It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.
I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.
Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.
I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.
For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.
For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.
But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Modern Prometheus
If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.
So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.
Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...
Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.
We Win The World Series.
So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.
Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...
Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.
We Win The World Series.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
You Keep Using That Word Fairytale
So last night's game was pleasant. An easy win that featured big hits, and hard ones at that. I'd be a little afraid if I were the Rockies. Not because they should doubt how good they are; because they should realize they can't really fathom how good the Red Sox are. A point of fact: everyone tells me how good the Rockies are, how they won all these games. My question: Look at their respective averages in the postseason, how are they scoring runs with those averages? Good pitching beats good hitting like a full house on a pair in the postseason. Bad hitting? Well, then it's a game of solitaire for the pitchers.
All that said, I think tonight's going to be a close game. The temperatures could fall into the 30s in Boston and, playing in Denver or not, that's a cold game. And with cold games come cooler bats and pitchers that look unhittable. Expect an ugly game tonight. Lots of pitches, lots of foul balls, not a lot of anything else. The Red Sox win anything close too, especially with the lead late.
As for last night's game, I'll fully enjoy what it was: A win in Game 1. But here's the thing about postseason baseball, namely: the World Series. If it is like a fairytale, as I surmised yesterday -- an idea I really like, one whose metaphors I could extend and will here -- then yesterday was much like the movie "The Princess Bride". Remember at the beginning of the film, Columbo starts reading to Kevin (Peter Faulk to Fred Savage). And Kevin stops him midway through the opening of the story saying (aloud mind you, not in the voice of David Stern) he knows what happens and Columbo might as well go solve a mystery or some other grandfatherly thing. That's how Game 1 was last night. No mystery to solve. Pretty easy to predict by the fourth inning what as going to happen.
This isn't a bad thing. A win in the World Series is huge. A lot to be excited about. But excuse me if I like a little drama. If I like to feel tense and upset and get mad and throw things and think that my determination and my will in believing we can win actually affects the outcome in a close game where every little thing helps. None of that was needed last night and I felt left out by the end. We expect drama from these games. We want drama from these games. We want to be pushing 1AM in a close, cold, and bitter game. We want the crowd and the wind and a bad pitch to mean everything. We want it all to hinge on some minuscule fulcrum, fitting all of the team and the fans and history and future on a ledge. Suffering. We want to suffer a little. We want Wesley to disappear, take us through the fire swamp, get whisked away and killed, brought back to life by Billy Crystal and to "have fun stormin' the castle".
We got none of that last night. But the bottom line is we want our team to win. Last night, the Red Sox replied, "As You Wish".
All that said, I think tonight's going to be a close game. The temperatures could fall into the 30s in Boston and, playing in Denver or not, that's a cold game. And with cold games come cooler bats and pitchers that look unhittable. Expect an ugly game tonight. Lots of pitches, lots of foul balls, not a lot of anything else. The Red Sox win anything close too, especially with the lead late.
As for last night's game, I'll fully enjoy what it was: A win in Game 1. But here's the thing about postseason baseball, namely: the World Series. If it is like a fairytale, as I surmised yesterday -- an idea I really like, one whose metaphors I could extend and will here -- then yesterday was much like the movie "The Princess Bride". Remember at the beginning of the film, Columbo starts reading to Kevin (Peter Faulk to Fred Savage). And Kevin stops him midway through the opening of the story saying (aloud mind you, not in the voice of David Stern) he knows what happens and Columbo might as well go solve a mystery or some other grandfatherly thing. That's how Game 1 was last night. No mystery to solve. Pretty easy to predict by the fourth inning what as going to happen.
This isn't a bad thing. A win in the World Series is huge. A lot to be excited about. But excuse me if I like a little drama. If I like to feel tense and upset and get mad and throw things and think that my determination and my will in believing we can win actually affects the outcome in a close game where every little thing helps. None of that was needed last night and I felt left out by the end. We expect drama from these games. We want drama from these games. We want to be pushing 1AM in a close, cold, and bitter game. We want the crowd and the wind and a bad pitch to mean everything. We want it all to hinge on some minuscule fulcrum, fitting all of the team and the fans and history and future on a ledge. Suffering. We want to suffer a little. We want Wesley to disappear, take us through the fire swamp, get whisked away and killed, brought back to life by Billy Crystal and to "have fun stormin' the castle".
We got none of that last night. But the bottom line is we want our team to win. Last night, the Red Sox replied, "As You Wish".
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Once Upon A Time
There have been 3 Game 1's of the World Series that I've truly been interested in. The first one, well, I was six. The second one, I feel asleep during. And tonight.
A quick note about the one I fell asleep during. It was in 2004. After the longest and most emotionally draining sports experience of my life. Those games were epic and fantastic. Everything after was almost a let down. Well not everything. Game 1 was actually exciting. I was just excited out.
I'm rested for tonight. Rested and ready. Game 1's mean little in the scope of things. No one's back is up against the wall. It's not a must win game. Out of all the game's in the Series, this one means the least. That's not to say we can't or won't win. Or shouldn't. I know very little about what the Red Sox need to do verse the Rockies. I know nothing about the Rockies. All I can say is the Red Sox have to hit the ball hard and well -- taking full advantage of Fenway.
As for The World Series itself, there's a lot that can be said. It's the greatest sporting event on the planet. Explained best here. If the regular season is a story, a good novel, the post-season a sort of commentary, literary criticism of that story, then World Series is a fairytale.
It has a plot. Hyperbolic characters: giants that need to be slayed; carriages that turn back into pumpkins because time and luck has run out; Prince Charmings and Sleeping Beauties that appear and awake. And most importantly the idea inherent in every fairytale's opening lines: Once Upon A Time. With the Series we're transported to the magic land above and beyond and to the right of that second star. Moments that keep us up past midnight and straight on till morning.
I'll be awake tonight. Curled up in the same chair I've been reading this season's book in all year. Hearing the rhymes of curveballs and sliders and fastballs in my head. Seeing beanstalks and magic beans, perhaps even a dwarf or a Manny. And it'll be no surprise that up, way up past my bedtime, after reading a good story and great criticisms, that I'll fall asleep to the timeless tale of the World Series. But not until those famous last words.
The End.
A quick note about the one I fell asleep during. It was in 2004. After the longest and most emotionally draining sports experience of my life. Those games were epic and fantastic. Everything after was almost a let down. Well not everything. Game 1 was actually exciting. I was just excited out.
I'm rested for tonight. Rested and ready. Game 1's mean little in the scope of things. No one's back is up against the wall. It's not a must win game. Out of all the game's in the Series, this one means the least. That's not to say we can't or won't win. Or shouldn't. I know very little about what the Red Sox need to do verse the Rockies. I know nothing about the Rockies. All I can say is the Red Sox have to hit the ball hard and well -- taking full advantage of Fenway.
As for The World Series itself, there's a lot that can be said. It's the greatest sporting event on the planet. Explained best here. If the regular season is a story, a good novel, the post-season a sort of commentary, literary criticism of that story, then World Series is a fairytale.
It has a plot. Hyperbolic characters: giants that need to be slayed; carriages that turn back into pumpkins because time and luck has run out; Prince Charmings and Sleeping Beauties that appear and awake. And most importantly the idea inherent in every fairytale's opening lines: Once Upon A Time. With the Series we're transported to the magic land above and beyond and to the right of that second star. Moments that keep us up past midnight and straight on till morning.
I'll be awake tonight. Curled up in the same chair I've been reading this season's book in all year. Hearing the rhymes of curveballs and sliders and fastballs in my head. Seeing beanstalks and magic beans, perhaps even a dwarf or a Manny. And it'll be no surprise that up, way up past my bedtime, after reading a good story and great criticisms, that I'll fall asleep to the timeless tale of the World Series. But not until those famous last words.
The End.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant
I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.
You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.
I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.
With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.
And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.
That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.
The Red Sox are going to the World Series.
You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.
I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.
With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.
And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.
That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.
The Red Sox are going to the World Series.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Drawn Up And Drawn Out
Perhaps you called it. Perhaps it occured to you that baseball is sometimes magical and when there occurs the opportunity for a magical moment, the baseball gods deliver with more "cadabra" than a Harry Potter novel. I'm not even so sure Aslan had anything on J.D. Drew's homerun last night. I've maligned the guy only because he struggled, not because I thought he wasn't good. But even I was left dumbfounded, speechless and deafened by my own internal screaming after the first inning Grand Slam. Sure there was a long way to go in the game. A very long way. But just because the Prestige occurs in the first inning doesn't mean the remaining act will be left wanting. Last night's win was magical. October baseball magical.
Now the series climaxes. Reaches the penultimate moment October baseball was created for. In my lifetime there have been only 4 Game Seven's for the Red Sox. They're 2-2. But it's the one stat you don't ever keep. Because stats don't matter in a Game 7. Pitchers on x days rest pitching don't matter. Consecutive hit streaks are rendered useless. And hitting a Grand Slam the previous night means nothing. It's all about what you can do tonight.
I've maintained all along (since the Sox had been down 3-1) that a Game 7 is a crapshoot. Hardest to predict. Teams will throw everything out there. Both teams with their backs against a proverbial wall. Both teams cornered. Both teams with the same goal, the same objective, and nine innings to decide who's more determined. Game 7's are the hardest to predict because they are played harder and more passionately than any other game. Because this is the game that means everything. The game that stretches back into the green fields of childhood homes minutes before going inside for dinner. "Two outs, bases loaded, 3-2 count, Game Seven." Even then it was the last thing you uttered as you prepared, in your mind, to win the game, make the catch, throw the pitch. "Game Seven..." Even now I feel a hush coming over me as I think about it.
The Red Sox need to continue to be patient at the plate. They don't need to score early in this one, they need to threaten early. Lead-off hitters need to get on. Maybe a stolen base early. A walk with two outs. They need to do the little things that grind on a pitcher like Westbrook. Frustrate him, not overwhelm him. Of course it would be great if they did that, but all they need to do is make sure Westbrook can't get into a rhytym. Make sure it's not easy for him. And when they have a chance to score, score. If they play smart and patient, they'll win. And they're winning anything close. That Fenway crowd is overwhelming. Everyone one in the stands has, also, dreamed of that Game Seven. And Red Sox fans don't let dreams go. Ever.
I'm not blogging this game either. Between my own memories of playing "Game Seven's" in the yard as a kid, and watching this Game Seven, there's not going to be anytime to expound any more thoughts. And because each pitch, in my mind, will be treated with the same anxiety I tried to bestow upon the childhood me, minutes before dinnertime, there's not a salient thought I can even offer.
Game Seven. Tonight. Fenway Park. Winner wins the Pennant. Goes to the Series. And there'll be plenty of time before dinner for the other.
This is the Prestige.
Now the series climaxes. Reaches the penultimate moment October baseball was created for. In my lifetime there have been only 4 Game Seven's for the Red Sox. They're 2-2. But it's the one stat you don't ever keep. Because stats don't matter in a Game 7. Pitchers on x days rest pitching don't matter. Consecutive hit streaks are rendered useless. And hitting a Grand Slam the previous night means nothing. It's all about what you can do tonight.
I've maintained all along (since the Sox had been down 3-1) that a Game 7 is a crapshoot. Hardest to predict. Teams will throw everything out there. Both teams with their backs against a proverbial wall. Both teams cornered. Both teams with the same goal, the same objective, and nine innings to decide who's more determined. Game 7's are the hardest to predict because they are played harder and more passionately than any other game. Because this is the game that means everything. The game that stretches back into the green fields of childhood homes minutes before going inside for dinner. "Two outs, bases loaded, 3-2 count, Game Seven." Even then it was the last thing you uttered as you prepared, in your mind, to win the game, make the catch, throw the pitch. "Game Seven..." Even now I feel a hush coming over me as I think about it.
The Red Sox need to continue to be patient at the plate. They don't need to score early in this one, they need to threaten early. Lead-off hitters need to get on. Maybe a stolen base early. A walk with two outs. They need to do the little things that grind on a pitcher like Westbrook. Frustrate him, not overwhelm him. Of course it would be great if they did that, but all they need to do is make sure Westbrook can't get into a rhytym. Make sure it's not easy for him. And when they have a chance to score, score. If they play smart and patient, they'll win. And they're winning anything close. That Fenway crowd is overwhelming. Everyone one in the stands has, also, dreamed of that Game Seven. And Red Sox fans don't let dreams go. Ever.
I'm not blogging this game either. Between my own memories of playing "Game Seven's" in the yard as a kid, and watching this Game Seven, there's not going to be anytime to expound any more thoughts. And because each pitch, in my mind, will be treated with the same anxiety I tried to bestow upon the childhood me, minutes before dinnertime, there's not a salient thought I can even offer.
Game Seven. Tonight. Fenway Park. Winner wins the Pennant. Goes to the Series. And there'll be plenty of time before dinner for the other.
This is the Prestige.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
On The Little Things
For us men, it is the involved statistics that make sports feats so spectacular. Upon reviewing Beckett's pitching performance on Thursday, from a sole box score alone, would be remarkable enough. Take those numbers though and his postseason numbers so far this year and you've got something slightly more than remarkable. Add to that his career postseason numbers and we've got nothing short of amazing.
I was relaying this stats to the Mrs. last night. Telling her about his K/9 IP; his ERA. After I recited them, she replied, "How do you remember them? I've already forgotten everything you just told me." This mean it was time for analogy.
Not that I am comparing the two in stature, but I imagine the stats a guy, particularly me, can keep account for is much the same for the art critic who can take into account minor things like shading, brush stroke, pigment color in looking at a painting or other work of art. ERA, WHIP, Opp. AVG, K/9 -- these are my brushstrokes and pigment colors. For the art critic, it is those minor things that make the difference between a nice painting and a long-lasting work of art. Such is the case for Beckett's performance on Thursday. A long-lasting, not-soon-going-to-forget-this affair.
I'll be honest though, the awe of watching this "Mona Lisa" before faded by noon on Friday. The fact remains, the Red Sox need to win another game. And then another.
Taking into account the little things your average female fan will not be aware of, I like our chances tonight. The team is hitting well. If Ellsbury starts, that's a significant upgrade over Crisp at the moment. Though don't be surprised if Tito goes all Bellhorn 2004 on us and starts Coco. And then there's Carmona, who got shelled at Fenway last time. The same strategy needs to be in place for the game tonight. Work the counts, get Fausto out of his rhythm. Get up early and threaten early.
As for the that feeling that replaced the "standing before the work of art", well, it was anxiety. Nervous energy. A turning over of the stomach. It's been with me all day today as well. Anticipation is the more apt word, but not quite negative enough to bestow upon you the proper amount of light-headedness and shaking-hand syndrome I have right now. I wouldn't trade it. Wouldn't wish it away. Wouldn't want to go into this game with anything less than a negative earnestness to win. Losing is even tougher now that hope has sprung up. Now that the canvas has been treated and started and must-needs be continued.
I will not be blogging tonight either for the same reasons as before.
Plus, I am not Bob Ross.
I was relaying this stats to the Mrs. last night. Telling her about his K/9 IP; his ERA. After I recited them, she replied, "How do you remember them? I've already forgotten everything you just told me." This mean it was time for analogy.
Not that I am comparing the two in stature, but I imagine the stats a guy, particularly me, can keep account for is much the same for the art critic who can take into account minor things like shading, brush stroke, pigment color in looking at a painting or other work of art. ERA, WHIP, Opp. AVG, K/9 -- these are my brushstrokes and pigment colors. For the art critic, it is those minor things that make the difference between a nice painting and a long-lasting work of art. Such is the case for Beckett's performance on Thursday. A long-lasting, not-soon-going-to-forget-this affair.
I'll be honest though, the awe of watching this "Mona Lisa" before faded by noon on Friday. The fact remains, the Red Sox need to win another game. And then another.
Taking into account the little things your average female fan will not be aware of, I like our chances tonight. The team is hitting well. If Ellsbury starts, that's a significant upgrade over Crisp at the moment. Though don't be surprised if Tito goes all Bellhorn 2004 on us and starts Coco. And then there's Carmona, who got shelled at Fenway last time. The same strategy needs to be in place for the game tonight. Work the counts, get Fausto out of his rhythm. Get up early and threaten early.
As for the that feeling that replaced the "standing before the work of art", well, it was anxiety. Nervous energy. A turning over of the stomach. It's been with me all day today as well. Anticipation is the more apt word, but not quite negative enough to bestow upon you the proper amount of light-headedness and shaking-hand syndrome I have right now. I wouldn't trade it. Wouldn't wish it away. Wouldn't want to go into this game with anything less than a negative earnestness to win. Losing is even tougher now that hope has sprung up. Now that the canvas has been treated and started and must-needs be continued.
I will not be blogging tonight either for the same reasons as before.
Plus, I am not Bob Ross.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Think I'll Go To Boston
It's easy to arise on mornings like this. One's where the rain has steadily been falling all night. Where it's moved out, given way to the sun and foretells a glorious weekend of sunshine.
Dane Cook says it best, There is only one October.
And this is an October morning.
Dane Cook says it best, There is only one October.
And this is an October morning.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Either Way
I have been silent. My mouth and thoughts stayed. Tuesday's game was painful and depressing. What can one say. Such things are best left to be felt and experienced. Expressions miss the mark and drive the hole deeper. Best to sit in silence and wallow in the pit than scrape and claw and bloody your way out with words.
It will help the Red Sox to be patient at the plate. I mentioned it in both blogged games. Monday's 'wide' strike zone (a term I employ as loosely as it's intended object) forced the Sox to swing at anything close or far. Tuesday, Byrd decided to throw strikes instead of paint corners. Aiming for a simply black and white approach in lieu of a palate of the colorful closeness of fooling a hitter on the corners. That left us swinging at everything he threw. Allowing Byrd to dictate pace and disavowing Sox hitters of the chance to break his rhythm.
It will help the Red Sox to come out early and force Sabathia to make pitches. He's an emotional pitcher that will struggle with control. And a steely and insensitive attitude from hitters will get under his skin. They best not be afraid to step out of the box. Expect 20+ wind gusts out to left at the Jake. As CC is a fastballer and Ortiz a lefty, I'm looking for Ortiz to jump late on one and send it over the wall.
I'm glad we had Wake in Game 4 because I want Beckett in this game. The big game. The one we need to win. As the English say: a must needs win. All this said, if it's a close game, I'm not sure the Sox can pull it out. They need to go up big. Need to prove to themselves early that they can take this Indians team. Anything that allows the Indians to linger also allows the possibility of losing to linger. Then again, the Sox aren't afraid. Beckett is as cool as they come. Having an ex-girlfriend sing a few words by Francis Scott Key isn't going to affect the boy who threw a complete game shutout in Yankee Stadium to win the World Series on 3 days rest.
A programming note: I won't be blogging tonight's game. Firstly because I have a softball game that will occupy and require my presence to minutes before first pitch. Secondly, I've decided these emotions need to be sustained in me, not expressed. Not to come exploding out at the end, but to perserve in me this passion through what looks to be a long and tense game. Constantly emptying the cup and cleaning out the closet has left me drained too early. Negative too quickly. And with too little hope. I want to watch tonight's game. I've had all day today and yesterday to think about it. To feel about it. Sometimes, it's just nice to watch. And a game this big and setting up to be this good, needs to be watched alone. Experienced and felt. Not expressed.
Such things are for hindsight.
It will help the Red Sox to be patient at the plate. I mentioned it in both blogged games. Monday's 'wide' strike zone (a term I employ as loosely as it's intended object) forced the Sox to swing at anything close or far. Tuesday, Byrd decided to throw strikes instead of paint corners. Aiming for a simply black and white approach in lieu of a palate of the colorful closeness of fooling a hitter on the corners. That left us swinging at everything he threw. Allowing Byrd to dictate pace and disavowing Sox hitters of the chance to break his rhythm.
It will help the Red Sox to come out early and force Sabathia to make pitches. He's an emotional pitcher that will struggle with control. And a steely and insensitive attitude from hitters will get under his skin. They best not be afraid to step out of the box. Expect 20+ wind gusts out to left at the Jake. As CC is a fastballer and Ortiz a lefty, I'm looking for Ortiz to jump late on one and send it over the wall.
I'm glad we had Wake in Game 4 because I want Beckett in this game. The big game. The one we need to win. As the English say: a must needs win. All this said, if it's a close game, I'm not sure the Sox can pull it out. They need to go up big. Need to prove to themselves early that they can take this Indians team. Anything that allows the Indians to linger also allows the possibility of losing to linger. Then again, the Sox aren't afraid. Beckett is as cool as they come. Having an ex-girlfriend sing a few words by Francis Scott Key isn't going to affect the boy who threw a complete game shutout in Yankee Stadium to win the World Series on 3 days rest.
A programming note: I won't be blogging tonight's game. Firstly because I have a softball game that will occupy and require my presence to minutes before first pitch. Secondly, I've decided these emotions need to be sustained in me, not expressed. Not to come exploding out at the end, but to perserve in me this passion through what looks to be a long and tense game. Constantly emptying the cup and cleaning out the closet has left me drained too early. Negative too quickly. And with too little hope. I want to watch tonight's game. I've had all day today and yesterday to think about it. To feel about it. Sometimes, it's just nice to watch. And a game this big and setting up to be this good, needs to be watched alone. Experienced and felt. Not expressed.
Such things are for hindsight.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Game 4, Boston @ Cleveland
PREGAME
Today was one of those days all about and behooved only to us Red Sox fans. Last night's soul-less loss was ugly. There is an argument pro-sports that posits sports take us above the reality around us. That sports have the ability to transport us from the grim and bleak environment life may provide at any given time to a region and plane and level far above. To provide joy and glory in a time and place where there is not that feeling. Yet it also has the ability to make us ever so aware of that reality. As such was today for Red Sox fans.
Every breeze is felt a little bit cooler. It was warm in Columbus today. But still I felt those cooler spots. I was depressingly aware of coming rains. And even more affected by how wet the rain tended to be as drops splayed my jacketless self.
Then there is the lingering answer to simple questions. Where you await the response but it seems to take just a hair to long. It doesn't upset you, anger you, make you strike out. It is just something you notice after a game and a loss last night.
Your day continues in this fashion. Noticed is the extra belt notch you tightened to. Noticed is the volume of the conversations of the people around you and how it seems slightly elevated above what you can tolerate. Noticed is the loosening shoelace at least 10 steps from coming undone.
And that's the feeling I carried around with me today. That the Red Sox are a few steps away from completely unraveling. Not on the precipice, but steps if not feet away. Something was loosed last night. So much that you stop and take notice of the reality around you more than you might. More than you certainly would have noticed if they had won.
But then there's tonight. I'm in favor of Wakefield starting over Beckett. The weather helps Wakefield. The stats go against Beckett. And regardless of tonight's outcome, Game 5 is the bigger of the games. If the Sox win, Game 5 has Beckett pitching with the chance to go to Boston with the 3-2 series lead. If the Sox lose, Beckett's pitching the must win game. And he'll be doing it on full rest. Wakefield's a good pitcher. Especially on a stage like this. He's got that sense of entitlement. That edge. That fire. It's the best decision by Francona. And it's most certainly the right one.
After last night's "blogging" I've come to a few conclusions. The main one being I was unable to watch and enjoy the game. This prevented me from commenting on those aspects of watching the game. Of experiencing it as a fan and noting what that was like. With this in mind, expect sporadic posting. My hope is to lead you through the night more like Mark Twain and less like, well, a blogger. And as long as baseball games are -- and tonight's game will be long and late -- there's not enough time to do both effectively and continuously. I'll be posting, but I'm fully intending to do more watching the game. And I actually want you to do the same...
But stay tuned...we'll begin in about an hour...
MINUTES TO PREGAME
You can't expect a postseason baseball game to go fast. Expect it to labor. Expect it to test and try and expend every nerve in your body, every tick-tock on your clock. These are meaningful, emotional (except for last night) and valuable games. So to start them late makes little sense. Especially for the younger fans. The fans upon who's shoulder this game and interest in this game rests. It's long enough. And late start times make it longer and heavier and drowsier. Young baseball fans can hardly be expected to outlast these asinine start times if adults are pushing it.
One of MLB's most important trophies isn't handed out to 2:00AM EST? That's unacceptable. I'm reminded to Shoeless Joe's observation in Field of Dreams: "What's with all the lights?" "So the owners can make more money." "Owners."
Regardless of start times and epic length games, the game is pure. The competition and stakes are high. And as a Red Sox fan, none of this is lost on me. Not tonight. Not on this field. Not against this team.
FIRST INNING
It's fascinating to think what a game of inches baseball really is. Two inches to the left. Split seconds sooner on the swing and Pedroia's got a double. Then there's Wakefield and The Knuckleball. Doesn't look like it does more than drop. But it's doing just enough to make you swing and miss. And you do that by only inches. You never think of it cause it's such a long drawn out affair. But it really is in that curveball you threw in the fourth on the 2-1 count with runners in scoring position.
Life is a lot like baseball in that way. It doesn't feel like it's that crucial at times. Like the little things matter. That it's really a hairs breadth on either side and your all of a sudden spiraling out of control. Like baseball, it's only in hindsight that we discover this. That a simple decision to pitch a fastball on a 2-1 count makes all the difference and that equates to taking the road less traveled, stopping to get milk so the other spouse or friend or parent doesn't have to. Life is the little things. In the inches.
And the Red Sox need to stop swinging early in counts. Make Byrd throw strikes.
SECOND INNING
As a Red Sox fan, given this year's team, we have this secret hope that it will be the beleaguered guy who comes through. Albeit Coco Crisp or J.D. Drew or Julio Lugo, you want these guys to come through. Because that's how stories and heroes work. The tried character is found true. So far, I'm not seeing it. Not seeing any promise. But perhaps this is part of the Hero's Descent. It sure feels like these guys are somewhere very low at the moment. Suffering from baseball depression I suppose.
And I know I said the knuckleball resembles life. But it drives me nuts. Especially in a high pressure game like this one. To give up control like this takes much faith. It seems in games like this you'd want to hold on to something. Not so with a Knuckleballer. They go out there and walk on proverbial water with that thing. It's just that in this case, there's no Savior to pull us out. There's just the next knuckleball. A vicious circle. One that's unnerving with every pitch.
My grandfather used to throw a mean knuckleball. Probably still can. Drives me nuts. Nightmares I have. But here we are, through two innings.
THIRD INNING
They say there's no way to measure "clutchness". And some even posit that it doesn't exist (sort of like Tribe Time). It didn't exist in the top of this inning. Ortiz was in the prime position to get things going. Another missed opportunity. Through the course of this game and the last, these circumstances kill me because they add up while the number of chances decreases. By the end of the game, those numbers are disproportional. And inevitably disheartening. So the guys at Baseball Prospectus can tell me it's the Easter Bunny of statistics. That's fine. But it's certainly an analgesic. It makes us, at home in the quiet and nail-biting temperature controlled rooms, feel better when we can believe and say that they came through "in the clutch".
I got the Trivia Question right. So there's that.
So I spent the bottom part of the inning hanging on the fate of an uncontrollable pitch. It's baffling. It truly is. And it's like playing the lottery and having 5 numbers, needing the powerball. One bad pitch. One "rolling" knuckleball and fortune changes.
FOURTH INNING
Figures this game is going fast. Four innings in a little over an hour. FOX is even having trouble fitting in those informative and vastly important conversations with the managers. But I am glad the no-hitter's over. Nothing more mind-bendingly painful and nerving than a knuckleballer trying to throw a no-hitter. And the Red Sox are doing a better job of making Byrd pitch. That double-wind-up is obnoxious though. But the game's moving at a pace uncommon to these situations. So much for baseball being the sport you could fall asleep to and wake-up a quarter of an hour later, not missing a thing. In this game, you'd be missing little in the action, but much of the game. It will slow down though. These games tend to grind to halts once there is the threat of scoring, or the threat of losing becomes real.
Also, knuckleball is not a word recognized by this blogger's spell-check.
FIFTH INNING
For not having played at all in about a month, Mirabelli looks comfortable at the plate. He's not faring well, but he's looking good with the bat in his hand. Working counts, fouling pitches. I know after a week off of work for me, getting back into the habit of my job was difficult. I fared better Mirabelli for sure, but it crossed my mind -- how rusty I'd be.
Habits are fascinating beasts. A book I just finished offered an idea of creating habits only to break them later -- but not breaking all the habits you start just so you don't get in the habit. Humorous and interesting as far as a social experiment goes. For daily life, we have our habits. I know I have mine. I can't tell you what they are, but they're there. Habits are good for us in this day in age. But a day off occasionally is good for the habit. Perhaps in those instances we realize we miss doing them because we do them because we like doing it. Baseball players are creatures of habit.
And nobody likes opposing team homeruns.
My phone is on the other end of the room. My sister is texting me but for some reason she's about four minutes ahead of my game feed (no DVRing tonight either). She only texts when something bad happens. So the rage is coming two fold. One because something bad and ominous is coming every time I hear U2's song "Spanish Eyes". Two because it comes and it's terrible. This is not pretty. Another soul-less, run-letting, single-hitting dink and dunk baseball game. Too bad too, Wake pitched a good game.
MIG: I'm not answering the texts ANYMORE!!!!
I may not post for awhile...sorry. You can't hope to get through this by expressing your thoughts. Pounding your fists. Throwing things. Banging on the keyboard. Much more effective. I've got nothing at this point. Utterly distraught right now folks.
Today was one of those days all about and behooved only to us Red Sox fans. Last night's soul-less loss was ugly. There is an argument pro-sports that posits sports take us above the reality around us. That sports have the ability to transport us from the grim and bleak environment life may provide at any given time to a region and plane and level far above. To provide joy and glory in a time and place where there is not that feeling. Yet it also has the ability to make us ever so aware of that reality. As such was today for Red Sox fans.
Every breeze is felt a little bit cooler. It was warm in Columbus today. But still I felt those cooler spots. I was depressingly aware of coming rains. And even more affected by how wet the rain tended to be as drops splayed my jacketless self.
Then there is the lingering answer to simple questions. Where you await the response but it seems to take just a hair to long. It doesn't upset you, anger you, make you strike out. It is just something you notice after a game and a loss last night.
Your day continues in this fashion. Noticed is the extra belt notch you tightened to. Noticed is the volume of the conversations of the people around you and how it seems slightly elevated above what you can tolerate. Noticed is the loosening shoelace at least 10 steps from coming undone.
And that's the feeling I carried around with me today. That the Red Sox are a few steps away from completely unraveling. Not on the precipice, but steps if not feet away. Something was loosed last night. So much that you stop and take notice of the reality around you more than you might. More than you certainly would have noticed if they had won.
But then there's tonight. I'm in favor of Wakefield starting over Beckett. The weather helps Wakefield. The stats go against Beckett. And regardless of tonight's outcome, Game 5 is the bigger of the games. If the Sox win, Game 5 has Beckett pitching with the chance to go to Boston with the 3-2 series lead. If the Sox lose, Beckett's pitching the must win game. And he'll be doing it on full rest. Wakefield's a good pitcher. Especially on a stage like this. He's got that sense of entitlement. That edge. That fire. It's the best decision by Francona. And it's most certainly the right one.
After last night's "blogging" I've come to a few conclusions. The main one being I was unable to watch and enjoy the game. This prevented me from commenting on those aspects of watching the game. Of experiencing it as a fan and noting what that was like. With this in mind, expect sporadic posting. My hope is to lead you through the night more like Mark Twain and less like, well, a blogger. And as long as baseball games are -- and tonight's game will be long and late -- there's not enough time to do both effectively and continuously. I'll be posting, but I'm fully intending to do more watching the game. And I actually want you to do the same...
But stay tuned...we'll begin in about an hour...
MINUTES TO PREGAME
You can't expect a postseason baseball game to go fast. Expect it to labor. Expect it to test and try and expend every nerve in your body, every tick-tock on your clock. These are meaningful, emotional (except for last night) and valuable games. So to start them late makes little sense. Especially for the younger fans. The fans upon who's shoulder this game and interest in this game rests. It's long enough. And late start times make it longer and heavier and drowsier. Young baseball fans can hardly be expected to outlast these asinine start times if adults are pushing it.
One of MLB's most important trophies isn't handed out to 2:00AM EST? That's unacceptable. I'm reminded to Shoeless Joe's observation in Field of Dreams: "What's with all the lights?" "So the owners can make more money." "Owners."
Regardless of start times and epic length games, the game is pure. The competition and stakes are high. And as a Red Sox fan, none of this is lost on me. Not tonight. Not on this field. Not against this team.
FIRST INNING
It's fascinating to think what a game of inches baseball really is. Two inches to the left. Split seconds sooner on the swing and Pedroia's got a double. Then there's Wakefield and The Knuckleball. Doesn't look like it does more than drop. But it's doing just enough to make you swing and miss. And you do that by only inches. You never think of it cause it's such a long drawn out affair. But it really is in that curveball you threw in the fourth on the 2-1 count with runners in scoring position.
Life is a lot like baseball in that way. It doesn't feel like it's that crucial at times. Like the little things matter. That it's really a hairs breadth on either side and your all of a sudden spiraling out of control. Like baseball, it's only in hindsight that we discover this. That a simple decision to pitch a fastball on a 2-1 count makes all the difference and that equates to taking the road less traveled, stopping to get milk so the other spouse or friend or parent doesn't have to. Life is the little things. In the inches.
And the Red Sox need to stop swinging early in counts. Make Byrd throw strikes.
SECOND INNING
As a Red Sox fan, given this year's team, we have this secret hope that it will be the beleaguered guy who comes through. Albeit Coco Crisp or J.D. Drew or Julio Lugo, you want these guys to come through. Because that's how stories and heroes work. The tried character is found true. So far, I'm not seeing it. Not seeing any promise. But perhaps this is part of the Hero's Descent. It sure feels like these guys are somewhere very low at the moment. Suffering from baseball depression I suppose.
And I know I said the knuckleball resembles life. But it drives me nuts. Especially in a high pressure game like this one. To give up control like this takes much faith. It seems in games like this you'd want to hold on to something. Not so with a Knuckleballer. They go out there and walk on proverbial water with that thing. It's just that in this case, there's no Savior to pull us out. There's just the next knuckleball. A vicious circle. One that's unnerving with every pitch.
My grandfather used to throw a mean knuckleball. Probably still can. Drives me nuts. Nightmares I have. But here we are, through two innings.
THIRD INNING
They say there's no way to measure "clutchness". And some even posit that it doesn't exist (sort of like Tribe Time). It didn't exist in the top of this inning. Ortiz was in the prime position to get things going. Another missed opportunity. Through the course of this game and the last, these circumstances kill me because they add up while the number of chances decreases. By the end of the game, those numbers are disproportional. And inevitably disheartening. So the guys at Baseball Prospectus can tell me it's the Easter Bunny of statistics. That's fine. But it's certainly an analgesic. It makes us, at home in the quiet and nail-biting temperature controlled rooms, feel better when we can believe and say that they came through "in the clutch".
I got the Trivia Question right. So there's that.
So I spent the bottom part of the inning hanging on the fate of an uncontrollable pitch. It's baffling. It truly is. And it's like playing the lottery and having 5 numbers, needing the powerball. One bad pitch. One "rolling" knuckleball and fortune changes.
FOURTH INNING
Figures this game is going fast. Four innings in a little over an hour. FOX is even having trouble fitting in those informative and vastly important conversations with the managers. But I am glad the no-hitter's over. Nothing more mind-bendingly painful and nerving than a knuckleballer trying to throw a no-hitter. And the Red Sox are doing a better job of making Byrd pitch. That double-wind-up is obnoxious though. But the game's moving at a pace uncommon to these situations. So much for baseball being the sport you could fall asleep to and wake-up a quarter of an hour later, not missing a thing. In this game, you'd be missing little in the action, but much of the game. It will slow down though. These games tend to grind to halts once there is the threat of scoring, or the threat of losing becomes real.
Also, knuckleball is not a word recognized by this blogger's spell-check.
FIFTH INNING
For not having played at all in about a month, Mirabelli looks comfortable at the plate. He's not faring well, but he's looking good with the bat in his hand. Working counts, fouling pitches. I know after a week off of work for me, getting back into the habit of my job was difficult. I fared better Mirabelli for sure, but it crossed my mind -- how rusty I'd be.
Habits are fascinating beasts. A book I just finished offered an idea of creating habits only to break them later -- but not breaking all the habits you start just so you don't get in the habit. Humorous and interesting as far as a social experiment goes. For daily life, we have our habits. I know I have mine. I can't tell you what they are, but they're there. Habits are good for us in this day in age. But a day off occasionally is good for the habit. Perhaps in those instances we realize we miss doing them because we do them because we like doing it. Baseball players are creatures of habit.
And nobody likes opposing team homeruns.
My phone is on the other end of the room. My sister is texting me but for some reason she's about four minutes ahead of my game feed (no DVRing tonight either). She only texts when something bad happens. So the rage is coming two fold. One because something bad and ominous is coming every time I hear U2's song "Spanish Eyes". Two because it comes and it's terrible. This is not pretty. Another soul-less, run-letting, single-hitting dink and dunk baseball game. Too bad too, Wake pitched a good game.
MIG: I'm not answering the texts ANYMORE!!!!
I may not post for awhile...sorry. You can't hope to get through this by expressing your thoughts. Pounding your fists. Throwing things. Banging on the keyboard. Much more effective. I've got nothing at this point. Utterly distraught right now folks.
The Morning After
All us Red Sox fans must admit: It was a disheartening game. Soulless. Blood-sucking. Lifeless. Losing on a walk-off at least gets the fire stoked. Rubs you the wrong way. Makes you passionate because you have that "Only If" clause. In a game like last night, there is nothing to inspire that passion. So I remain catatonic this AM.
But here's the thing about baseball. I (usually) don't have to wait a week for the next opportunity. We've got tonight. So, slowly, the blood is rushing back into my heart. Slowly, the fire is kindling and there is a passion rising. We've got tonight.
As for the success of live-blogging last night's game. All in all it went well. I re-read the post this morning. Funny at times. Repetitive at times. Seemed a little too much at others. Though I liked the chihuahua bit. The main contention I have with it is it seemed like it kept me from the game at hand. Like it handicapped my ability to watch a Red Sox game. Which is the whole point of this endeavor. Can't translate the excitement that comes in watching the game if I'm not watching it. For example, I didn't know Tek's HR was a 2-run shot.
I'll certainly be back tonight, though I think it won't be as often. And when I do post, I might try and be a little less trite and a little more insightful (if that's at all possible from a reeling Red Sox fan). We'll see. But tune back in here for Game 4 around 8pm or so.
As for our chances... if it rains, Wakefield has got a good shot at taking care of the Indians lineup. And for the most part, aside from that 11th inning of Game 2, our pitching has been good. It's our hitting that has faltered -- and to the likes of Jake Westbrook? Bottom-line is we need to hit better than we pitch tonight. I know that sounds a little like a McCarverism. It is. But if we can get to Byrd early, and wait on pitches, we've got a better shot at winning even if Wakefield stumbles. Of course, Mirabelli's in the line-up tonight and I'm not that confident in his bat so that hurts us. We'll see.
And I'd rather take Beckett on Thursday than on short-rest tonight so he can pitch a Game 7 if there is one. No pitcher does well in the postseason on short rest. The stats are there... well... no one but Josh Beckett (Game 6, 2003). Give me Beckett in Game 5. Regardless of tonight's outcome, that's the bigger game. If we lose tonight, it's a win or go home atmosphere. If we win tonight, we've got Beckett on the mound, a chance to go up 3-2 and back to Boston.
And Wakefield's got post-season magic on his side. A sense of entitlement. He's been with the team the longest. I love Wakefield. He's going to be magic tonight.
But here's the thing about baseball. I (usually) don't have to wait a week for the next opportunity. We've got tonight. So, slowly, the blood is rushing back into my heart. Slowly, the fire is kindling and there is a passion rising. We've got tonight.
As for the success of live-blogging last night's game. All in all it went well. I re-read the post this morning. Funny at times. Repetitive at times. Seemed a little too much at others. Though I liked the chihuahua bit. The main contention I have with it is it seemed like it kept me from the game at hand. Like it handicapped my ability to watch a Red Sox game. Which is the whole point of this endeavor. Can't translate the excitement that comes in watching the game if I'm not watching it. For example, I didn't know Tek's HR was a 2-run shot.
I'll certainly be back tonight, though I think it won't be as often. And when I do post, I might try and be a little less trite and a little more insightful (if that's at all possible from a reeling Red Sox fan). We'll see. But tune back in here for Game 4 around 8pm or so.
As for our chances... if it rains, Wakefield has got a good shot at taking care of the Indians lineup. And for the most part, aside from that 11th inning of Game 2, our pitching has been good. It's our hitting that has faltered -- and to the likes of Jake Westbrook? Bottom-line is we need to hit better than we pitch tonight. I know that sounds a little like a McCarverism. It is. But if we can get to Byrd early, and wait on pitches, we've got a better shot at winning even if Wakefield stumbles. Of course, Mirabelli's in the line-up tonight and I'm not that confident in his bat so that hurts us. We'll see.
And I'd rather take Beckett on Thursday than on short-rest tonight so he can pitch a Game 7 if there is one. No pitcher does well in the postseason on short rest. The stats are there... well... no one but Josh Beckett (Game 6, 2003). Give me Beckett in Game 5. Regardless of tonight's outcome, that's the bigger game. If we lose tonight, it's a win or go home atmosphere. If we win tonight, we've got Beckett on the mound, a chance to go up 3-2 and back to Boston.
And Wakefield's got post-season magic on his side. A sense of entitlement. He's been with the team the longest. I love Wakefield. He's going to be magic tonight.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Game 3, Boston @ Cleveland
So we’re getting going a little late. Apparently blogging is down for the time being. But no worries, I’ve got Microsoft Word. So this will all be added and posted after the game is well underway. In the interest of full disclosure and all. Wouldn’t want to mislead my readers.
A couple of start-off notes (I’ve now paused the DVR as we are already underway):
1. I have the feeling this particular endeavor is going to end up like 80s Jeans. Wide in scope at first and then tapered and tight around the ankles.
2. I hate Tim McCarver. This will be evident rather quickly.
3. Dinner tonight will be DiGiorno Pizza and Mug Root Beer. If I’m lucky, I’ll add a Reese’s Peanut Butter cup to the mix.
4. Occasionally I surmise that life will get in the way. Thankfully I’m fully equipped with DVR. But I will do my best at all times to get back to live action.
5. You’ll have to refresh the page for the updates as I’ll be adding them in. My goal is to do each inning, but we’ll see.
First Inning
Pedrioa strikes out. Nice. Way to make Jake look good.
Kevin “The Greek God of Walks” Youkilis works, of all things, the walk on some questionable pitches. Also, was there a moratorium put on Youk’s moniker bestowed upon him by Billy Beane?
And just like that I hit play again and Ortiz grounds in to the Sick-Really Sick-I hate the shift Double Play. He can do that though. He’s Ortiz. And he ran that one out in the 5th of Game 2. That was huge only to be later overshadowed.
Dice-K makes me feel ambilvalent. I’m not really for him nor am I against him. I’m not confident in his ability, but I’m not un-confident. It’s something like a purgatory really.
And anothergreat defensive play. Sizemore is gone. And thanks to Joe Buck for giving us Step 1, Step 2, Step 3 examples of why that was a great play. Where would the world be without him.
The obligatory “Here’s how good Dice-K was in Japan” stats. Thanks for those Fox. Always Relevant those guys.
For some reason they're talking about Questec and how umps have ERAs. Huh?
End of the inning. Nice K for Dice-K. That was clever on my part.
Second Inning
A couple of things more to add. I'll not be including times only because I'll be employing the DVR, so you'll have to be going by inning.
Secondly, I really like the Jake -- the stadium, not the pitcher -- at least not the latter yet.
Dinner is done. Eating pizza and blogging ought to be interesting.
Manny works the walk. And Lowell registers the single up the gut. Good at bats and something going early. and J.D. Drew is up. Question: if I look at the pitch at home, like he does there, do I end up striking out too?
Garko makes and error. Bases Loaded, Bases Loaded, Bases Loaded. Also, it would be much cooler if Garko had a cooler first name like Trot or Manny or Ichiro. Heck, even Coco. Ryan doesn't do the last name justice.
I just got a text message from my sister. It reads: Unreal. Thing is I'm about 5 mins behind on the DVR at the moment. It's killing me but I'm only catching up in the commercials. I wonder what the message means...
Crap. Double Play. Stupid Text Message.
I'm adding Texting to my list of superstitions. I will no longer check them during the course of a game.
Rolling the Dice. Clever segment by FOX. Those guys...I'm telling you. Though I'm surprised Tim McCarver hasn't said anything stupid yet.
The Mrs. calls. Game paused. DVR time: about 2:30 behind. Run through Isaac's day -- he's sleeping mind you. She'll be home soon, in about an hour. She thinks I'm weird, live blogging and all.
Seriously, still talking about Japan and Dice-K. Nope. Now it's that Garko dude. Seriously, he needs a first name, how about Darko? Too cheesy?
Tim McCarver: "Scouting report on Dice K. When we say different pitches, we mean them." It took 37 minutes, but there it is. Oh, and followed by this lovely reparte:
McCarver: When a catcher has to use his thumb to give signs, it means he has more than four pitches.
Buck: More than five, you mean?
McCarver: [Pauses] No. More than four.
Buck: Oh yeah. You're right.
For those of you watching at home and reading, knowing I'm behind on the DVR, do you take satisfaction in waiting for me to get the point where that happens? Kenny. Lofton. Go steal a base. And J.D. catches that if he wasn't still looking at the pitch. Indians 2-0.
Did Dice-K give up HR's in Japan? Did I miss that informative segment?
Third Inning
And we're back live now to start the inning. So, for the moment, we're in this together.
Why did we stop trying to work the counts? Seriously, that's the only way we're winning this game.
Trivia Question: What do you know, involves Dice-K and Japan.
Seriously, that was a 2-minute half-inning. He threw less than 10 pitches. This does not bode well. We need to start working the counts.
During the commercial break (first one I've been able to watch live), I learned there's a movie coming out that will have me talking about it for days to come. Dear God, days to come! Also, that there's only one October. At least that's what I imagine him saying. Gloriously for us all, he didn't get to that part.
Slight bummer. I'm having to watch the game now in non-HD so that I can DVR How I Met Your Mother and Big Bang Theory. This means I won't be DVRing Samantha Who? tonight so that I only have to spare an hour of HD.
Learned that Asdrubababbel is named after the brother of the Carthenginarien General Hannibal. And here I just thought that was coincidence.
Actually I thought he was misnamed after the cat in the Smurfs.
I didn't get the trivia question right. I guessed Bud Black and Kevin Brown though.
The inning was going along splendidly, then the Smurfs cat got a hit and Pronk is up (named after a donkey, mind you). It's an Animal Farm out there.
And Dice-K seems up to his old tricks. This is the part of his pitching style that makes me ambivalent.
I'm not sure where the umpires strike zone is. In Japan, Dice-K never had this happen, this wide strike zone. What was the umps ERA again?
Not sure how waving towels distracts the pitcher. Evidence: fastball down the middle for a strike. Better luck next time hand towels.
And there's the Dice-K that also makes me ambivalent. The one who throws nasty junk with guys on base. Nice pitch. Risky, but nice. End of the Inning. Still 2-0 Indians. Tribe. Whatever you want to call them.
Up next, Big Papi, Manny and Lowell.
Fourth Inning
Commercial: Do we really need to anthropomorphize Whoppers? And is that anthropomorphizing or personification?
So I watched Hard Ball with Keanu over the weekend. Nice little baseball movie. Heart-felt. Filled with terrible acting along the way. Now, I've always wondered why no highlight reel featuring David Ortiz features the same Notorious B.I.G. "I like it when you call me Big Papa". It's a simple fact that that song should be used.
See, I do like it when you call me big Papa! Lead-off double.
DVR paused. Knocking at the door. Little girl wants to know if I've got a little chiwahah (sic) running rampant in the neighborhood. Apparently it's bothering her. She's really concerned enough to knock people's doors. Not my dog though. And unpause.
Wow. That looked like strike on Manny. Wow.
Cleveland: Are you saying where was that pitch? If so, say it a little louder so I can hear you. I'm slightly deaf in my left ear.
Can't say that happens often. Can't say I've ever EVER seen that. Big Papi was too big. And that might be the last of the Big Papi's too cause of where that ball hit him. Terrible base-running.
BARELY FOUL. See, Cleveland, I heard that gasp then sigh of relief. Much better.
That's not a settling stat. Outside of the 3-4-5 hitters, the Sox are hitting .227. This does not bode well.
Here's the thing about J.D. I like him. I do. I think he'll have a great year next year. It's just troubling to watch him succeed only to immediately falter. And staring at pitches. That has to stop. Nothing infuriates me more. Swing the bat. So far 3 pitches. No swings.
If you're going to swing at a pitch you should actually be watching, don't expect to hit those.
And there we go. Runner(s) squandered. Westbrook isn't pitching particularly well. The Sox are just not picking and waiting for pitches very well.
We're back live now, btw. Also, dinner was well-received. Five pieces of pizza. One sode. No candy only because I ran out of soda and probably should open another one. And, also, I don't hear that chihuaha. I think that girl was a little crazy. Seems like you'd hear a crazed chihuaha reeking havoc on a neighborhood.
Still am not able to figure out the strike zone. Maybe it's because it's not in HD. That's it. If it were in HD I'd be more certain of the strike zone.
Is Gyro ball pronounced Jie-row or is it pronounced Eur-oh. I'm not sure either. It's all Greek to me.
5K's for Dice-K. And no, I don't mean distance either. He's not running, he's pitching. In case you were confused.
Gwen Stefani's Sweet Escape comes over the loud-speakers at the Jake. Sweet Escape? Really? Game 3 of the ALCS seems like something you wouldn't want to escape from. But that's me. Ooo---ooo---ooo.
Commercial: It's LifeHouse vs. John Mellencamp for car ads these playoffs. I give a slight edge to LifeHouse only because they're from the West Coast and a lot of West Coasters get overlooked in the end.
Fifth Inning
It's worth noting that this is a fast moving, good game. Not a lot of excitement, for sure. Also not great pitching. It's honestly like watching a National League game. The crowd doesn't even seem into it.
Even when the hitters are making contact, it's not really going anywhere. The crack of the bat, something that usually gets me to look up, is being drowned out tonight by my typing. Seriously, why look up, the ball's not traveling anywhere.
Three broken bats. Three outs. And to answer Joe's question: Jake has not looked particularly good. The Red Sox just don't look good. But that does not thereby mean that Jake looks good.
Right now, the only thing I'm looking forward to in this game is in 20 minutes I can switch back to HD mode.
They're talking about the Jake-- the park-- right now. I've been there. Went to a Red Sox game two years ago. It's a gorgeous stadium. Easily the best outside of Fenway I've been to. Cozy. Loud. Great fans. Beautiful to look at. A place you want to take the family too. A place you want to watch baseball at.
Uh-oh. Breaking news from the major league baseball ALCS sidelines (are there sidelines in baseball?). GMs. More GMs leaving. This is huge. Good thing we had the FOX guy sequestered down there on the sidelines, gleaning every edge of input the teams are discussing.
Good AB for Casey Blake.
Is there a sign up sheet for Grady's Ladies? Auditions? Health plan?
Question: Is anyone scoring at home? Always wondered that.
Grady Sizemore is a great young player. Runs well. Throws well. Hits well. Eats well. Sleeps okay. Smells funny on Thursday's for some reason. But a great young player. You'll hear quite a lot about him in the next few years.
Tense moments....
3-0. The Smurfs cat got us. Not sure why Pedroia wasn't at double play depth. Seems like he was too shallow on that one. Costs us a run too. And looking at the replay, he clearly was out of position given Dice-K's penchant for groundballs.
And Pronk's up now. Great.
HOLY CRAP WHAT A PLAY!!!! HOW IN THE WORLD WAS HE SAFE. NO FREAKING WAY. HORRIBLE HORRIBLE CALL.
I take back my criticism of Pedroia. That was outstanding. Simply unbelievable. And forget this garbage that tie goes to the runner. You reward the fielder for making a helluva play.
Text Message from sister: He was out. Response: Agreed.
That'll do it for Dice-K. Decent outing. 6K's. 2BB's. Charged with 4 runs though two of them this inning shouldn't have happened. And a ridiculous strike zone at that. But such is. Now we're down 4 runs to the Tribe, Indians, whatever we're calling them. This does not bode well.
I need some energy before I switch back to HD and enjoy Mike Timlin in startling, crisp, clear picture. Grabbing a Gatorade. Fruit Punch flavored.
Wide Strike. I vote FOX Trax to be used in the voting booths at the next election.
Garko. My man! End of the Inning. 4-0 Cleveland after 5 innings. We need a rally badly. We need to hit the ball badly. 12 outs remain. Ugh...tense times right now. Tense times.
Commercial: Love those laughter commercials by AIG. Love them. Isaac laughs like that sometimes. Been unable to catch in on camera. But it adds years and minutes and hours and moments to your life that you are ever so thankful for. A child's laughter is among life's great joys.
Sixth Inning
Bad thing about HD: I can see Jake Westbrook's armpit hair when he winds up.
Finally, a hit for the Red Sox. Let's see if we do anything with it or end up being mesmorized by the armpit hair of one Jake Westbrook.
Maybe Jake is pitching well. 13 of 16 outs on the ground. That's pretty good. Got that sinker working well.
Why is the behind the batter game of the pitcher in film mode? It's distracting. Like Jake's armpit hair. And why are we swinging at 3-0? I never understand that. In slow pitch softball in makes sense because walking when the ball's coming 5 mph at you is semi-embarrassing. But in a playoff game. You take that pitch. Ah well, got a walk anyway.
The wife's home. Expect multiple DVR pausing. Something about a patient thinking her legs are going to explode... great story. Hilarious. Stupid HIPPA keeps me from telling you about it however.
FOX Trax for president. Where is the strike zone? Is that something you can keep track of at home?
Just got a Text Message again from my sister. Vowed not to read this one as I'm 3 mins behind.
2 on. One out. Tense moments. C'mon Manny.
Seems blogging like the Red Sox, is behind. These next few comments will seem dated then. Sorry. It's a free service.
Good AB by Manny. Working the count. Fouling off pitches. Please let this end well.
Geez. Double Freaking Play. Ugh. Seriously, someone tell my sister to stop sending Text Messages.
It's funny, my sister's Texts have a "Live on Purpose For God" line attached to all of them. The amusement is when the text references Manny's use of a curse word at the plate.
And we need to come alive. Perfect opportunity to get something going and Manny falters. This does not bode well.
I've elected to not tape Samantha Who? Will someone let me know if it's good? Preferably not through text messages. This way I can stay in HD mode.
And the Blogger is still down. Sorry. I really am trying to post in real-time.
End of Inning. Indians 4-0.
Seventh Inning
Quickly running out of time. 9 outs remain.
On an up note, I'm winning my Fantasy Football League Game. I'm beating the second ranked team -- I'm number three. So it was a pretty big game and I dominated.
El Capitan!!!!!!!! Leave it to TEK!!!!! Great shot. I thought Lowell's pop-out didn't mean good things for Jake -- the pitcher -- seeing as how sinkerball pitchers don't have pop-ups. And lo and behold Tek takes a sinkerball yard. Here. We. Go.
And straight away center too. What a shot. Let's Go.
Good AB here by Coco. There's a first name for you. And there's a strike out. Great. Fantastic. That's why I eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Good news here is that most likely the heart of the order will be up next inning and facing a new pitcher in a big spot. I like our chances. I like our chances. And it starts with Lugo right there.
So how about I didn't realize Tek's HR was a 2-run shot? How did I miss this? Seems I pulled a J.D. Drew as J.D. Drew got a base-hit. There's irony for you. There's me not paying careful attention.
I'm paying attention now...one on...two outs...Pedroia up. Here. We. Go......
I like our chances...2-2 count now on the ROY....
Way to step out... wait for your pitch... wait for your time...
These long interludes between pitches...welcome to October.
6 outs remain. Gone swinging. But alls in order for the 8th.
I'd try to describe the tension right now. The silence echoing in the room. The bated breaths. The light tapping on the key board. The thoughts focused on the next inning. The next chance. We just have to get to there. But there's no words to capture it. No real, utterable words though. In these moments there's only similies and metaphors and descriptions. No words, or set of words really works. Really captures it.
See that camera man! Swatting bugs away during the sideline report. Hilarious. Not funny: The Midge Masks. How do you do that with a straight face. And where did Chris Meyers come from? And is he on the other sideline from Rosenmenthol-- how many sidelines are there in baseball!!!!!??????
That breaking ball just punctured the o-zone. And, somehow tonight, managed also to puncture the strike zone.
I'll be honest, I'm not listening much to the announcers. I'm pretty sure they're not saying anything though. In fact, they could be passing resolutions for all I know.
Is anyone else shocked that the Devil Rays have never played in the World Series. Most Startling Fact Presented by FOX and probably by Chevy tonight. Easily.
Alright. Joe Buck said it. Big inning. Big. Inning. Oh, and the wife is relaying the exploding leg story to a friend over the phone. It's still funny. And she's telling another doctor. I don't think that violates HIPPA. Seriously, it's a funny story.
Eighth Inning
Does eighth inning looking funny to anyone else? Do I need to include a [sic]? I know it's right but it looks wrong.
BTW the Rockies game is about to start. I won't be blogging that one but depending on the outcome of this one I might try and stay up for the conclusion. I mean 20 out of 21 is pretty freaking impressive and I owe it to the game and the record to pay attention.
Alright. The man they call Yook is up. Apparently he sees more pitchers per at-bat than all active players. It's the inactive ones who are seeing more pitches. Jim Palmer's got him beat in a landslide.
Crap. The ninja turtle Rafael Bet-and-Court is in. He's good. Got good, nasty stuff. No one said this would be easy. But will it be this hard?
And there's film camera again. Surreal really.
Yook Sweat. In HD. Almost as good as armpit hair. Almost.
Nice pitch. 5 outs remain. Good AB though, I suppose. Big out still. For both sides.
This does not bode well. Ortiz rips it to right field. Out. 4 outs left. 2 runs down. We need something fast.
I'm posting at a ridiculous pace. So much nervous energy. So much tension. This is brutal. And I love it. I'd be a great candidate for Opus Dei.
Actually, the correct time, Tribe fans is: 10:12 PM EST. There is no such thing as Tribe Time. It does not exist. It is like the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and Aliens (probably).
3 outs remain. FOX just played some sort of tragic Americana Copeland Military Band type music. Odd choice of song.
Commercial: Person most likely to hold the key to earth's survival: I'm going with key maker. Locksmith if you will. Not decrepit, yet dashing college student.
Sister Text Message: "Do you know the Red Sox team drink. Live on Purpose For God." I do not. Sadly. But I'll certainly have what they're having.
Sister Text Message: "Can you pass a can of CHOKE. Live on Purpose For God." It's a little early for that... I don't consider this a choke, sorry. And it's too soon for joking!
Okajima's pitched relatively well. McCarver's telling me he's not used to working multiple innings. I really hope the hitters don't know that.
No score yet in the Rockies-DBacks game.
Sister Text Message: "They can still come back. I'm just messing with you. I believe. Your nephew was yelling and freaking out. He was talking all kinds of trash." Response: I'm a little sensitive right now.
McCarver: "You wonder what it's going to take to get Gagne back into a game at this point." Answer: Hell. Freezing. Over.
Del-Camino (to quote Mr. Pitt in the Mexican) is throwing junk.
Sister Text Message: "Aww... It's ok. They can come back."
Here we go...Here we go...Here we go...
Ninth Inning
I'm typing in bold for two reasons. One, I can't figure out how to turn it off. Secondly, this is it.
Borowski's pitching. It'll be interesting at least.
Lowell.....Lowell...Ugh. 2 outs remain. This does not bode well....
I promise to watch this J.D. Drew AB. Let's hope he chooses to do the same.
Hey, at least my late local news is coming up....
I'll be honest. I'm sweating right now. Not Yook sweat mind you, but computer sweat from having the laptop on my legs.
And two outs...one remains...
Seriously, wait on pitches with this guy. Make him throw you strikes. He won't. I swear it.
................................so tense.................
How tall do you have to be for that to be a ball??????$%#$%#$%#%
He's throwing balls...I told you.
Good insight there from McCarver. Put it on a tee...great insight.
Lots of leg sweat at the moment....Bordering on Yook sweat.
That's it.
Crap.
so much for my 4,000 words, 3.5 hours, red sox win=priceless end summation. That's all. I'll have more tomorrow...
A couple of start-off notes (I’ve now paused the DVR as we are already underway):
1. I have the feeling this particular endeavor is going to end up like 80s Jeans. Wide in scope at first and then tapered and tight around the ankles.
2. I hate Tim McCarver. This will be evident rather quickly.
3. Dinner tonight will be DiGiorno Pizza and Mug Root Beer. If I’m lucky, I’ll add a Reese’s Peanut Butter cup to the mix.
4. Occasionally I surmise that life will get in the way. Thankfully I’m fully equipped with DVR. But I will do my best at all times to get back to live action.
5. You’ll have to refresh the page for the updates as I’ll be adding them in. My goal is to do each inning, but we’ll see.
First Inning
Pedrioa strikes out. Nice. Way to make Jake look good.
Kevin “The Greek God of Walks” Youkilis works, of all things, the walk on some questionable pitches. Also, was there a moratorium put on Youk’s moniker bestowed upon him by Billy Beane?
And just like that I hit play again and Ortiz grounds in to the Sick-Really Sick-I hate the shift Double Play. He can do that though. He’s Ortiz. And he ran that one out in the 5th of Game 2. That was huge only to be later overshadowed.
Dice-K makes me feel ambilvalent. I’m not really for him nor am I against him. I’m not confident in his ability, but I’m not un-confident. It’s something like a purgatory really.
And anothergreat defensive play. Sizemore is gone. And thanks to Joe Buck for giving us Step 1, Step 2, Step 3 examples of why that was a great play. Where would the world be without him.
The obligatory “Here’s how good Dice-K was in Japan” stats. Thanks for those Fox. Always Relevant those guys.
For some reason they're talking about Questec and how umps have ERAs. Huh?
End of the inning. Nice K for Dice-K. That was clever on my part.
Second Inning
A couple of things more to add. I'll not be including times only because I'll be employing the DVR, so you'll have to be going by inning.
Secondly, I really like the Jake -- the stadium, not the pitcher -- at least not the latter yet.
Dinner is done. Eating pizza and blogging ought to be interesting.
Manny works the walk. And Lowell registers the single up the gut. Good at bats and something going early. and J.D. Drew is up. Question: if I look at the pitch at home, like he does there, do I end up striking out too?
Garko makes and error. Bases Loaded, Bases Loaded, Bases Loaded. Also, it would be much cooler if Garko had a cooler first name like Trot or Manny or Ichiro. Heck, even Coco. Ryan doesn't do the last name justice.
I just got a text message from my sister. It reads: Unreal. Thing is I'm about 5 mins behind on the DVR at the moment. It's killing me but I'm only catching up in the commercials. I wonder what the message means...
Crap. Double Play. Stupid Text Message.
I'm adding Texting to my list of superstitions. I will no longer check them during the course of a game.
Rolling the Dice. Clever segment by FOX. Those guys...I'm telling you. Though I'm surprised Tim McCarver hasn't said anything stupid yet.
The Mrs. calls. Game paused. DVR time: about 2:30 behind. Run through Isaac's day -- he's sleeping mind you. She'll be home soon, in about an hour. She thinks I'm weird, live blogging and all.
Seriously, still talking about Japan and Dice-K. Nope. Now it's that Garko dude. Seriously, he needs a first name, how about Darko? Too cheesy?
Tim McCarver: "Scouting report on Dice K. When we say different pitches, we mean them." It took 37 minutes, but there it is. Oh, and followed by this lovely reparte:
McCarver: When a catcher has to use his thumb to give signs, it means he has more than four pitches.
Buck: More than five, you mean?
McCarver: [Pauses] No. More than four.
Buck: Oh yeah. You're right.
For those of you watching at home and reading, knowing I'm behind on the DVR, do you take satisfaction in waiting for me to get the point where that happens? Kenny. Lofton. Go steal a base. And J.D. catches that if he wasn't still looking at the pitch. Indians 2-0.
Did Dice-K give up HR's in Japan? Did I miss that informative segment?
Third Inning
And we're back live now to start the inning. So, for the moment, we're in this together.
Why did we stop trying to work the counts? Seriously, that's the only way we're winning this game.
Trivia Question: What do you know, involves Dice-K and Japan.
Seriously, that was a 2-minute half-inning. He threw less than 10 pitches. This does not bode well. We need to start working the counts.
During the commercial break (first one I've been able to watch live), I learned there's a movie coming out that will have me talking about it for days to come. Dear God, days to come! Also, that there's only one October. At least that's what I imagine him saying. Gloriously for us all, he didn't get to that part.
Slight bummer. I'm having to watch the game now in non-HD so that I can DVR How I Met Your Mother and Big Bang Theory. This means I won't be DVRing Samantha Who? tonight so that I only have to spare an hour of HD.
Learned that Asdrubababbel is named after the brother of the Carthenginarien General Hannibal. And here I just thought that was coincidence.
Actually I thought he was misnamed after the cat in the Smurfs.
I didn't get the trivia question right. I guessed Bud Black and Kevin Brown though.
The inning was going along splendidly, then the Smurfs cat got a hit and Pronk is up (named after a donkey, mind you). It's an Animal Farm out there.
And Dice-K seems up to his old tricks. This is the part of his pitching style that makes me ambivalent.
I'm not sure where the umpires strike zone is. In Japan, Dice-K never had this happen, this wide strike zone. What was the umps ERA again?
Not sure how waving towels distracts the pitcher. Evidence: fastball down the middle for a strike. Better luck next time hand towels.
And there's the Dice-K that also makes me ambivalent. The one who throws nasty junk with guys on base. Nice pitch. Risky, but nice. End of the Inning. Still 2-0 Indians. Tribe. Whatever you want to call them.
Up next, Big Papi, Manny and Lowell.
Fourth Inning
Commercial: Do we really need to anthropomorphize Whoppers? And is that anthropomorphizing or personification?
So I watched Hard Ball with Keanu over the weekend. Nice little baseball movie. Heart-felt. Filled with terrible acting along the way. Now, I've always wondered why no highlight reel featuring David Ortiz features the same Notorious B.I.G. "I like it when you call me Big Papa". It's a simple fact that that song should be used.
See, I do like it when you call me big Papa! Lead-off double.
DVR paused. Knocking at the door. Little girl wants to know if I've got a little chiwahah (sic) running rampant in the neighborhood. Apparently it's bothering her. She's really concerned enough to knock people's doors. Not my dog though. And unpause.
Wow. That looked like strike on Manny. Wow.
Cleveland: Are you saying where was that pitch? If so, say it a little louder so I can hear you. I'm slightly deaf in my left ear.
Can't say that happens often. Can't say I've ever EVER seen that. Big Papi was too big. And that might be the last of the Big Papi's too cause of where that ball hit him. Terrible base-running.
BARELY FOUL. See, Cleveland, I heard that gasp then sigh of relief. Much better.
That's not a settling stat. Outside of the 3-4-5 hitters, the Sox are hitting .227. This does not bode well.
Here's the thing about J.D. I like him. I do. I think he'll have a great year next year. It's just troubling to watch him succeed only to immediately falter. And staring at pitches. That has to stop. Nothing infuriates me more. Swing the bat. So far 3 pitches. No swings.
If you're going to swing at a pitch you should actually be watching, don't expect to hit those.
And there we go. Runner(s) squandered. Westbrook isn't pitching particularly well. The Sox are just not picking and waiting for pitches very well.
We're back live now, btw. Also, dinner was well-received. Five pieces of pizza. One sode. No candy only because I ran out of soda and probably should open another one. And, also, I don't hear that chihuaha. I think that girl was a little crazy. Seems like you'd hear a crazed chihuaha reeking havoc on a neighborhood.
Still am not able to figure out the strike zone. Maybe it's because it's not in HD. That's it. If it were in HD I'd be more certain of the strike zone.
Is Gyro ball pronounced Jie-row or is it pronounced Eur-oh. I'm not sure either. It's all Greek to me.
5K's for Dice-K. And no, I don't mean distance either. He's not running, he's pitching. In case you were confused.
Gwen Stefani's Sweet Escape comes over the loud-speakers at the Jake. Sweet Escape? Really? Game 3 of the ALCS seems like something you wouldn't want to escape from. But that's me. Ooo---ooo---ooo.
Commercial: It's LifeHouse vs. John Mellencamp for car ads these playoffs. I give a slight edge to LifeHouse only because they're from the West Coast and a lot of West Coasters get overlooked in the end.
Fifth Inning
It's worth noting that this is a fast moving, good game. Not a lot of excitement, for sure. Also not great pitching. It's honestly like watching a National League game. The crowd doesn't even seem into it.
Even when the hitters are making contact, it's not really going anywhere. The crack of the bat, something that usually gets me to look up, is being drowned out tonight by my typing. Seriously, why look up, the ball's not traveling anywhere.
Three broken bats. Three outs. And to answer Joe's question: Jake has not looked particularly good. The Red Sox just don't look good. But that does not thereby mean that Jake looks good.
Right now, the only thing I'm looking forward to in this game is in 20 minutes I can switch back to HD mode.
They're talking about the Jake-- the park-- right now. I've been there. Went to a Red Sox game two years ago. It's a gorgeous stadium. Easily the best outside of Fenway I've been to. Cozy. Loud. Great fans. Beautiful to look at. A place you want to take the family too. A place you want to watch baseball at.
Uh-oh. Breaking news from the major league baseball ALCS sidelines (are there sidelines in baseball?). GMs. More GMs leaving. This is huge. Good thing we had the FOX guy sequestered down there on the sidelines, gleaning every edge of input the teams are discussing.
Good AB for Casey Blake.
Is there a sign up sheet for Grady's Ladies? Auditions? Health plan?
Question: Is anyone scoring at home? Always wondered that.
Grady Sizemore is a great young player. Runs well. Throws well. Hits well. Eats well. Sleeps okay. Smells funny on Thursday's for some reason. But a great young player. You'll hear quite a lot about him in the next few years.
Tense moments....
3-0. The Smurfs cat got us. Not sure why Pedroia wasn't at double play depth. Seems like he was too shallow on that one. Costs us a run too. And looking at the replay, he clearly was out of position given Dice-K's penchant for groundballs.
And Pronk's up now. Great.
HOLY CRAP WHAT A PLAY!!!! HOW IN THE WORLD WAS HE SAFE. NO FREAKING WAY. HORRIBLE HORRIBLE CALL.
I take back my criticism of Pedroia. That was outstanding. Simply unbelievable. And forget this garbage that tie goes to the runner. You reward the fielder for making a helluva play.
Text Message from sister: He was out. Response: Agreed.
That'll do it for Dice-K. Decent outing. 6K's. 2BB's. Charged with 4 runs though two of them this inning shouldn't have happened. And a ridiculous strike zone at that. But such is. Now we're down 4 runs to the Tribe, Indians, whatever we're calling them. This does not bode well.
I need some energy before I switch back to HD and enjoy Mike Timlin in startling, crisp, clear picture. Grabbing a Gatorade. Fruit Punch flavored.
Wide Strike. I vote FOX Trax to be used in the voting booths at the next election.
Garko. My man! End of the Inning. 4-0 Cleveland after 5 innings. We need a rally badly. We need to hit the ball badly. 12 outs remain. Ugh...tense times right now. Tense times.
Commercial: Love those laughter commercials by AIG. Love them. Isaac laughs like that sometimes. Been unable to catch in on camera. But it adds years and minutes and hours and moments to your life that you are ever so thankful for. A child's laughter is among life's great joys.
Sixth Inning
Bad thing about HD: I can see Jake Westbrook's armpit hair when he winds up.
Finally, a hit for the Red Sox. Let's see if we do anything with it or end up being mesmorized by the armpit hair of one Jake Westbrook.
Maybe Jake is pitching well. 13 of 16 outs on the ground. That's pretty good. Got that sinker working well.
Why is the behind the batter game of the pitcher in film mode? It's distracting. Like Jake's armpit hair. And why are we swinging at 3-0? I never understand that. In slow pitch softball in makes sense because walking when the ball's coming 5 mph at you is semi-embarrassing. But in a playoff game. You take that pitch. Ah well, got a walk anyway.
The wife's home. Expect multiple DVR pausing. Something about a patient thinking her legs are going to explode... great story. Hilarious. Stupid HIPPA keeps me from telling you about it however.
FOX Trax for president. Where is the strike zone? Is that something you can keep track of at home?
Just got a Text Message again from my sister. Vowed not to read this one as I'm 3 mins behind.
2 on. One out. Tense moments. C'mon Manny.
Seems blogging like the Red Sox, is behind. These next few comments will seem dated then. Sorry. It's a free service.
Good AB by Manny. Working the count. Fouling off pitches. Please let this end well.
Geez. Double Freaking Play. Ugh. Seriously, someone tell my sister to stop sending Text Messages.
It's funny, my sister's Texts have a "Live on Purpose For God" line attached to all of them. The amusement is when the text references Manny's use of a curse word at the plate.
And we need to come alive. Perfect opportunity to get something going and Manny falters. This does not bode well.
I've elected to not tape Samantha Who? Will someone let me know if it's good? Preferably not through text messages. This way I can stay in HD mode.
And the Blogger is still down. Sorry. I really am trying to post in real-time.
End of Inning. Indians 4-0.
Seventh Inning
Quickly running out of time. 9 outs remain.
On an up note, I'm winning my Fantasy Football League Game. I'm beating the second ranked team -- I'm number three. So it was a pretty big game and I dominated.
El Capitan!!!!!!!! Leave it to TEK!!!!! Great shot. I thought Lowell's pop-out didn't mean good things for Jake -- the pitcher -- seeing as how sinkerball pitchers don't have pop-ups. And lo and behold Tek takes a sinkerball yard. Here. We. Go.
And straight away center too. What a shot. Let's Go.
Good AB here by Coco. There's a first name for you. And there's a strike out. Great. Fantastic. That's why I eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Good news here is that most likely the heart of the order will be up next inning and facing a new pitcher in a big spot. I like our chances. I like our chances. And it starts with Lugo right there.
So how about I didn't realize Tek's HR was a 2-run shot? How did I miss this? Seems I pulled a J.D. Drew as J.D. Drew got a base-hit. There's irony for you. There's me not paying careful attention.
I'm paying attention now...one on...two outs...Pedroia up. Here. We. Go......
I like our chances...2-2 count now on the ROY....
Way to step out... wait for your pitch... wait for your time...
These long interludes between pitches...welcome to October.
6 outs remain. Gone swinging. But alls in order for the 8th.
I'd try to describe the tension right now. The silence echoing in the room. The bated breaths. The light tapping on the key board. The thoughts focused on the next inning. The next chance. We just have to get to there. But there's no words to capture it. No real, utterable words though. In these moments there's only similies and metaphors and descriptions. No words, or set of words really works. Really captures it.
See that camera man! Swatting bugs away during the sideline report. Hilarious. Not funny: The Midge Masks. How do you do that with a straight face. And where did Chris Meyers come from? And is he on the other sideline from Rosenmenthol-- how many sidelines are there in baseball!!!!!??????
That breaking ball just punctured the o-zone. And, somehow tonight, managed also to puncture the strike zone.
I'll be honest, I'm not listening much to the announcers. I'm pretty sure they're not saying anything though. In fact, they could be passing resolutions for all I know.
Is anyone else shocked that the Devil Rays have never played in the World Series. Most Startling Fact Presented by FOX and probably by Chevy tonight. Easily.
Alright. Joe Buck said it. Big inning. Big. Inning. Oh, and the wife is relaying the exploding leg story to a friend over the phone. It's still funny. And she's telling another doctor. I don't think that violates HIPPA. Seriously, it's a funny story.
Eighth Inning
Does eighth inning looking funny to anyone else? Do I need to include a [sic]? I know it's right but it looks wrong.
BTW the Rockies game is about to start. I won't be blogging that one but depending on the outcome of this one I might try and stay up for the conclusion. I mean 20 out of 21 is pretty freaking impressive and I owe it to the game and the record to pay attention.
Alright. The man they call Yook is up. Apparently he sees more pitchers per at-bat than all active players. It's the inactive ones who are seeing more pitches. Jim Palmer's got him beat in a landslide.
Crap. The ninja turtle Rafael Bet-and-Court is in. He's good. Got good, nasty stuff. No one said this would be easy. But will it be this hard?
And there's film camera again. Surreal really.
Yook Sweat. In HD. Almost as good as armpit hair. Almost.
Nice pitch. 5 outs remain. Good AB though, I suppose. Big out still. For both sides.
This does not bode well. Ortiz rips it to right field. Out. 4 outs left. 2 runs down. We need something fast.
I'm posting at a ridiculous pace. So much nervous energy. So much tension. This is brutal. And I love it. I'd be a great candidate for Opus Dei.
Actually, the correct time, Tribe fans is: 10:12 PM EST. There is no such thing as Tribe Time. It does not exist. It is like the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and Aliens (probably).
3 outs remain. FOX just played some sort of tragic Americana Copeland Military Band type music. Odd choice of song.
Commercial: Person most likely to hold the key to earth's survival: I'm going with key maker. Locksmith if you will. Not decrepit, yet dashing college student.
Sister Text Message: "Do you know the Red Sox team drink. Live on Purpose For God." I do not. Sadly. But I'll certainly have what they're having.
Sister Text Message: "Can you pass a can of CHOKE. Live on Purpose For God." It's a little early for that... I don't consider this a choke, sorry. And it's too soon for joking!
Okajima's pitched relatively well. McCarver's telling me he's not used to working multiple innings. I really hope the hitters don't know that.
No score yet in the Rockies-DBacks game.
Sister Text Message: "They can still come back. I'm just messing with you. I believe. Your nephew was yelling and freaking out. He was talking all kinds of trash." Response: I'm a little sensitive right now.
McCarver: "You wonder what it's going to take to get Gagne back into a game at this point." Answer: Hell. Freezing. Over.
Del-Camino (to quote Mr. Pitt in the Mexican) is throwing junk.
Sister Text Message: "Aww... It's ok. They can come back."
Here we go...Here we go...Here we go...
Ninth Inning
I'm typing in bold for two reasons. One, I can't figure out how to turn it off. Secondly, this is it.
Borowski's pitching. It'll be interesting at least.
Lowell.....Lowell...Ugh. 2 outs remain. This does not bode well....
I promise to watch this J.D. Drew AB. Let's hope he chooses to do the same.
Hey, at least my late local news is coming up....
I'll be honest. I'm sweating right now. Not Yook sweat mind you, but computer sweat from having the laptop on my legs.
And two outs...one remains...
Seriously, wait on pitches with this guy. Make him throw you strikes. He won't. I swear it.
................................so tense.................
How tall do you have to be for that to be a ball??????$%#$%#$%#%
He's throwing balls...I told you.
Good insight there from McCarver. Put it on a tee...great insight.
Lots of leg sweat at the moment....Bordering on Yook sweat.
That's it.
Crap.
so much for my 4,000 words, 3.5 hours, red sox win=priceless end summation. That's all. I'll have more tomorrow...
Why Start Now?
It's Game 3. Already I've missed 5 games. So why begin blogging about the "events of October, 2007 as it pertains to the Boston Red Sox"? Well, there are several reasons.
1. Being a Red Sox fan is a good joy. It's not one of life's great joys, such ranking saved for the meaningful experiences of life, like marriage and the birth of a child. But being a Red Sox fan is up there.
2. Being a Red Sox fan in October. Up until recently, it was one of life's fleeting joys. Something one pined for. Now, it's par for the course -- to mix sports metaphors.
3. There's only one October. I checked. Did you know there is also only one November, December and April through September also: only one of them. What remains circumspect and pure speculation are the existences of a sole January, February and March. It is the belief of this writer that there is actually no February. Instead, there are 1.5 Januaries and 1.5 Marches.
Combine these reasons and it becomes the goal for me, to capture for you, in more than a few words, ramblings, observations, corny jokes, diatribes, vitriols, tears, laughter and perhaps some theology/philosophy of such an amalgamation. Also, there will be preposterous statements made.
I also relished the opportunity to name a blog as I have done. Hope you like it. Strikes me as simpleton. Pre-serving clam chowder and pizza at baseball games. Implying there'll be no JumboTrons and Rally Monkeys
Just here to take you out to a few ballgames.
1. Being a Red Sox fan is a good joy. It's not one of life's great joys, such ranking saved for the meaningful experiences of life, like marriage and the birth of a child. But being a Red Sox fan is up there.
2. Being a Red Sox fan in October. Up until recently, it was one of life's fleeting joys. Something one pined for. Now, it's par for the course -- to mix sports metaphors.
3. There's only one October. I checked. Did you know there is also only one November, December and April through September also: only one of them. What remains circumspect and pure speculation are the existences of a sole January, February and March. It is the belief of this writer that there is actually no February. Instead, there are 1.5 Januaries and 1.5 Marches.
Combine these reasons and it becomes the goal for me, to capture for you, in more than a few words, ramblings, observations, corny jokes, diatribes, vitriols, tears, laughter and perhaps some theology/philosophy of such an amalgamation. Also, there will be preposterous statements made.
I also relished the opportunity to name a blog as I have done. Hope you like it. Strikes me as simpleton. Pre-serving clam chowder and pizza at baseball games. Implying there'll be no JumboTrons and Rally Monkeys
Just here to take you out to a few ballgames.
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