Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

I want my Papi back

Okay, enough of this.

I've been doing my damndest to ignore it, but it's getting to be too much. I know JD Drew was the man last night against the 'Stros, hitting a clutch (!!!?!?!??) three-run homer, and you don't even need to ask how much I enjoyed Jonathan Papelbon coming in to blow Berkman away in the eighth, because I'm sure you already know.

But...I'm sorry, I'm going to need my Papi back. In the dugout, on the field. Like, right now.

I know he's on his way back, but unfortunately, that's not going to cut it. He really needs to be back here yesterday. Not because we're not scoring runs without him. Because it's just not the same team without him, and I prefer the other kind of team. The kind with Papi hitting homers and blingin' it up and making the world brighter just by smiling. 

Let me put it this way. At my apartment, I have a full-page photo of Papi, decked out in a suit and chapeau, laden with diamonds and giving the double-guns, hung up in the kitchen. In the living room, my desktop is a photo of Papi kissing a puppy. At work, a photo of him grinning and dumping a pitcher of milk over Coco Crisp's head is hung up at eye level. That is how much I like to see Papi.

So yeah. That was already my level before he went on the DL. This "couple of weeks without Papi" crap? Um, no.

Eric Byrnes and the Case of the Evil Porn 'Stache

You know the injury bug has hit the Sox hard when players are getting hurt between innings. Sure, Danny Haren can make a diving play to catch a bunt from Coco, landing on his pitching arm, and still hold the Sox scoreless for several innings afterwards. But let Mike Lowell and Kevin Youkilis try to play a little Around the Horn between innings, and a freak bounce on an uncharacteristic throw from the world's smoothest third baseman will somehow elude the lightning reflexes and glove of the world's all-time most error-free first baseman, and instead launch itself directly at his right eyeball.

Next thing you know, we're back from commercial with Brandon Moss up at bat for Youkilis, even though we just saw Youk not two minutes ago. We literally take our eyes off him for the length of a commercial break, and then there's Moss.

I don't know about you, but I prefer the apparently false sense of security I've had until now that when I get up for some chips while another Southwest Airlines commercial's on, all the players that had been on the field for the Red Sox one freakin' minute ago will be there when I get back. Not being sent to Mass General for a CT scan of their heads.

Given this obviously abnormal, even evil, series of events, I'm forced to turn to the supernatural for explanation--and me? I blame Eric Byrnes and his clearly demonically possessed porn 'stache for bringing evil energies into the ballpark. Because Jesus Christ, look at that thing.

Since the visitor's dugout is located just near third base, where the throw that maimed Youkilis originated, it would make sense for the 'stache to have been the perpetrator, casting its spells from its vile perch on Byrnes' upper lip. Personally, I think the Sox' first move should have been to beat the 'stache into submission and remove it from Fenway, with clergy trailing along behind it waving incense to remove any residual poltergeist activity.

Also, maybe we should investigate just what Julio Lugo was doing as the incident occurred. I'm sure he had a hand in screwing things up somehow.

P.S. Yes, I am pretending that whole St. Louis series just didn't happen. Except this.

One Hit? That's all we got? One goddamn hit?

So there's one moment I'm personally salvaging as my favorite from of last night's game, which otherwise was a total smoking wreck on the Sox side that I'd rather not even get into.

Bottom of the sixth inning. Nobody on. Two outs. Frank Thomas at the plate. Beckett gets two strikes on him, then jams him with a fastball that Thomas hits with the skinny part of the bat, hard enough and in such a perfect location that it stings Thomas's hands severely. He cries out almost immediately as the ball leaves the bat, in pain, and frustration that he's given Beckett an easy fly ball out.

But wait! Coco Crisp and Alex Cora are sprinting toward the ball in shallow center field. As they close in, both of them have blank yet panicked looks that are immediately enough to make a fan's heart seize, to say nothing of the starting pitcher who just worked through this at-bat in textbook fashion. They clearly, obviously don't know where the ball is.

It finally drops in, between Coco and Cora, but also, alarmingly, about three feet to the left of Crisp. What should've been a moderately easy catch turns before Beckett's eyes into a complete CF.

So this is what Beckett does, turned around looking directly, with narrowed eyes, at Coco. He waits until he has Coco's attention, and then...

After this, he sarcastically mouths, "Two Outs."

Classic.

The Birds

I believe the last time Josh pitched I wrote about how I look forward to his halves of innings all week between his starts. This one was definitely no exception. My work finsihed, the dishes washed, the dinner made, I sat back to watch Josh handily stomp the hopes and dreams of the Baltimore Orioles lineup.

Even by the time it was 3-2 Sox after--I can hardly believe I'm typing this--an RBI single by Kevin Millar (certainly NOT how I expected this Texan matchup to work out), I thought now we were going to see Commander Kickass get his righteous rage on and snuff out any further impudent thoughts of scoring on the Orioles side with ruthless abandon. Jerry Remy had noted that he'd 'humped up', putting some heat on the fastball, to get the first two outs of the inning on back to back strikeouts. I was sure he was going to kick into postseason gear, with Luke Scott his hapless victim.

That's about when Luke Scott hit a monstrous home run. And that's about when I shut the game off. Don't need this today.

Update: Anyone know where I can find video of the Beckett press conference? I've gone over my TiVo with a fine-toothed comb and it doesn't seem like it was broadcast. They've done that before with Josh, and I'm sure they were anticipating a doozy last night, so maybe they never showed it. But going by the quotes Bradford got (prompting genius from SG), this might have been the most epic presser yet.

I understand wanting to avoid the F-bombs on the airwaves, but guys. There's got to be video of this somewhere, and expletive-laden content not fit for TV is what the Internet is for. Bad enough I don't get my Josh fix this week, pitching-wise...but also missing the one silver lining to a Beckett loss, which is the epic presser, just adds insult to injury.

Speaking of injury! Guess who? JD Drew! In his defense, my first thought, like Kristen's, was of Hideki Matsui and, you know, that one time a while back there that I don't even want to describe because to this day it iggs me out.

After I shut the game off last night, it appears the Sox finished things out by stranding 3,402 men on base and Papi got tossed. Tampa Bay is now leading the division. Somebody call me when we're back in the correct universe.

P.S. ARGH.

I think I'm going to need a pencil and paper to work out what just happened

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.

Swept A-Ray

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?

Edgar's Revenge

We all have that one player. That one guy that you grow irrationally attached to, the guy that reminds you of someone or maybe even yourself, the guy you'll defend to even your fellow fans when they all turn against him, the guy you keep rooting for even when he's dispensed with his Red Sox laundry, and often, a chequered Red Sox career.

For my dad, that player is Edgar Renteria. He also has had a soft spot in his heart for Alex Gonzalez, but the one that really gets people scratching their heads around my dad is Edgar, or as he would say it, "My boy Edgah."

Throughout Edgar's lackluster tenure in a Red Sox uniform, my father was determined to defend him at every turn, and has not stopped doing it since. "See?" he'd say whenever ESPN reported on Edgar's more successful season with the Atlanta Braves in 2006. "My boy Edgah. He's a good playah."

It was no exception last night, when Edgar once again re-entered what had been an errorful house of horrors in Fenway Park, this time as a member of the Detroit Tigers.

And it was Edgar who killed us yesterday. He went 3 for 4 with 2 RBI, as well as a walk, and picked it deep in the hole at short, like it had been some other guy who committed 30 errors there three seasons ago.

As someone who actively booed Edgar Renteria when he was a member of the Red Sox (and it's not something I'm proud of, but he's probably the only player on my own team I've ever done that to), I wonder where that effort and sense of urgency were when he was here, and can't say I've worked up much but disdain for the fact that apparently he's motivated by his own failure with the Sox to prove a point as a member of an opposing team, but actually being paid by the Sox evidently wasn't enough motivation to show that same intensity. You could say I'm the yin to my dad's yang--as irrationally hateful toward Edgar as he is perhaps unrealistically loving.

But my dad sees him as shy and diplomatic rather than wishy-washy, taciturn and listless. He always admired the way he took in the catcalls and kept on quietly grinding away. And last night, on the phone from the front row of the State Street Pavilion, my dad was the one silver lining on a messy game for me, waxing enthusiastic and proud of his boy Edgah.

P.S. Mikey Lowell! Noooo, etc. But I'm also taking a moment to be grateful for the Sean Casey signing--the man they call the Mayor filled in for Lowell nicely with two hits and a run. And for Kevin Youkilis, the first baseman that takes a licking and keeps on ticking (I wonder what the bruise from that wicked shot he took off the collarbone last night looks like today) at just about any old base you want. It's not cool to lose Lowell, but it could be far, far worse.

Beckett-blog?

Per Sam's comment on my previous Beckett post, yes. Yes, I am obsessed. Sam has asked (semi-)facetiously in the past if I plan to relaunch my blog as Beckett-blog, a la papel-blog (though the title would not be nearly so clever). Lately, I know this blog is looking more and more like it's moving in that direction.

But once again, the news I'm picking up on when it comes to the Sox and spring training is Beckett-centric. And it's the worst kind of Beckett-related news: injury.

He threw six warmup pitches on Saturday, apparently slipped on the mound (I want all groundskeepers who came into contact with that mound terminated immediately, with extreme prejudice) and suffered back spasms. He was scratched from his start and is now 'iffy' for Japan.

First of all: AUGH.

However, my mother has a conspiracy theory that I at least find comforting to contemplate: that the injury is of the million-dollar variety, designed to get Josh a reprieve from traveling to Japan. She notes the quickness of the "Japan / scratch" announcement following the slippage / spasms, along with the just-as-hastily-offered "he's looking way better than we expected" reassurances from Tito yesterday, as evidence of this.

Like I said, that's more comforting to contemplate than the prospect of a for-real sidelining, but I'm also going to have to expand my previous demands regarding lead and bubble-wrap lined storage containers for Jonathan Papelbon to include all pitchers on the Sox roster.

In the meantime, I hope to have something *not* purely focused on His Texasness for this blog soon, but I was thwarted in attempts to produce such content yesterday, when I spent four hours on the "Pretty Good Year" essay and got all the way through Game 6 of the ALCS before my computer ate the damn file. And I proceeded to throw a tantrum worthy of No. 19, which probably contributed to having him on the brain (even more than usual) today.

I'll be making my second attempt at it tonight. In between researching voodoo incantations that promote healing of the back muscles.

Dear Bill Belichick

I thought we'd talked about this red hoodie idea before.

P.S. I really, really wish we'd gone for the field goal instead of the end zone on that 4th and 13.

At any rate, at least they can't say we cheated.

Clarification

See, when we Red Sox fans chanted "Re-sign Lowell" from, oh, the end of World Series game 4 in Colorado through the return home from Colorado and the ensuing victory parade and at every Red Sox appearance or event in between, what we meant was, if he wants a fourth year, give him a fourth year.

What we meant was, "don't let him test the open market where the Yankees are waiting with a Publisher's Clearinghouse-size check."

What we meant was, "keep him on our team, even if it's relatively fiscally unpleasant."

What we meant was, "we know A-Rod's available, and we'd rather have Lowell."

Apparently, however, that message didn't get through. Or it did, but it didn't matter.

All I can say to that is, Theo and Co. better have incredibly strong convictions about this decision, because something tells me they're going to be hearing some different chants next year.