PREGAME, GAME 1 ALDS: So nervous that I'm writing about...Keith Foulke?

I hate and love five game series.

They've been good to us before. We've been very blessed...

(The cosmic slop that was Game 3 of the 2003 ALDS versus the A's, 1986 versus the Angels.)

...and somewhat cursed...

(Actually...wait. The 2005 Red Sox were a paper tiger...we scored runs, but look at that pitching staff. And for God's sake, Boston, Keith Foulke gave you his knees for our glory. And his barely-adequate fastball. An inadequate fastball= no changeup.)

(Even Yankees fans are still trying to figure it out this changeup. I love Manny, but Keith Foulke is forever my World Series MVP.)



(So what if he insulted you, Johnny Burger King? Can you imagine talking to that much media in that small a clubhouse having blown a three-run lead, in a game an AL East Pennant-hungry team didn't actually have to win? I've got no game in particular in mind, so I'll leave it to the reader(s?): You can look it up.)

(And Burger King is pretty good! Call me Michael McDonald's and I'll get angry, but...wait, Michael McDonald is awesome too!)

Back to the subject I'm apparently dodging...we seem to own the Angels lately, but Kelvim Escobar also seems to have figured it out. Game 2 is everything to me because like I said yesterday, I don't shoot craps. But hey, 100 mil plus is already on the line. And he did this...



...at roughly the age when...well, let's just say I thought I was inhaling, but wasn't, and that was probably good. No matter how Daisuke works out, I'm sympathetic to wasted money. Er, not that college was that...um... Dude, I know some Dante! (And Dante. I was Silent Bob.)

I will have a drink or two with my game, at Slainte or somewhere nearby, but I'll pay the extra buck and make sure it tastes good. Probably just plain ol' brew. I don't wanna overdo it, homes.

Hope for the best and expect the worst, Sox Nation. What more can we do?

Don't talk! EAT!

Man, this was supposed to be my Sunday...sorta. No baseball equals sleep, unless I start thinking of how much I loathe genuine gambling (where the house wins a LOT) as opposed to poker (California says so, goddamnit), and the fact that, well, in game 2, we are rolling the dice.

(Far as the picture above and what's going on with MTV there...your guess is better than mine, 'cause I ain't making one.)

Um...I'm rambling. And I'm addicted to this labor of love...for better or worse, fall hasn't been this good since '04, and in '04, the Red Sox were everything to me. All I wanted to do was give you a gift. The gift of savage wit.

I said it before, I'll say it again, because I am sacrilucious. Patton Oswalt is god.



Good night, you princes of New England.

Game 163: And now I have an NL team to root for.

Look, I don't know if Matt Holliday was safe or not, and I don't think you do either. All I know is that was an awesome game, and I surely am happy I peeked at the TV at The Turkey's Nest before I went home. How happy?



That happy.

I'm also more tired than "Chicken Noodle Soup" is. Bar's closed tomorrow, kids.

Um, tomorrow being...today? Whatever. It's Bedtime for Bonzo.

Mets hangover, day two of...? (Or: keep on keeping on. A ramble in video form.)

Okay, when I say "hangover," it isn't Mets-related. Nor alcohol. It's loss of sleep. God only knows why...I may well have lost the ability to sleep until noon (at least without that other hangover awaiting me at the end...just thinking of that makes me wonder if I will ever get Sparked), or maybe it was just a certain weight I was carrying. When I started in April, it exploded out of my head like motherfucking Athena. Then it didn't. Then I put my chin to the whetstone, though it hurt. Couldn't keep Running Away:



I'm not talking about this blog, which was born, like me, in March. I'm talking about a Labor of love...and maybe bile. It's called New Haven and the Problem Of Change In The American City, a sad-eyed but beloved 97-page baby boy. Four full-length plays down, hopefully more to come. So I'm happy.

But goddamn am I tired:



Man. I'd have a cigarette if I hadn't reformed...most of the time. Do any of you work in Midtown and still smoke cigarettes? I swear, I'll beatbox for a Camel. Newports fuck with my throat a little much for that.

This isn't having anything to do with the Mets. But it is the blues, and y'all know that well.

But you can't lose your job over it, like I nearly did in fall 2003.



Q: Why was I allowed to keep my job after stumbling in one day at 10:30 smelling like Ballatine Ale? (The XXX on those cans isn't a joke, kids.)
A: It was a barely-paid internship. And I'm damn lucky.

Do you get to work with headphones on? Good. I offer you all the salvation I can. If there is a heaven, J Dilla is there. But this isn't a gentle wake up, so do NOT download "Workinonit" from me (it's limited...click it now) if you just want to wallow.

Far as Illadelph goes...if you guys can take a loss to the Sox in the World Series, I wish you good luck getting there. I love Tom Gordon as much as one fictional girl, even if he's probably in his last days.

Oh, one more thing. This is an awful song that George Foster put together in a blatant reach for dough, done in classic '86 Mets arrogance fashion (that is to say, it was recorded in MARCH). I've been looking for it ever since I read (and loved) The Bad Guys Won. My sincerest thanks to www.hiphopmusic.com.

N.Y. Metropolitans Game #162: Ya Gotta Believe...But Ya Gotta Play All 162 Games, Too.

Oh, goddamnit. Glavine...

Erg. And I saw John Maine pitch the best game I've ever seen in person yesterday. And...

And Philadelphia is a city in need of a championship, but that lack of success has made for some sour souls...

And...

Fuck.

I'm looking at this picture and it looks sad to me, when I should actually be infuriated. See, I have a traumatic memory with a Mr. Met. It was a Binghamton Mets game. I was ten. Some kid was having fun with Mr. Met shooting a Super Soaker at him, which I did not understand was clearly something prearranged. So innocent Joshua Lee Drimmer, not yet jaded, sarcastic, cynical, or ever confused for anything resembling cool, thought, "Ooh, cool. And I've got this cup of water..." And yeah, so I kinda splashed him. And a voice came from Mr. Met like that ol' voice of death and ice cream, a scary fuckin' thing to hear coming from such a friendly, jovial, baseball-headed...well, not man...suit. You know, like Tom Carvel's voice...but angry...



And this voice was not offering me the crappy ice cream Patton Oswalt waxed not-so-nostalgically on a couple years back on Feelin' Kinda Patton. It wasn't friendly if creepy. No, it was saying, in a gravely, cigarette-destroyed yet LOUD voice,

"GET THIS KID OUTTA HERE!"

And I was taken out of the game, to great embarrassment since the summer camp kids I'd come with watched me leave, crying. They let me back in, but there's still a man somewhere in Upstate New York who I hope is suffering a very random stabbing pain right this moment, preferably in the taint. (Just one quick jab. I'm a kind soul:)

So you can see how sad I truly am for New York's "other" team. You know, the one that actually does deserve better.

And this is all I have to say about John Maine. I have seen the future. Maine's the name. Effective wildness (for now) is the game. Hey, it's worked before. And it can be solved.

But the present is nothing but pain. We Sox fans know this pain from a long history of collapse and near-misses. I'm so, so sorry.

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.

One game left: Super Job!!!

A good day, and the last regular season game with any significance at all, thanks in part to J.D. Drew doing my initials proud with a blast of...power? Does that make...five, tools? (Stay tuned. Hell yes I want more!!!!!![?!?!])

So yeah, it's official. The possible ALCS matchup you probably don't really crave, Sox v. Injuns, would include four games in Boston. Best record in The league. And the leagues. Gold stars and scratch n' sniff stickers all around.

I'll take the time later to describe the greatest pitching performance I've ever seen live (and yeah, I saw me some Pedro) because a thing of beauty is a joy forever. My man John Keats said that. John Keats yo.

Fuck to the yeah.

Boss Vaughn is happy. I'm happy. Now let's bust some heads.

Three games to go: My People...Hold On

Yeah alright, I'm a little...nervous isn't the word. Tired, maybe, since I'd rather be focusing on the amazingly entertaining mediocrity of that AAAA league we call the National League (the Rockies haven't lost since September 15th!) then semi-sweating the last three games. Sure, Joe Torre showed some nice signs of not giving a fuck last night (your closer for the night: Jose Veras...and Joba's pitching the 8th instead of the 9th in that configuration...why?), but teams can stumble into victory, especially when the competition is the Tampa Bay Rays nee Devil Rays.

(Incidentally, Paul Lukas' Uni Watch is right: Tampa's new, no longer devilish look is borrrring. At least a crazy minor league look would be entertaining...and appropriate considering the franchise history.)

It's a different scenario thanks to the playoff system and the fact that, really, the Sox can't blow what matters: we're in. But the difference between facing the wounded Angels and trying to negotiate the tilted-cap Scylla and young Charybdis is...significant. And boy oh boy do the Sox have a recent history of collapse.

A little funk to pep you up for tonight, which will hopefully be at least half-magical. We are standing on the verge of getting it on, my people. Hold on.

Greatest name in sports?

Coco Crisp, meet Lance Broadway, fresh off his first major league win. Lance Broadway, Coco Crisp, nicknamed partially after the Cocoa Krispies monkey. You make the call.

(Shame he doesn't play for one of the New York teams.)

New York Yankees 1, Geography and the Divisional System 0

Now that is true greatness. The Yankees' greatness transcends SPACE! Say what you will about the Yanks' impressive run from below .500 to the Wild Card, but the plotline we never saw coming was their entry into the AL West race.

Somewhere in a third-world country where shirts like this get dumped, there's some guy with an amazing collection, including Buffalo Bills World Champions gear and Boston Red Sox 1986 World Series Champions shirts. Mercy, mercy, mercy. (R.I.P. Joe Zawinul.)

(Oh, and thanks to Jim.)

Four games left: The Love Movement.

Fun fun game last night. The offense came alive, thanks in large part to another big game by Manny "Christmas In September" Ramirez's big game, and Dustin Pedroia and Mike Lowell, one coming out of a slump, the other becoming the drug-free Butch Hobson in tying his record for RBI by a third baseman.

So I'm in love. I know I won't feel this way later, and I'm not fully comfortable with our #2 and #3 starters (Schill and Monster Zero) (Oh, has any announcer pronounced Dai-SU-ke's right this year? Maybe that SportsCenter guy who loves pronouncing Spanish names properly?) (How many parenthetical statements can I make in a row? About three.) in the playoffs. But a healthy lineup that can bash like this every now and then, an Okey-dokey bullpen in spite of the the queasy bespectacled mad Canuck's struggles and, yes, the SI curse (excellent article, by the way; really explains why the hop in Pap's fastball makes him so unhittable), and enough starting pitching makes me feel infatuated with our chances again. These are good times and a true delight to watch.



Scott Kasmir and Josh Beckett willing, tonight might be the night we party like it's 1995, one of the years the title of this blog pays tribute to, and the first year I saw the Sox in the playoffs in my real first days of true baseball fandom. Beware, Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. Beware.

No Context Necessary #7

Six games left.

Time to hang up the inspirational poster on the bar wall.

Today is a good day because...

...today we can't lose.