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.