WORLD SERIES GAME ONE: Rocks-a-tumblin'

A guide to landslides above. Writing to come when there's actual baseball to write of.

GAME SIXTY FIVE: Fuck you, Cal Ripken!

We got beaten. We got pummeled. We got stuck in a blizzard, and it wasn't from DQ. We got buried in a Rocky Mountain landslide and were forced to shotgun Coors Light until we were sick, then woke up in a pool of our own vomit next to a heaping plate of Rocky Mountain oysters and Mountain tendergroins, with no pants and a Terrell Davis jersey on. We put our #1 and #2 starters out there, and they made the Colorado lineup look like it was still in a humidor-free Coors Field, or maybe the old Mile High when it was even more extreme a pitcher's park. You know, the park where Sid Bream hit the first ever check-swing home run? That's what it was like, with Kaz Matsui (is there any position player time in Colorado can't resurrect?) playing the role of Sid Bream. We couldn't swing our bats for shit and haven't lately. (3.7 runs per game for the month.) Now continuing on...



Walking out of the office down 8th Avenue to grab my lunch, I picked up my cell phone and found I had a voice mail; upon hearing the first part of the message, I thought it was my friend Patrick, but I couldn't understand what the shit he was talking about. This isn't really anything new with Patrick, however, as he is prone to spouting off lots of random shit, including making up stuff in the voice of the Busher from Ring Lardner's You Know Me, Al.

Then this voice identified himself as Cal Ripken Jr., and started pitching me on XM Radio, and how I could listen to it anywhere, even if I had to move in with my parents or something. This seemed like a bit of a low blow, as I am presently making an adequate salary to maintain the lifestyle I am accustomed to living and am unlikely to be moving in with my parents anytime soon. Then he wished my Red Sox, "your passion," luck, "but not too much luck." Then he pulled a shocker on me:

CAL RIPKEN JR: "Let's go Yankees! Let's go Yankees!"



After erasing this demonic presence from my phone and wondering if the message was actually from Billy "Fuck Face" Ripken, I figured out that this was the origin of my confusion. To whichever of my many Yankee fans put me onto this, hardy har har. I know, you're "back in it," so long as "it" is the wild card standings. My congratulations. Now when I find out which one of you pulled this shit on me (why not Derek Jeter?), you're gonna get repeated messages from David Ortiz promoting XM Radio to you. And if anyone else sends me these, I'm going all rolling thunder on everyone I know. There are no innocents.

GAME SIXTY FOUR: Meh.

Well, that sucked. Curt'll tell you himself, 6 two-out runs isn't a formula for success...more like Formula 51. By the time Kyle Snyder, playing the role of Royals castoff/Mechanic in this year's bullpen, got involved, it was already a joke; Kyle just elevated it to tragicomedy of a sort. Meh.



I promised my friend Jeff from the neighborhood coffeeshop. I would make some acknowledgment of the Yankees and their rise to 8.5 back. Well, there you go. Rock on. You know it's a good year when this is what constitutes the annual Sox fan's Yankee anxiety. Of course, you know it's a bad baseball day when all I've got is a measly two paragraphs to write about it. In other words, a meh day. For real. Buy, buy, buy!

GAME SIXTY THREE: Landslide a-coming?

The Colorado Rockies 2.0 (the jerseys above are the Rockies 1.0) got a knuckle sandwich yesterday, in the kind of game the 2005 and 2006 Red Sox had next-to-no chance in: the low-scoring kind. It's getting harder to understand how last year's team contended as long as it did; 2005 isn't much more unimaginable. Remember Matt Clement, All-Star? Closer Curt Schilling? Jason Johnson's starts from last year? More power to you if you don't, so long as that's not a medical condition. Even Wakefield broke down in 2006.



Now? We've got six viable starters; much as I can't believe I'm calling Julian Tavarez a viable starter, it's true. Remember the almost-trade of Todd Helton for Mike Lowell (currently playing out of his mind) and Julian Tavarez (somewhat out of his mind, but easily soothed with some petting by Manny Ramirez)? Does that one still sound like a good idea? Theo's a good GM, but sometimes it's the inability to put a deal together (aka pure luck) that's served him best. Like this time. Or even more so, this one.



The other notable happening from yesterday was the wife beater dropping from lead-off to #9. Lugo seemed to take this one well, saying he was just happy not to be dropped to the #10 slot. (Not that the #10 slot's that bad...I once hit in the #10 slot in a high school baseball game where we had a DH and the pitcher hit. I had the only 4-hit game of my career.) Lugo also hit a big double to score the first run of the day, on a day runs were as scarce as this piece of cardboard. Pedroia just belongs in the leadoff slot for now. And don't call him Scrappy.



The Sox are .500 in their last ten, so as far as momentum goes, we're not exactly Juggernaut lately. But put it this way: if we go 54-55 for the rest of the season, a game below .500, we finish with 95 wins. A very reasonable 59-50, and that's 100. Let the Yankee fans navel gaze; they've got a good shot at the wild card. As for us, I get the feeling...



(Note: cover should not be taken literally. Do NOT shoot any Red Sox in the eye, even if they get fucked up on Everclear and ask you to. Most successful baseball players need both eyes.)