Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

I'm a fool for April

I won't bore anyone with the details, but I'm having a bit of a hard time lately. It's nothing like what H.B. has been going through (and for that I count my blessings), but generally, it's been a bummer.

But today it was 65 and balmy, and I went out front tonight in the soft night breeze and watched the world go by, comfortable in my Red Sox jacket and sweatpants, and at least for a minute, I felt ok.

I wasn't going to watch the game, but I remembered what my friend at work had said as I came back in, about baseball lifting the weight of the world off my shoulders in the spring. I sat down and turned the game on.

Daisuke is struggling again as the game opens. Not as badly as he did at the Tokyo Dome, but his location seems off. Still, there he is in bright colors on the screen, pirouetting through his delivery, and even though he's a little wobbly to start things off, in my low mood, he looks beautiful.

Every time Joe Blanton delivers a pitch, I think for a second he's caught his spike. What a weird delivery. The Sox go down in order. Again.

I click the TiVo button at a commerical and flip through the pregame show. Josh Beckett threw 64 pitches today in a spring training simulation and could be slated to start as soon as the Toronto series. Dennis Eckersley, in a pinstriped suit and dashing pink tie, gets glittery-eyed and excited about Manny.

I pause while fast-forwarding through the pregame show at the "Tickets Still on Sale!" false-advertising commercial where they show the four home runs in a row from last year.

"That one's headed for New Hampshire!"

"Number four in a row!"

"They're playing Home Run Derby early this year, at Fenway Park!"

Next pregame segment. A soggy-looking Opening Day at Wrigley Field. Sake Fukudome (!) clubs a three run homer off none other than a wooly-bearded Eric Gagne, looking sullen in a Brewers uniform. Wrigley rejoices. I pause for a moment to be happy for my friend Brian. And for myself, because Eric Gagne deserved it.

Flip back live. In Oakland, they're booing the umpires. Boo, evil Red Sox. Getting guys out at second base.

Back on the pregame. Pedro Martinez gives up a two run homer. Pedro Martinez gives up a solo homer. Pedro Martinez grabs his hamstring. Theo Epstein looks like a genius.

Flip back live. Daric Barton flubs a routine popup, but Lowell is victimized by a "wide strike zone," as Don Orsillo puts it. They're roaringly happy about this in the Oakland stands. Mike Lowell turns to argue as the inning ends.

In this new season the echoes of last year are still heavily present. Just seeing Daisuke's windup carries the same nostalgia as the first breath of spring out on my front porch. Memories of May.

Some of those echoes are bittersweet just now. But even in the slow early innings of a West Coast start, baseball is fundamentally, reassuringly, the same.

Happy Opening Day, everybody.

The Tokyo Split

I'm late. Whatever. Usual excuses. And I'm doing another quick notes post, too. Oh well. It's Friday.

-- I agree with Kristen that it's too early to be hypercritical, but I will say I'm a bit concerned about the state of our pitching rotation at the moment. I don't say that solely because of the two games played in Japan, either--it seems both Jon Lester and Clay Buccholz have been getting roughed up some this spring, and Jon Lester didn't acquit himself much better in his first start.

That second game was dominated by Oakland pitching, which racked up 13 strikeouts. Rich Harden was absolutely dominant. And it was only the second game of the season for them, too.

-- So much for being the 'Washington Generals', eh? I understand that there is payroll disparity between the Red Sox and Oakland. I understand we are lumped in with the Yankees now. But please. What kind of loser attitude is that for the team's own traveling secretary to take? It's one thing to point out competitive disadvantages for small-market teams in general and quite another to just whine about an outcome that's not even certain yet, because the Red Sox taking the trip is getting more publicity. That's got nothing to do with the team's chances, as we saw in how the actual games played out, and I think it's about time for the Big Unfair Red Sox Steamroller handwringing to tone itself down out there in Greater Baseball-land. Just a little bit.

-- Again with the preamble about it being early, etc., but hot damn, Manny Ramirez, huh? He was the only one to get a bat on Harden Wednesday, and lost it in the seats. So far his stroke looks to be in monstrous mid-season form already. I just hope he doesn't bash himself into an earlier hamstring issue than usual.

-- Foulkie pitched another perfect inning for Oakland. He struck out Manny for a second time. Just sayin'.

-- Now it's back to Spring Training, I guess. How wack would it be if we don't get to use the DH in a freakin' exhibition series three days before the games start to count again? Especially with the way Papi's been swinging the bat (or not) so far?

-- I hate to give Dan Shaughnessy any traffic, but he did pick up on a pretty funny incident that occurred during the Japan trip in one of his columns this week:

Highlight of the trip, hands down, was EMC CEO Joe Tucci having a catch with Hideki Okajima at a fancy reception at the Sox' New Otani Hotel headquarters Monday. While 2007 World Series clips were shown on a Green Monster-sized LED screen, assorted clients and dignitaries - most of them Japanese - feasted on sushi and fine wines. After a few speeches and interviews with Mike Lowell, Dustin Pedroia, Kevin Youkilis, and Terry Francona, a couple of fielding mitts were produced and Tucci lined up to play catch with the Sox' second-most-famous Japanese hurler. Standing in front of the giant screen, Okajima softly tossed to Tucci, who was about 20 feet away. Tucci made the catch, and before you could say, "Nuke LaLoosh," gunned a wild heater that sailed far high and wide of a sprawling Okajima and punctured the precious LED screen. I will never look at the EMC logo (which was on the Sox uniforms for the Japan games) without thinking of this.

Surely some kind of moral vindication, at least, for Sox purists who hated to see the uniform ads.

-- More from around the horn: The collection of baseball babies gracing the cover of this week's SI contains two Red Sox prospects, Clay Buccholz and Jacoby Ellsbury. There's also a fascinating-as-always piece from Tom Verducci about the way the Red Sox and Yankees have gone about building up their farm systems since 2004, and the new dimension it could add to the rivalry (According to some, we're supposed to be over the rivalry by now, but apparently Verducci hasn't gotten that memo either).

I've noticed this too, in passing--sometimes it feels like for every homegrown Red Sox wunderkind there's been a Yankees evil twin that surfaces. Like Joba Chamberlain for Jonathan Papelbon. And maybe even Shelley Duncan for Dustin Pedroia.

However, heartwarmingly for Red Sox fans, Verducci's article also highlights some of the places the teams' farm systems have not matched up--with the Yankees at a disadvantage. To wit:

The Yankees had only one first-round pick in the 2005 draft--the 17th overall--and when it rolled around, several future big leaguers were still available: outfielders Jacoby Ellsbury and Travis Buck, relievers Craig Hansen and Joey Devine, and starting pitchers Matt Garza and Clay Buccholz. But [Yankees scouting director Damon] Oppenheimer's ideal was a player who could hit in the middle of the lineup and play in the middle of the field or be a front-of-the-rotation starter. So he took C.J. Henry, a 6' 3", 205-pound high school shortstop from Oklahoma City. 'He fit exactly what we were looking for,' Oppenheimer says. 'Obviously, it hasn't worked out the way we wanted'.

Henry has yet to make it out of A ball, hitting .222 with 15 home runs over three seasons.

Nice scouting, guys.

Thoughts on Opening Day at the Tokyo Dome

Manny reassures an unnerved Dustin Pedroia that the Japanese fans are not going to try to squish him with their Thunderstix. (AP photo / Koji Sasahara / ESPN.com)

--Am I the only one who squeaked a little when they showed Mike Timlin and Alan Embree together during workouts on Sportsdesk last night? I don't disagree with the decision to get rid of Embree, but I miss the fertile ground for imaginative possibilities that was his extra-special relationship with Mad Mike. Embree, with his tennis-ball-sized plug of chaw and stylin' fu manchu, was a perfect sidekick to the steely Timlin. You could picture them as a sherriff and sherriff's deputy, riding the range.

Okay, I squeaked more than a little.

-- They distinctly mentioned on said Sportsdesk that Brandon Moss would NOT BE PLAYING, because he's a 'reserve' player in case someone has to drop out. So this morning when I tuned in to the game on my commute (long story, had to drive my husband to work, had to leave ass-early, haven't seen any of it on TV yet) and heard Brandon Moss's name mentioned, I immediately froze in horror. Who was he subbing for already? Who's hurt?!? And then they told me: J.D. Drew.

"MADE!! OF!! GLASS!!" I shouted at the back bumper of the Honda in front of me. I am never a terribly patient person, but I'm downright ornery before 8 am.

Just when I was giving JD a chance, though. Jesus.

-- What a weird moment of Zen it was to be commuting to work and listening to a ball game. Adding to the feeling of disorientation: Dale Arnold calling a baseball game on WEEI.

-- Speaking of moments of Zen, disorientation, and general discombobulatedness: KEITH FOULKE. PITCHING THE 8TH INNING FOR OAKLAND.

I knew it was bound to happen, and I guess getting it out of the way early was probably for the best. But yes, my brain did threaten to implode.

If you've been reading this blog for longer than a year, you know that for me, Keith Foulke is the all-time be-all and end-all Red Sox player. I will still treat you to a 15-minute sermon on Keith Foulke's under-recognized contribution (to put it mildly) to the 2004 Championship, his subsequent abuse at the hands of Boston press and some fans, and my bitterness about all of the above, but especially the latter.

When he first took the mound, I heard what I thought were boos raining down from the stands. Having already been told by the radio broadcasters that Sox fans were outnumbering Oakland fans by about 20:1, I immediately assumed the worst until they added that Kevin Youkilis was at bat. Then I just chose to live in possible denial, because honestly, the thought of Red Sox fans booing Keith Foulke still makes me want to find a megaphone and stand out in front of the Cask giving my sermon repeatedly until everybody listens.

-- Manny Ramirez sure looks like he's going to give us the "Monstah Yeeee--aahh" everyone's been so hotly anticipating. He was 2 for 5 today, but his hits were situationally nuclear--he knocked in four of Boston's 6 runs with those two liners, including the go-ahead points in the top of the 10th.

-- Brandon "I'm not even supposed to be here today" Moss became your Serendipitous Storyline of the Game when he hit the tying run in the top of the ninth to send the game into extra innings. JD Who? No, really, what do we need him for?

-- It pains me to even mention this, but JONATHAN R. PAPELBON WHAT IN THE NAME OF HOLY GOD. I mean, seriously. Jonathan and Daisuke might both be the cause of great consternation today were it not for the batsmen's heroics.

P.S. If this means my TiVo didn't record the game, I am going to FLIP. OUT. This is even worse than when FOX shrunk the Red Sox / Yankees screen down and made the stupid Indians screen bigger that one time in 2005. In fact, if it was truly as widespread a problem as it seems, it could rank up there with the time NBC switched to 'Heidi.'

Yomiuri Giants

Just a few days ago I put up a post as part of my World Series essay discussing J.D. Drew's grand slam in Game 6 of the 2007 ALCS, and my alienation from him even as he delivered us a clutch hit for postseason victory--

Unlike Manny’s walkoff in the ALDS or any of David Ortiz’s clutch heroics, J.D.’s home run feels like something that we fans are less entitled to share. When it comes to our inscrutable right fielder, it feels to me like I have been like the characters in Aesop’s The Little Red Hen: not around to help when the hard work’s being done, and so not able to share in the bread when it finally appears.

When I watch this home run again, I pay attention to the grins on J.D.’s teammates’ faces: it’s clear the sense of vindication they feel for him, and it’s not beyond reason to believe that showing us up for the way we’ve turned on J.D.—the way we’ve turned on lots of players—might be a part of their exuberance.

Meanwhile, the news has come in from Japan, far away from Boston and its fans, that J.D. just hit his second monster home run in as many games--and another grand slam.

It could be that some element of the Japanese atmosphere not present in Boston has lended him unusual strength over this week, and he'll go back to suppressing rallies with ruthless, Wac-A-Mole efficiency when he gets back. Or it could be that a lot of us (myself included) are about to dig in to some heaping plates of crow this year.

Meanwhile, let me also just say--I will never get tired of hearing Japanese announcers call home runs. Never.

P.S. Texas Gal has the footage of Daisuke being high-fived onto his ass in celebration of JD's granny. And a link a story about to the first precious Pedroia moment of the season:

About 30 minutes before the game, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia stood in the dugout working over the handle of his bat with a pine tar rag. Out of nowhere, a blunt noise filled the stadium. Pedroia pirouetted toward left field. A band of Tigers fans in left field had begun a chant. Then drums joined in. Then a horn. And clapping.

"What the (expletive) is that?" Pedroia asked.

Get used to it, he was told. That's Japanese baseball.

The answer seemed not to suffice.

"Shut up!" Pedroia yelled toward the fans.

Hanshin Tigers

I feel like I'm identifying with the Red Sox in ways I haven't before. I travel a lot for my job (though not as far away as Japan), and let's just say this expression from Kevin Youkilis is one I recognize:

(MLB.com photo; from Youkilis' blog)

Thoughts on the Sox in the Land of the Rising Sun below the jump.

Scandal fatigue and Spring Training

Pablo Martinez Monsivais/ AP Photo / ESPN.com

I don't know about any of you, but I am well and truly tired of having to be morally outraged about sports. Did Roger Clemens stick needles in his butt? Did Bill Belichick make unauthorized videotapes? Who's lying? Will there be actual evidence at any point on either of these matters? When will the self-righteousness of countless pundits and many sports fans finally reach self-parody? And most importantly, who can waste more of Congress's time?

Right now, Roger's winning that fight. And my disgust with the ongoing soap opera / publicity stunt can pretty much be summed up with one report that came out about Mr. Clemens' trip to Washington: that prior to the hearings about whether or not his entire career has been a fraud, some publicity-mongering, soulless weasels on the Congressional panel asked him for his autograph and to take pictures with them.

At that point, I kind of stopped caring what happens with Roger and Congress.

I haven't stopped caring about the Patriots; in fact, I'm living in fear of the Other Shoe, currently being busily cobbled together by any number of Patriots haters both inside and outside our federal government. What I'm sick of, what I don't have the energy for anymore, is the relentless tide of sanctimonious blowhards who want to somehow implicate me personally because of the team I root for. As if they'd have acted any differently than we have if their team were in the same position--both before and at the current moment.

Meanwhile, there's been Spring Training. Pitchers and catchers reported yesterday. This year I've been trying to pace myself when it comes to getting all crazed about baseball; I know it'll come soon enough and quite honestly, somehow it seems like it would be a cop-out for me to have reacted to the Super Bowl loss with an immediate "Hey, Red Sox!"   

Plus, as with every year, this particular time is one I usually find kind of dissonant. Every year I have to switch gears between sports, and for whatever reason, it takes me a while.

I will say, though, that I heard some sound bites on the radio of Jonathan Papelbon wondering aloud if there would be MacDonald's in Japan. And if I put my ear to the ground, I could've heard that freight train of Red Sox love, not quite here yet, but somewhere close, roaring down the line.

In the meantime, if you haven't already, check out Gordon Edes' 10 Red Sox Spring Training Storylines. Probably the best article that's been written about Spring Training so far.

Did he do it?

The baseball card is laying on top of a printed-out draft of my
World Series essay in this pic, just as proof I really am working on it.

Since his appearance on 60 Minutes last night, the sports world has been abuzz with opinions about whether or not Roger Clemens did, in fact, do steroids, as he is accused in the Mitchell Report. Last night's interview with Mike Wallace did little to help his case, from the reactions I've read.

I watched all but the first minute or so of the segment (flipped over too long during a commercial), and I will say that what struck me about it was how much Roger's body language and gestures opposed what he was actually saying, which some people believe is a signal someone's lying. For example, often when Roger said no--even emphatically--he would nod his head. Even stranger, he'd also do the reverse sometimes, answer in the affirmative and shake his head 'no'.

I'd probably behave pretty strangely if you sat me down for an interview across from Mike Wallace (man's a beast, an icon of investigative journalism, he's interviewed terrorist leaders blindfolded, and he's certainly going to get what he wants from you, sonny). But Wallace, a Yankees fan, is actually a friend of Clemens' and conducted a relatively benign interview. Especially the part where he asked Clemens, "Swear?" And Clemens responded "Swear." As Joy of Sox put it, "Jeez, let's hope that's not Wallace's toughest follow-up question."

JoS also noted that Clemens story on injections has changed, from denying that he was ever injected with anything after the release of the Mitchell Report to admitting that he was injected with Lidocaine and B-12 by trainers in the Wallace interview.

Jumpy body-language...conflicting stories...in the Steroid Era, it's all you need. And the circumstantial evidence against Roger is huge, probably enough to convict him in the Court of Public Opinion, but no more than that, for all the Congressional subpoenas and defamation suits flying around.

Roger has come out denying it up and down because he knows it's his word against his trainer's, and he thinks it'll at least be a draw, even in the worst case. He also seems like a man genuinely eager to salvage his own legacy, regardless of his guilt, and that type of emotion can also make you act, well, a little jumpy.

From what I know of the hotheaded Texan, I can't imagine him acting all that differently--angry, aggressive, not entirely articulate--if he was simply responding to being falsely accused. That's the problem, and I think Clemens hit the nail right on the head when he said, "I don't know if I can defend myself. People have already made up their minds." That's absolutely true, regardless of whether or not he's actually guilty.

Again, the circumstantial evidence against Clemens is compelling, especially when you factor in both Andy Pettitte's admission of guilt and Clemens' claim he had no idea about Pettitte's situation. Please. The two of them are practically married. Clemens' insistence that he knew nothing about his best friend's drug use left me more incredulous than the rest of his interview combined. He had to know how unbelievable that sounded. And what further damage is there to be done by admitting he knew of Pettitte's drug use? Admitting he knew of Pettitte might have actually helped his credibility.

But that's where they've got him. It would take the most skilled of politicians to navigate these choppy waters, and so athletes can be counted upon to make blunders, especially given they also frequently lack fine verbal skills and are in the business of fiery competition, not soothing public address. We'll never definitively know if Clemens did steroids unless his trainer produces hidden-camera videotape of it actually happening, but he's been given more than enough rope to hang himself as a public figure, regardless. Just like Bonds.

All of that makes me wonder what this is really about, though I've been a Bonds and Roger hater with the best of them. Is all this really about solving the problem of the use of damaging and unfair performance-enhancing drugs among young athletes, or is it about finding enough public scapegoats to appease Congress and the baseball audience?

The Mitchell Report

and minnesota, and baseball, wept, originally uploaded by Boston Wolverine.

The most significant document in the history of sports? Perhaps. Certainly the most significant sports-related document in recent memory, the result of an investigation by Congressman George Mitchell into steroid use in baseball. Among Mitchell's other claims to fame? Brokering the peace process in Ireland. Also, the President of the United States was called upon to comment on the document; I heard his statements rebroadcast last night.

I do have to wonder if perhaps our interests as a nation would be better served by having our politicians focused on, oh, the quagmire in Iraq or the current foreclosure crisis / financial downturn we're seeing at home. But you know. Baseball players are doing 'roids, so.

The two biggest names featured in the Mitchell Report are Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemens, who "even if he refutes it all" now finds himself in the same disgraced category as Barry Bonds, who also has never tested positive or been formally convicted of using performance-enhancing drugs, but it's an all but foregone conclusion among the public (myself included) that he did. The scenario presented for Roger is that his juicing began with his departure from Boston, ensuing comeback in Toronto, and whaddya know, later career with the Yankees. "I think we owe Dan Duquette an apology," remarked one WEEI commenter, according to my dad.

Pettitte hasn't been as divisive a figure as Clemens; nor has he enjoyed similar celebrity. However, he, too, has been a key cog in the Yankees' pitching staff, particularly during better years around the turn of the millenium. Add on top of that other past Yankees notables such as Chuck Knoblauch, and yesterday was not a very good day to be a New York fan. "At least Derek Jeter's not on the list," said a Yankees fan friend of mine.

This is our pattern as fans in digesting the steroid era. In future it will be difficult to understand the mental adjustment that has to occur for fans now; in future Clemens' name may become as synonymous with 'steroids' as Bonds, but right now there is still the matter of his legend to reframe, rationalize, and preserve in whatever form for posterity. The pattern I've seen emerging in that difficult process, particularly for people whose idols have been touched by this Angel of Death passing over baseball, is to find a single player, a single role model, to cling to in the midst of a world of mistrust and potential betrayal. A single player one is willing to place a bet on, of unlikelihood that he is a cheater, of probability that he is what he says he is. For my Yankees-fan friend, it's Jeter. For me, it's...well, this is where it gets tricky. I have my One Player, but I'm afraid to even mention his name in these conversations. That's how devastating it would be for me if my One Player's number gets called. But I think it's pretty easy to guess who it is--the guy's hard to miss. And I'm fairly certain I share this One Player with many, many of my fellow Red Sox fans.

In the meantime, while I support and encourage the revelation, and hopefully, correction, of the use of performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball, there is always the dark whiff of witch-hunt to these things. Take, for example, the leaked list of ballplayers' names that preceded the release of the actual report by about an hour. The more conspiracy-minded side of me thnks it reads like a reporters' wish list of names that would be on the report if they'd have their druthers, names that would truly have made it the biggest story in baseball since the 1918 Chicago White Sox, names like Albert Pujols's. Names like Jason Varitek's.

Names, it turned out, that appeared nowhere but this bogus prior report.

Word spread quickly that the leaked list was misinformation, but unfortunately not quite as quickly as the list itself. Personally, I have to question the decision by several otherwise reputable news organizations to put out that list when they knew they'd be receiving the actual, confirmed report in about an hour. Maybe if for some reason Congress was dragging its feet with the official list, or if the leaked list had come out two weeks before the actual report was scheduled to appear, but to open up players like Pujols and Varitek to speculation solely to get an hour's jump on the story? Shame.

Once a player's name is mentioned in the same sentence as steroids, it doesn't go away, at least not for quite a while. Jason Varitek will probably be asked questions about it now. I support the attempt to put an end to steroids in general, but that thought also makes me furious. The slavering lust for pedestal-crushing going on in many corners of the press right now just isn't my cup of tea.

Why I love Sam

delicious and nutritious, originally uploaded by Boston Fan in Michigan.

Her caption: Who's ready to cook up some World Series mojo?

A few more random observations:

1. I really almost can't stomach the pain going on with Cleveland. It is only the rabid intensity of my Sox fandom that keeps me from totally regretting what we did to them. Seeing Victor Martinez in tears in the dugout...and then the story of the lone fan who greeted the players at the airport... I can relate to what they're going through. I know more about what it's like to be them, actually, than what to do in our position right now. My heart goes out to them.

2. In lieu of the above, I would like to punch the editor who decided to run this article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer today, squaaa in the grundle. As Red put it, "I can honestly say that if someone at the Globe pulled this shyte after the 2003 ALCS, their offices would have been hit with an unexpected missile strike."

3. There's been a backlash against Simmons, and I have to admit I stopped reading him a while ago when his column began to be more free-floating misogyny and movie references than real Boston sports talk, but he's brought it old school in his column about the Sox and the ALCS. Choice excerpt:

For the most part, it's an unflappable team. That's why so many Sox fans thought they might be done during Game 4 (including me): Suddenly, the collective fire was gone, everyone looked tight and it was unclear why this was happening or what needed to take place to break out of it. The baseball playoffs are made up of momentum swings, and for whatever reason, everything had swung away from the Red Sox.

[...]

When Cleveland had a chance to clinch at home, Beckett laid the smack down in Game 5. In my lifetime, the most clutch Boston pitching performance was Schilling's bloody sock game in the 2004 ALCS. Second was an injured Pedro coming out of the bullpen in Game 5 of the '99 Indians-Sox series. Third was Derek Lowe throwing a one-hitter for six innings ON TWO DAYS REST to topple the Yankees in Game 7 of 2004. And the fourth? Beckett slamming the door in Game 5. He held off a pennant celebration, swung the momentum of the series and threw his hat into the ring for Team Simmons' "What should we name our son?" sweepstakes. (You have to admit, Beckett Simmons has a nice ring to it.) Baseball is the only sport where a single person can shut up 55,000 people for an extended period of time and eventually break their will. This was one of those times. Just a virtuoso performance.

The comments from his readers are also worth the price of admission--too many good ones to excerpt there.

4. Tom Brady is doing his damndest to distract me from my feverish baseball obsession, and oftentimes lately he's succeeding, like this past Sunday, when he threw 6 touchdown passes and also had to come in and clean up Matt Cassell's mess after being pulled due to excessive asskickery. (Anybody who wants to argue "it's the system" can now officially kiss my butt.)

And then, when I saw the footage from his press conference on SportsDesk last night, I think I swallowed my own tongue:

Excuse me, sir, do you have a permit for that suit?

I have to say I am in general agreement with him dating Gisele Bundchen right now, if only because she has the connections to get him dressed to the absolute nines like that. Making my life during Sunday night press conferences just that much brighter.

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose...sometimes you get swarmed by a plague of midges.

Last night saw epic, nay, Biblical action in the American League.

While waiting for the Red Sox to start, we tuned in to the Yankees / Indians game just in time to see Joba Chamberlain, swarmed by hundreds of tiny insects, flailing on the mound. The batters were flailing, too. Oddly, the insect infestation only seemed to affect the players on the field; the players in the dugout and fans in the stands did not seem to be similarly plagued.

Far be it from me to actually feel sorry for a Yankee, least of all Joba, but...I kind of did. I felt sorry for everybody playing in that game. They zoomed in to show the bugs covering Joba's neck several times, and every time, I got the shivers. If it were me, I'd probably need to be chased down somewhere around right field as I ran around aimlessly shooing and screaming--forget about throwing strikes down the middle.

Thus tortured and distracted by the insects, Joba lost all feel for the strike zone, and began unleashing downright dangerous 99-mph heaters in a much more general vicinity of the plate than is his habit. One of them, an abortive pitch in the dirt, bounced just underneath the leg of Jorge Posada as he lunged to block it, and Grady Sizemore slid past an onrushing Joba at the plate to score the tying run.

"See, I like a Yankees loss as much as the next person," I told my friend Ryan. "But when they have an excuse, it's not as fun."

"Faaack 'em." was his rejoinder.

Well. When you put it like that.

Even as the Sox game was getting under way on TNT, we kept flipping back to check on TBS. "I don't want to miss the walkoff," Ryan kept saying.

Mariano Rivera came on. The bugs swarmed around him just as thickly at first, but I never saw his focus waver, even for a second. He was lights out.

But so was Cleveland's Rafael Perez. The game headed to extras.

As the game in Cleveland crashed up against the beginning of the game in Boston, we'd go back to the Sox just long enough to determine that they didn't require our full and undivided, and then plunge ourselves back into the searing, extra-innings hell that was that game at the Jake.

Despite Josh Beckett's outstanding performance and Big Papi's moon shot on Wednesday, for whatever reason I wasn't feeling that postseason "burn" just yet. I wasn't tempted to reach for a paper bag once; my portable defibrillator unit gathered dust. I was expecting drama, comebacks, epic baserunning maneuvers on both sides, diving catches, and Steven Tyler singing "Sweet Emotion" on the top of the visitors' dugout in the middle of the eighth inning. Instead, it felt like the Sox were just...cruising.

Don't get me wrong, I've never seen the likes of that game from the Sox in the postseason, and if possible, I now consider Josh Beckett even more of a golden god than I did before. If anything, Wednesday's game removes some of the divisions I'd made in my mind between Beckett and some of his elders, including Pedro Martinez and Curt Schilling. But I'm not the only one who felt like Wednesday's game lacked a certain tension that I've come to expect in October.

Between the Bug-Fest in Cleveland and what would ensue in the Sox game last night, though, the second night of the ALDS gave us all the heartburn-inducing action we could handle.

First, out in Ohio, Travis Hafner came to bat against Luis Vizcaino with the bags juiced--he was the eighth hitter of the inning. "Pronk", as he is called, towered in the left batters' box, even his mighty cudgel of black ash looking like a toy in his hands. He seemed to have to hunker down to swing.

Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Two outs. Full count.

We hyperventilated. And it wasn't even our game.

In the next second, before Hafner's game-winning single to right had even hit the grass, the TBS play-by-play man was shouting, "INDIANS WIN!" Kenny Lofton stomped the plate for emphasis, as teammates ran out of the dugout to mob him, and all around them the Jake had a Stage IV nuclear meltdown. Vizcaino walked slowly off the field, his only betrayal of emotion a slight lifting of his cap to wipe sweat from his brow.

And then, Trot Nixon came in to view, near the bottom of our screen. He dropped one shoulder and shoved his way into the huddle of bouncing, shouting teammates, caught up in the moment like the rest of them.

It? Was glorious. And it still wasn't even our game.

More on our game, coming right up...