat down again, grumbling, through Dustin Pedroia's pop-out.
But I don't care if the other team's ahead by 16 runs or if he's hitting .010, David Ortiz gets a kingly welcome every single time he steps to the plate. And in situations where a bomb from Papi could conceivably do major damage or even win it, people are on their feet for him like he's hit a homer before he's even seen one pitch.
Papi walked, but people barely had time to think about that before Manny was taking his lollygagging stroll behind the umpire, adjusting his gloves with his bat under one arm and looking out into the crowd, where dozens of fans gave him the exaggerated double-guns and pointed toward the Monster suggestively. It was bedlam.
Manny stroked a single to center field, and Youkilis followed. I marveled at how the Red Sox were now looking at the same number of baserunners in this inning as they'd managed the whole game, at the determined force the fans had become, and how, even before it got there, it just felt like it was going to happen.
Ball one to Youkilis.
It had to happen. No way were they letting Jon Lester put in that effort and get a no-decision. No way were they letting Jonathan Papelbon be the losing pitcher, wasting Dustin's spectacular play. No. Hell, no.
And then there it was.
Youkilis lined a base hit, and Papi came steaming around third. "RUN PAPI RUN PAPI RUN!" I screamed, and then everything on the field was lost in the sea of jubilation.
My father left the game still worried about why his boy Jacoby didn't pinch-run for Papi. And the Red Sox have still only managed one run since Saturday. But boy, was it ever a beautiful one.
I have been silent, but rest assured the travesty this weekend has not escaped my notice.
"Wasn't it the game you went to that started their losing streak?" pointed out a co-worker accusingly today. While the correlation is weak, I have to admit it's there.
But I'd sooner put the blame on injuries and illness coming home to roost (bench players and fill-ins like Sean Casey and Jed Lowrie aren't used to, and some might argue nor are they intended to be, working this regularly) than on my attendance (if it makes anyone feel any better, I'll be there tomorrow night, too, so maybe it'll work like a double-negative and restore things to order.)
The encouraging thing is that our starting pitching has remained strong, even as the offense short-circuited. Both starters, yesterday and Saturday, pitched well enough to win--especially Clay Buccholz, whose performance this weekend after having struggled his last two starts I take as one of the silver linings from the series.
It's also worth remembering that this team is about 95% the same as last year's team, which also showed some serious streakiness, particularly where the offense was concerned. I believe this had me referring to the 07 squad as 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde' by August. It's a bit more alarming to see such extremes in April, but it's not much different from the cycles the team went through last season. And we all know how that turned out.
P.S. Has anybody else noticed that in addition to removing the word 'Devil' from their team name, the Rays have also adopted a very clerical new purple, gold and white color scheme, complete with what looks like a gold Star of Bethlehem inside the 'R' on the front of the jersey? Was there really such strong Christian opposition to the Devil Rays based on their name? Will this uniform change really put more Bible-thumpin' butts in seats down in Tampa Bay?
Beautiful ballpark photo by Sam.
In more ways than one.
I remember about a month ago a terrible plague swept through my office, which is just outside Boston. We have an open office plan, and it struck down people in desk-by-desk order, felling everyone for at least a week. I can't help but think it's the same terrible bug that's sweeping through the Red Sox clubhouse right now, and I wouldn't even be surprised if it was happening in order of lockers.
And I'm now convinced that some kind of super-flu has taken up residence in this area specifically. People I know who live all or most of the time in other parts of the country say they haven't seen such widespread illness in their area; a good example of this is Sam, who lives most of the year in Michigan, but was horrified by the pestilence when she came home for spring break. Another example is my sister, who goes to school in Ohio and only came down with flu after a visit home to Massachusetts.
And now it seems baseball players taking up residence in Boston after an off-season away are also being clotheslined by this New England-specific plague.
The latest victim of this strange phenomenon is the Diceman, who scratched from his start last night just as Josh had the night before. I only found this out once my husband and I had bitten in to pre-game snacks at Rem-Dawgs. Instead, we got Jon Lester, rendering my cheery red Matsuzaka jersey worn specifically for the occasion irrelevant, and making me a pouty girl indeed through the first inning or so. It also didn't help that Lester had hits just laced off him all night by the Angels lineup, and especially by Gary Matthews Jr., who hit two homers on the night.
I did have a grumble or two toward the end of the game about how the Sox had just won six straight, then I show up and they lose (Jonathan Papelbon has also timed his appearances so far this season to fall on the night just before I show up). But really, it was a very enjoyable experience, as losses go, and much of it didn't have anything to do with the score of the game.
Our seats were in a section I've never sat in before - Section 31, Loge Box 162, just a little ways away from where Pizza-Gate happened. In other words, foul-ball alley. We saw two different screaming liners plop into our section; one was caught by a guy in the row in front of us and another bounced off a woman in the row behind us and was caught by someone two seats away from me. (Drama ensued; the woman felt she was entitled to the ball that had left a big red welt on her arm; the guy who ended up with it felt she was entitled to kiss his ass.)
Between the foul-ball incoming and the many colorful denizens of the section, it was hard to pay strict attention to what was going on in the infield. Instead, this game was kind of a weird, fuzzy social event, a big crowded picnic outside on an idyllic summer evening, even though it's still only mid-April.
The man behind me seemed intent on extracting demonstrations of enjoyment from the rest of his family for the tickets he'd bought. "These are great seats," he kept repeating. "And what a night--it's like late June!"
He got only murmurs of assent, but I had to agree with him. The temperature had been forecast in the low 80's, but by the time I was headed into town for the game, my car's thermometer showed 89. By about the third inning, night had begun to fall, and the sky over Fenway was that bewitching indigo blue of early evening. The night air was cooling somewhat, but had that tired, mellow feeling the night breezes have when it's been hot.
In front of us there were two kids rocking--I mean ROCKING--Celtics gear. They also rocked many beers, and by the 7th inning had taken to loudly announcing the Celtics score, decrying the fact that the Celtics still needed to 'cuvva' the point spread (if I had a nickel for the number of times I've heard this line in Boston stadiums...in our great and mighty Commonwealth where lingering Puritan mores make sports betting illegal), and talking absolute smack to Gary Matthews Jr. every time he reported to the outfield.
He never acknowledged them (why would he?) but it was not for their lack of effort. They repeatedly stood up in green-festooned relief from the section and hollered intelligent criticisms his way loud enough to be heard by Vladi Guerrerro over in right field. Props to Matthews for just letting them look like maroons.
The rest of the section enjoyed much more pleasant interaction with Manny Ramirez. It's true what they say about that left-field corner and its special relationship with him.
And while I knew Manny is a space cadet, I was still surprised when I saw him up close like that last night - it's also entirely true what they say about his daydreaming in the field. He is, at times, just one step away from turning cartwheels and picking dandilions out there. His shoes were chronically untied. His hat never seemed to stay on his head for very long. And most of all, he seems to hate to wear his glove - at times he'd take it completely off and swing it around in his right hand between pitches.
"MANNY, PAY ATTENTION!" screamed the Celtics meatheads.
As I said, the game was a loss, and a vague kind of loss at that. Not the best game I've ever been to, but worth the price of admission was that experience with Manny in the outfield. He also obliged the crowd with a trip into the Monster late in the game, which prompted the entire section to stand up with cameras raised for when he came back out again.
Probably my favorite moment of the whole game was in the third inning, when Manny combined with Julio Lugo to relay a ball from deep left center and throw out the lead runner at second (Matthews again - he was everywhere this game). As Manny settled back into position after the play, practically our whole section started giving him his own patented double-gun salute, exaggeratedly, raising our arms over our heads and bringing them back down again, the better to make sure he saw us.
Like Matthews, and most other professional ballplayers, Manny's developed at least somewhat of an ability to ignore fans shouting at him--or at least to avoid stirring them up into a frenzy by waving or giving the double-guns back. But even from about 100 feet away, I could see him smile, nod just slightly, very quickly touch the bill of his cap.
This information was news to me last night, when Jason Varitek was still not back from the flu, and they pointed out that if Kevin Cash was for some reason unable to perform his duties, Dustin Pedroia, of all people, would be the runner-up.
One thing, among many, that I would like to know about this is whether or not Pedroia has any actual experience catching anywhere near the big-league level. Or when the clubhouse was surveyed for volunteers, did he just say "Fuck it, how hard can it be?"
Considering Josh Beckett was slated to pitch last night, it's quite a thing to nominate yourself for. But we know that's never stopped Dustin.
While I want Tek to come back approximately yesterday, and wish no ill on Kevin Cash, a perverse part of me hoped last night that there was some way we could see Pedroia behind the plate. If for no other reason than to see just how tiny he'd be all hunkered down in a crouch, and also to see him approach the position with enough audacity to make up for whatever he lacked in skill.
Instead, Pedroia contented himself with going 4 for 5 last night, which included the go-ahead run. He also stole a base, which only leads me to believe that in addition to expanding his skills as a catcher, he's probably begun challenging Jacoby Ellsbury to footraces during workouts, the better to beat his records this year.
I mean, why not? If Pedroia thinks he could offer a pitcher a target bigger than a teacup or stand a chance against a runner charging from third, why wouldn't he dream big there, too?
Quoth Beckett: "Dustin Pedroia is one of the best baseball players I’ve ever seen.” And Dustin's apparently begun a list of everyone who didn't believe in him. The better, I'd imagine, to find them all and kick them in the kneecaps. So if you're skeptical about any of these new revelations regarding Pedroia, beware.
Anyway. In case any of you out there are wanting to take my temperature at this point because I haven't mentioned it yet, yes, I am highly aware of Beckett's absence last night with a 'stiff neck'. Apparently he also had the flu (seems it's sweeping through the Sox clubhouse the way it also swept through my office earlier this spring), recovered, then scratched because of the neck problem. Or maybe that's just code for some other semi-legal activity he was involved with instead.
For me, having Josh Beckett scratch late from a start is like looking forward to some really good leftovers all day at work (maybe this is just me, but I love leftovers--so little effort!) only to find they've spoiled. Having David Pauley step in to take the start is like having only Corn Flakes for dinner instead. You can bet that my smile turned upside down pretty quickly after I tuned into the game.
But that initial disappointment was all but forgotten, as Jacoby Ellsbury whacked not one but two home runs, beat out a drag bunt and stole a base, Kevin Youkilis belted his own two-run shot, Jonathan Papelbon hit 100 mph on the NESN gun (!!!!) and this team mounted yet another comeback in the late innings. If we had to start with Corn Flakes, at least there was a lot of dessert.
Back on April 10, Denton at Surviving Grady wrote about falling asleep during a game and having a very strange dream that combined the Red Sox with the Brad Pitt movie Troy:
Big Papi was wrecking shop on the Tigers; the last I saw of him he was holding Magglio Ordonez by the hair and brandishing a giant silver broadsword. Julian Tavarez charged into the Tiger bullpen with his shield held high baring his teeth, but otherwise weaponless. Dustin Pedroia - looking quite fetching in his skirt...I mean tunic - was picking off the enemy mercilessly with a bow and arrow, Orlando Bloom style. During the mayhem, Johnny Pesky stood on top of the Red Sox dugout, ensconced in velvet, calling down the power of Zeus. Under the stands, Red Sox minions were busy constructing a giant George Steinbrenner statue to bring into Yankee Stadium next week.
I bring that up again for two reasons. The first is that I had a Red Sox dream of my own this weekend.
I was driving my car, and Jonathan Papelbon was in the passenger seat, in full uni, including hat, jacket and spikes, probably because I have a hard time picturing any of the players in street clothes. I have no idea where we were going, but we were rocking out to Metallica's "Unforgiven", probably because of a little spot Paps did for FOX the other weekend where he mentioned that Metallica's one of his favorites (we have that in common). He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, something I spent some time trying to help him with and even more time just making fun of him about.
In retrospect, our time might have been better used discussing pitch selection, because I think big-league hitters are catching up to his fastball, and he appears to have Josh Beckett Disease when it comes to mixing in the splitter and slider.
The other reason I bring up Denton's subconscious vision is that it's a pretty apt description of how the Red Sox handled the series this weekend against the Texas Rangers.
Top Ten Moments of the Rangers Series
10. Javy Lopez escapes a jam - Little by little, the Red Sox bullpen has been worming its way out of its funk. Javy Lopez has been a member of the Anyone Other than Okajima and Papelbon Club that Red Sox fans have dreaded coming out of the bullpen this season, but his appearance in the 8th in relief of Mike Timlin on Saturday turned out to be clutch. With two men in scoring position, Lopez got a ground-out from Josh Hamilton to end the inning, keeping the score 3-2. The Red Sox would come back to make the final 5-3; had Lopez not sacked up when he did, they would have been looking at extra innings rather than a late-inning win.
9. Jon Lester rallies - Long before Lopez appeared in Saturday's game, Jon Lester also provided some important sack-up-itude. He gave up a run in each of the first three innings, and the last one handed the Rangers back the lead after the Red Sox had been ahead, 2-1. The angst of this was writ large on Lester's face, and between innings, John Farrell did everything but grab the young lefty by the ear in the dugout, giving him a lengthy lecture that included exasperated gestures from both parties. After that tough love from his coach, Lester returned to the field with just the tiniest injection of Commander Kickass somewhere in his personality, grimly and determinedly tossing another four scorless innings. If the measure of a pitcher is how he makes adjustments, Jon Lester showed us a big-league adjustment Saturday night.
8. Jacoby's center field catch - Lester might have handed the Rangers the lead an inning earlier had it not been for Ellsbury's range on a running catch in center field that ended the second inning. The big fireworks (and top moments on this list) came from the bats this series, but the kind of run prevention the Red Sox are showing is an equally important part of their success so far.
7. Papi beats it out at first - Even better news than Big Papi's more productive bat this series was the health he's obviously feeling in his legs. On Saturday, he beat out an infield single to reach first safely, scoring Pedroia and keeping the Sox rally alive; Sunday, he did a similar thing on a single to shallow right. Given the monstrosity that is Manny at the plate this season, the prospect of Papi feeling his oats has me downright salivating.
6. The double steal - Bottom of the fifth, Sunday, April 20. Men on first and second for the Sox. Those men in particular: Jacoby Ellsbury and Julio Lugo, the most prominent among the new generation of running Red Sox, who proceeded to help themselves to second and third, respectively. Jacoby is now 6 for 6 this season, 15 for 15 for his career, which ties a club record set by Lee Tinsley, who went 15 for 15 to begin his stint with Boston in 1994-95 (source). And in case it hasn't been said enough by now: these ain't your Daddy's Red Sox.
5. Dustin Pedroia's double - It's funny how the news of the Bruins' hard-fought win against Montreal (we even switched back and forth to the hockey game during the baseball game, something we never do) seemed to energize the Sox Saturday night. The Sox only began their comeback in the eighth after the news about the B's was announced, and Fenway stirred to life again. You're not supposed to put any stock in coincidences like that, but it's hard to ignore that in this case, the crowd came alive just before the team did, and the cause and effect seemed to be there - you could even see it in the way the players moved around more busily in the dugout as the crowd got louder.
With one out in the eighth and the Sox still down by a run, Pedroia got the run-scoring party started with a double off the top of the Green Monster that just barely missed being a home run. Undaunted (as always), Pedroia cruised into second with a message for Rangers second baseman Ian Kinsler: "I crushed that one."
In addition to instantly becoming my favorite Pedroia moment since his "That fuckin hurt!" reaction to sliding into third last year, Pedroia's intimidation strategy also seemed to be effective. Clearly thrown by Pedroia's aggressive style, Kinsler dove and missed the next liner from Papi, which scored the Happy Scrappy Hero Pup to tie the game, and earned him more cuddles from Manny in the dugout, which is either the source of Pedroia's power, or its reward, and frankly, I don't give a damn which one it is.
4. Dustin Pedroia's triple - Okay, not really a triple, but as the little big man himself would probably say, same dif. Once again it was the eighth; this time it was Josh Hamilton who did the flubbing in center field, allowing Pedroia to reach third, score David Ortiz, and tie the game. Said Pedroia afterwards: "Manny gave me a big hug when I got in here, but he hugs me every day, so I don't know what that means."
To say I am enjoying this new subplot to the clubhouse chemistry would be a vast, vast understatement.
3. Sean Casey's bases-loaded walk FTW - Sean Casey has gotten a lot of mileage out of his blind crawl back to second base at Yankee Stadium last week, but I think many of us out here in Soxfanland are getting a little itchy to see Casey let loose a little more with his bat; I'd love it for no other reason than to see what his reaction would look like. When he came up to the plate yesterday with the potential to knock in the go-ahead runs, everyone was exhorting him to lose one in the seats. Instead, Casey took a very gentlemanly walk from the hapless Wes Littleton to score Pedroia for the go-ahead (and eventually winning) run. Guess that's just his style.
2. Manny's two-run homer - The only bigger home run that I've personally seen this season was the bomb Manny used to violate Mike Mussina last week in New York. The only bigger blast than that was Manny's homer in Game 2 of the ALDS last year, which may be the biggest homer I've ever personally seen. The two-run job that Manny hit on Saturday night, from what looked like his shin level to somewhere among the rooftops of Lansdowne St., had a similar trajectory to the others: deep into left field, clearing everything on its way to parts unknown.
1. Papi's grand slam - Unfortunately, Manny finds himself on the wrong end of a Prodigal Son situation when it comes to homers this weekend, because I know the one everyone will remember today was the one hit by Big Papi on Friday night.
I've been pining for it; you've been pining for it; even Don Orsillo has been pining for it, judging by his call just before Papi hit it: "Now would be a good time for Papi to break out." It wasn't as massive a moon shot as Manny's by a wide margin--in fact, it only cleared the Monster by a few more feet over Pedroia's double--but it was the kind of homer, situationally speaking, that the Sox have been missing over the last year or so: the kind which brings home baserunners.
Papi's slam was also notable because of the runners it plated: Jed Lowrie, Dustin Pedroia and Jacoby Ellsbury, all of whom had set the table exactly as they've been raised to do, all of whom are products of the Red Sox organization and its minor-league scouting.
Overall, this series continued a string of late comebacks from the Sox, suggesting that even though 95% of the personnel has not changed, this year's squad has a very different personality than last year's. Last year, an underperforming offense made late-inning deficits seem less and less surmountable as the season wore on; the 2008 Sox have demonstrated that they can, and will, come back.
Bask with me in the loving insanity that is Dustin Pedroia and Manny Ramirez together in front of a camera in the dugout. 
The first time I saw this, I literally shrieked out loud. I could not believe the way they suddenly seemed to break through the TV barrier and wave hi to us at home, and then to see the cuddling...? It was too much all at once. Seriously.
'Too much' is a great description for Manny right now, and I'm sure Mike Mussina would agree. Manny's first homer last night was a decent shot, especially to straightaway center in that ballpark. But the second, two-run jimmy-jack? I immediately received the following voicemail from my father, who, let's remember, does not like Manny all that much: "That was a serious, SERIOUS home run, that second one that Manny hit. Are you kidding me? He CRUSHED that ball right off the bat. Hope you saw it. See ya."
Crushed is one way to describe it. Here are a few more:
Manny can also be said to have:
I'm sure you can add plenty more of your own...and yet I feel like with a home run like that, words don't really do it justice. It's hard to find the right string of sufficiently expressive adjectives--you just have to see this homer, if you haven't already, and watch the impressive angle at which it comes off the bat, register the approximate half-second it takes to carom off the facade of the far left-field bleachers, and gauge its several-hundred-foot cruising altitude.
Meanwhile, the pitching equivalent to Manny's badassery was delivered for the Sox by Josh Beckett, who gave the Sox eight solid innings of pitching to contact, economical pitch selection, and consistent readings of 96 on the radar gun. My favorite specific moment from Josh was when he struck the hell out of Giambi in the fourth inning on three pitches; his last sidewinding heater, which earned a swing and a miss, was like something out of the 2007 ALCS Game 5 highlight reel. And eight innings out of a starter were precisely what the doctor ordered--Josh seemed to drop his mighty need to blow 99 mph past hitters, as he had in Toronto, and earned a number of ground balls and flyouts this time around, the better to go the distance.
While it was, of course, much more pleasant for Sox fans this time around, it still seemed like another one of those blowouts. Until suddenly by the late innings it reversed course into more of a barn-burner. The Yankees came back to within two runs after touching up Beckett for three and Jonathan Papelbon (not a misprint) for two, meaning he came in with a non-save situation and apparently created one for himself just so he'd feel more comfortable. Or, at least, that's what I'm going to pretend to myself right about now.
P.S. Alex over at Bronx Banter has been posting some nice Red Sox reading, on a Yankees blog no less.
(Jim McIsaac / Getty Images / Boston.com)
The Red Sox and Yankees get a lot of attention for a certain kind of game that they play--the long, painstaking, exquisitely intense variety. The kind where every last pitch is an exercise in tension and every contact between bat and ball or ball and glove an intricate demonstration of both quantum physics and chaos theory. This, when layered with the heady mixture of folklore, local pride and divisional aspirations in the stands, makes Yankees-Red Sox games, at any time of year, totally epic more often than not.
But then there's another kind of game the Yankees and Sox play. The kind we saw last night--the kind where you end with a score of something like Pi to Q and both teams scrape the bottom of their bullpens and most people, on both sides, have switched off the TV coverage of scrubs performing mop-up duty in front of an echoingly empty Yankee Stadium by the ninth inning.
Sometimes, it seems the two evenly matched clubs meet one another like the irresistible force encountering the immovable object. Other times...one or two false moves, and the balance slips out of control; the game goes pear-shaped like ruined pottery on a wheel.
Obviously, baseball teams everywhere play both of these types of games. But there are also games in between. Sometimes with the Sox and Yankees, it feels like there aren't.
A couple more points--
Another night in Cleveland, another game blown open in the ninth by a Red Sox bat. This time it was Varitek who did the honors.
But before that happened, it was already a special night, in my opinion, because yet another bushel of the Red Sox farm system crop was harvested, in the person of Jed Lowrie. And I've decided we're totally, totally keeping him.
When they first showed him on TV, I did a quick double-take because I wondered why Dustin Pedroia was taking ground balls at third. Of course, Lowrie isn't quite as pint-sized as DP (who is?)--but there's something remeniscent of the other in each of them. Or maybe it's because I've finally reached the age (woe) when a Sox prospect like Lowrie looks just so, so young and wee.
"All right," I told Jed's image on the TV screen, officially striking up our one-sided conversation. "Perhaps your teammates have told you about what's expected of you in your Red Sox rookie debut.
"Around here," I went on, settling back to give the rook some grizzled-veteran advice, "We don't just expect you not to make a mistake when you first report from Triple A. No, if you look back over the recent rookie debuts from your fellow prospects, you'll find we've come to expect at least one moment of completely ludicrous accomplishment right away.
"For example, you may want to review the rookie debuts of Jacoby Ellsbury and Kevin Youkilis and decide whether or not your skills would best be shown by a) stealing home from second on a passed ball or b) hitting a home run, preferably in your first at-bat.
"Should this not appeal to you, please note that any lackluster debut contributions are to be compensated for at a later date with, for example, a no-hitter (cf. Clay Buchholz), or unprecedented rookie contributions during a World Series (see also, Ellsbury, Pedroia)."
Of course I was being facetious (and okay, I definitely didn't say *quite* all that out loud).
His first at-bat was a bit disappointing given those ludicrous standards...but after that, Lowrie turned right around and transformed what I'd meant facetiously into dead-serious reality, driving in three of the 5 Sox runs on the night, including the go-ahead run twice.
Yes. Jed Lowrie can stay.
P.S. Jacoby Ellsbury, not to be outdone, made a ridiculous game-ending catch somewhere in the first or second row of the right-field boxes. This in turn sent my father's already out-of-control Ellsbury-crush into another orbit, in case anyone was wondering. Personally, it's not the catch I'm still not over, but the noogie that followed.
At least a small part of me kind of feels bad about what happened to Cleveland in last year's ALCS. When it was the Yankees, the series comeback was just a karmic boomerang I was happy to see fly. When it was the Indians, the image of Victor Martinez in tears on the dugout rail as the Sox celebrated took the wind out of my sails just a little bit. I'm not saying I'm sorry the Sox won. But I also knew how they felt on the other side.
The Indians came in to this game having won just three of their last seven games. But they were coming off a 7-1 win against Oakland, and were leading by one run in the top of the ninth. They had not won two games back-to-back since Opening Day and the game that followed.
Then, Indians closer Joe Borowski imploded in on himself out there on the mound, first letting Julio Lugo cross the plate for the tying run, and then giving up an absolute bomb to Manny Ramirez, leaving the score 6-4 Sox.
The Indians players in the dugout looked blank. Some of them looked toward the field, but seemed to be staring off into space, as Papelbon put in a hellfire-and-brimstone performance to cap off the Sox comeback. The only Indian to get a bat anywhere near his fastball was Travis Hafner, who gave the ball a high arcing ride to the warning track in straightaway center, but it was caught there by Coco Crisp.
Eric Wedge was shown in the dugout, also looking toward the field. But he was not as expressionless as his players. In fact, his face clearly communicated, as he watched Papelbon slice and dice his hitters, that he was just waiting for it all to be over.
I've blown a lot of hot air around on this blog defending the Sox and Sox fans since we've been on top. But I could understand it if they hated us in Cleveland.
P.S. Papi managed to get a little bloop hit to left field tonight. I guess we should be glad they unearthed the jersey.
There really is nothing like taking the rubber game of a series. It's such a feeling of relief--and when it happens, as last night's rubber victory did, late on a Sunday night, it can brighten my mood for the whole first half of the week. Or, at least, it can avoid darkening it by adding losing to late-night sleep-deprivation injury.
Seriously, why do they put the ESPN games on at like midnight on Sunday night?
In any event, we got to see another solid outing from Daisuke last night, although like most of our starting pitchers, he's still using up pitches at an alarming rate, and just barely lasted through the fifth inning. This was, in general, another one of those classic painstaking Sox-Yankees matchup, in which every hitter is seeing so many pitches that the game drags...and drags...and drags...I thought it might be Monday morning before that fifth inning finally ended and Daisuke could leave with a decent start--but with four long, long, LONG innings for the beleagured Sox bullpen to cover.
I'm not sure if this 120-pitches-by-the-fifth thing is just a typical early-season habit for starters; a sign we should be worried; or just a sign we were playing the Yankees, who seem to adopt almost the exact same strategy of patience at the plate and a pitch-by-pitch approach to creating runs in tense games as the Sox, which makes them last approximately an ice age.
And then we got into the first full-on Yankees game stress for me this season. I don't know about you, but for our bullpen--without Hideki Okajima or Jonathan Papelbon available--to have to soak up that many outs against even a relatively depleted Yankees lineup (Captain Intangibles was sidelined and Posada seemed to be in a somewhat limited role this series) had me reaching for the extra-strength antacids.
The one contributing the most of any Red Sox to my gastritis was Mike Timlin. My father started calling him "Whiplash" (for how frequently he had to turn around to watch hits sail over his head) as early as 2005 and was heard to doubt Iron Mike as far back as 2004. I've always defended Mike--even to the point of exasperated gesticulating--but this year, I can't.
The reasons for this are not hard to grasp--the man has an 81.00 ERA. Small sample size, etc. But Timlin's matchup (or lack thereof) against Jason Giambi this series is what really bothered me. According to MLB.com, Timlin's record against Giambi in the past was limited, but good. In five total matchups between the two since 2005, Timlin has given up exactly one run to Giambi and no home runs (MLB.com unfortunately didn't return 2007 stats; it could be the two didn't face each other, I suppose). Even according to Baseball Prospectus's sp00ky PECOTA page, which repeatedly acknowledges his advanced age, Timlin is only projected to give up 4 home runs in 41.7 innings pitched this entire season. But in this series, he gave up a homer to the Juice Guy each time he saw him.
I know Timlin's still probably getting his act together after having to get his finger stitched up, and I know he hasn't had a chance to even things out over the long run, but I also think age has quite a lot to do with what we're seeing from him at this point--especially given his lack of success against a hitter like Giambi, with whom he's previously matched up well (I know a lot of people don't give Tito this much credit, but I like to think that's why Mike was even out there facing Giambi in the first place these past couple of nights).
Timlin's been an iron man for a very long time, and I love his crazed personality as much as the next person (BP calls him 'straight out of central casting') but it's starting to look (even more than it already has) like the Red Sox should've let Mad Mike ride off into the sunset this past off-season, and just let us enjoy his memory.
UPDATE: Mike Timlin just recorded three crisp outs in Cleveland, making me look like a complete ass for posting this. Oh, well. This is clearly why I am not the one sitting in the dugout every night, rocking and chewing tobacco with bubble gum.
P.S. David Ortiz shows bunt. We are living in the end times.
