GAME ONE: Meched, mashed, and mangled.

A picture speaks a thousand words; rather than ramble too long about Schilling having no command of his fastball and thus no command at all (Schilling and Pavano had disturbingly similar opening day lines, the difference being that the Yankees won anyway), the Sox lineup making an admittedly impressive Gil Meche look like Walter Johnson out there, and, y'know, the whole losing to Kansas City thing, I'll sum this game up just like this:



Fuck, I can't help myself. More on the game. (PS: that's chocolate, not actual shite. It disturbs me that someone would make that, though.)

So, yeah, Schilling got shelled. (Is this too much of a cliche now to use? Schilling took a killing? Schilling was illin'? Help me out here, people.) The offense didn't make the most of eight hits. But after a friend of mine sent the inevitable "Kansas City is clearly the best team in the majors" facetious bitter e-mail, I've gotta advise some calm, as much to myself as you, since I'm already in 162 games/162 seasons mode, and it feels like we just finished last in the AL East.

(Breathe.)

Hey, Dustin Pedroia had two hits, even if he made a youthful indiscretion in trying to stretch one for a double. He was only out by 15 feet. Boys will be boys. J.D. Drew looked good up there for as long as he doesn't fall down a staircase breaking everything. And Hideki Okajima, who desperately needs a nickname so as to avoid the inevitable Boston name of "the other Jap," had a pretty good debut after giving up a home run on his first pitch, itself an impressive feat. (With him being another Hideki in the majors, may I recommend he be Mothra to Matsui's Godzilla?) And, um, it didn't happen at home?