Hey, at least it ain't bronze.

After an entertaining but disappointing loss yesterday, a thought occurred to me that I wasn't certain about. Then it stuck with it. Then it came back to me at noon, and then before I could write it myself, Yanksfan/Soxfan did. The AL East? We ain't winning it.

Now, not winning the AL East in recent years took us to the ALCS three times, and the World Series and a sweet, sweet championship once, so this isn't an end-all or be-all. The microphone god once said, it ain't where you're from, it's where you're at. As for the playoffs, it ain't how you (hopefully) enter the playoffs so much as it is how you (hopefully don't) exit.

The Red Sox are playing decent baseball since the exit of Manuel Ramirez, but the Rays are still on fire, so the most likely best-case scenario is, the Sox catch a little fire at the end but the Rays still finish a game or two ahead, sorta like the way the 2004 pennant chase ended. And it's okay. Hey, I love AL East pennants, and last year's meant a lot to me, since the AL East pennant before that was won with the help of the proprietor's MVP season. They don't mean that much, though.

And sadly, there's that other thing to consider: a wild card doesn't seem as painful when the Yankees aren't taking said AL East pennant.

It's pathetic. But it's true.

(Sigh. Now let's split this ChiSox series, please.)

GAME TWENTY-TWO: Winning streaks are fun.

Not even Dustin Pedroia's drunken Everclear-fueled incident, or Josh Beckett's sore neck, or David Pauley's...existence, can stop the Sox.

It was the third significant comeback of this six-game streak, and when one includes the mammoth comeback in a losing cause on Wednesday, it seems this team has a predilection for the dramatic. The top two of the lineup killed Angel pitching to the tune of 7-10, 4 runs, 3 RBIs, including the game winning bunt hit (Ellsbury)/ RBI double (Bushwick Dustin) combination. Add in some solid bullpen work by ol' Pizzaface Tavarez, man of shadow Okajima, Mike Timlin's one-out win (it was a big out, though), and Jon Papelbon making the baseball bleed with 99 mph stuff.



This is fun. Not so much so for the Angels, who have had the Red Sox put a hurtin' on him since at least 2004 (see above ALDS victory celebration), or maybe ever since this guy pitched for 'em. Boss Vaughn enjoys it too, maybe because the Anaheim squad jettisoned him for cash and Appier right before that championship season, maybe not. If the Angels continue their free-swinging ways, Daisuke Matsuzaka, a pitcher who has never found a strike he wasn't willing to make less strike-y, will be right at home. Keep it rollin'.

Alex Rodriguez: The anti-Mo Vaughn.

Awesome! The humanization/villainization of Alex Rodriguez continues, this time by the New York Times' article "A-Rod’s Properties and Charity Suggest Some Decrepitude of Soul." (Er, "Stinginess," that was supposed to read. Honest mistake.") This article describes some crappy apartment buildings owned by Mr. Rod in Tampa, FL, with carpets stained from the '90s, rickety banisters, piles of old mattresses rotting by the dumpsters, residents quoted as saying things like "Honestly, I was raised in a ghetto and I was brought up a little better than this." Oh, and managers who manage to lose the rent, then kick out tenants for missing rent.

How the fuck do you lose the rent? A gust of Florida can blow away the wind. It can't blow the money on lottery tickets and...whatever else there is to spend money on in Tampa. Flimsy summer suits? Salsa records? Also, A-Rod donated less than $6K to charity in 2005. And his shitty properties have LOST value!

Eh, whatever. We all know that it isn't possible to make money and not be evil. And baseball players don't make great businesspeople, especially not in real estate. I can't think of a single former MLB player who is making money in real estate while doing good work to make project buildings genuine residences.



But you know whose apartment buildings wouldn't be falling apart? Derek Jeter. Now that guy knows how to hire a clutch carpenter, and get his evictions done in April, when it doesn't count as much. Jeter knows not to cut corners or cheat on anything. Because all of your mistakes can come back to you:

(mo speaks for a minute.)

Hey. Proprietor speaking. We're cleaning up this place. Had to send the barkeeper home; he's working too hard on his other nine jobs. Just catch up for awhile. Try the jukebox and don't even watch this guy's hands. I had hands like that. They build buildings now. Good night.

Postgame, Game 1: Strictly Business.

If you really wanna get down, well, look up. I dunno, man. I'm ecstatic but there's a lot going on right now with me, almost all of it good. But...

Anyone know the song "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder. I like that song, and yet I'm listening to The Secret Life Of Plants right now, a challenging and possibly awful record right now. Thank God you meddling kids didn't buy this when I was chilling (or attempting to) and selling some stuff I thought I could live without on Bedford Ave with my friend Harry. Some girl named Madox (Or...wait...Maddox? I hope it wasn't the latter.) took pictures of me thinking I might fit into...I dunno, some magazine I'd regret later. It didn't happen, and the money would have been nice, but I'm pretty average looking to myself, and imma go bald soon enough. Whatever, I was desperate (for $$, mainly) and it was flattery. Hope someone out there is enjoying "17 Days" right now, because I would love to flip that 45 on 33 right now.

Beckett was masterful.

Coco made a few plays you didn't even notice. Someone make this man a cereal already.

Ellsbury was nicely deployed. Someone buy Tito Francona a shot of this if he needs one after Friday...not that you'll see him around Boston. One of these days Jim, who sent me a genuinely...great? Globe piece on Mike Lowell and the shit he's been through, will set me straight on Boston, a place I love and fear and just don't know very well.

You know where I'm from if you've been following this thing from the start. And you haven't. (Unless you're Josh Wilker, I guess.) Me and Mo, man. Norwalk, CT. The Martime Center is pretty close to where I was born. Pretty shiny aquarium.

I'm tired. This doesn't all make sense to anyone but me, but this is ten minutes of writing and linking, roughly. I didn't mean to end up having just gotten home at this hour, but Erik Marcisak means more to me than I can say, so I stayed in the bar and stuck to two beers. Er, and a vodka Rick Younger bought me. I don't like vodka that much, but clear is better than brown as far as water goes, and a shark on whiskey is mighty risky:



And one more thing. Mets fans, seriously...



The next imaginary round is on me.

Night.

Now That is a fun, fun fact.

From today's Herald...

"...The slugger’s .333 average would be the highest for a left-handed Sox hitter since Mo Vaughn finished at .337 in 1998..."



If you don't know which present-day slugger we're talking about here, but are still a Red Sox fan, I recommend reading a site closer to your intellectual speed. I love David Ortiz and Mo Vaughn for different reasons...and the same reasons. I can only hope that in 2015 I've got another big, slow, powerful quasi-first baseman with bat control to root for. Strongly agnostic as I am, that would be what I call a holy trinity.

Since 2004, I've shed a lot of superstition. I don't deeply believe in signs (or at least don't think we realize how many of these "signs" are actually Yield and Stop signs). I do believe that there is such thing as pure coincidence. But I also remember seeing Johnny Damon hit two home runs off Javy Vazquez in a June 2004 game at the Stadium, otherwise a miserable Derek Lowe experience, especially every time Javy struck a Sox out and the scoreboard flashed "Javy Nice Day." Complete with stupid 60s tie-dyed swirls and, you know, the Wal-Mart mascot. I wanted deeply to stab myself with my scorecard pencil; I settled for breaking it in six and burning the half-finished scorecard later. Goddamn it, Derek.

(I don't wear t-shirts like this anymore, but my is it brilliant.)



The point is game 7 of the 2004 ALCS. Johnny Damon and his two home runs. And, oh, the grand slam that basically shut the door until the Pedro Martinez Experience brought slight unfounded flashbacks of 2003.

You know damn well who threw that fat pitch that still hasn't landed (and never really will) in the happiest corner of my mind's eye. Yeah. Javy nice day to you too. Enjoy your 70s hangover while you're at it.

Is David Ortiz's amazing transformation into a genuine Triple Crown threat a sign? And the 12 years since 1995 thing?

Did this blog's creation make this happen? Does this mean that like 1995, we might (gulp) catch a bit of a whompin' from the Injuns in the ALCS if, new Mo willing, we get there?

No, not really.

But it's still giving me a grin as big as The Ritz.

"Thank God for Mo Vaughn!"

The tradeoff for Mo Vaughn's disappointing Mets career continues to be better for the city of New York than any MVP season. (See the Outside the Lines video in the middle of today's Diamond Daily, under "Heart of Gold." Thanks to Jim, again.)

No seriously, Mo Vaughn really is my hero.

Mo Vaughn owns New York.

Mo Vaughn is still my hero; this is one more reason why. Check out the photo gallery for the picture of the security room of one of the former projects he owns though: Vaughn's cameras are there to stop drug dealing. ("It's better than the Man.") But in the movie script, the cameras are for other purposes. Nino Brown shit.



In other news, the Foxy Lady's still in business. Just if you were wondering, boss Vaughn. I'll go back to slicing fruit and ordering the kegs now.