Offense plays hide and seek

Okay. Once again. This is MerleFest weekend. It’s a busy weekend for North Carolina writers. See, I spent today with Joan Osborne, Sam Bush and Doc Watson.

Sox offense? You spent the day doing what, exactly?

Someone explain to me what is going on!

Look at the trouble you get into, Tito, when I’m not there to record your every move (or LACK THEREOF).

You people better get it together tomorrow.

That means you too, blog readers! I had to work, so I left YOU in charge. That’s right. I’m talking to you, FireDannyAinge. And YOU, Peter. And YOU, Dmitri. And Jeb. And Sportsattitude. And everyone else whose comments I appreciate.

FAIL.

Do better tomorrow.

Bobby Jenks. You made my soul cry. Your hater, Lauren

Dear Bobby Jenks,

I do not know what happened.

I have been interviewing the Doobie Brothers all day. See, while you were hurling a ball around for funsies, I was actually doing MY job.

So… I have not had a chance to completely analyze your FAILURE. I haven’t had a chance to figure out whose effigy I need to construct before my million hour writing crusade tomorrow. But, Bobby Jenks, Youkie Bear says I should talk to you.

So I’m talking to you, Bobby Jenks. I’m talking to you and I am trying to use small words so you can understand me through that mass of irrelevant crap on your chin.

WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU CATERPILLAR FACED TWIT CLOWN??

I don’t know whether to yell at you or do the defeated headshake.

I don’t know whether to shoot you a subliminal toe stubbing curse or throw a “trade him” temper tantrum.

And I’m too tired to think of how many ridiculous things rhyme with your name, JENKS. But I’m sure when I sing in the shower in the AM, I will be inspired to construct lots of nasty lyrics about how UTTERLY USELESS YOU ARE.

There’s this chess game where you play opposite chess. It’s called suicide chess, I think, where you TRY to get checkmated. The first person to force the opponent to checkmate them wins…

WERE YOU PLAYING SUICIDE BASEBALL?

You know what? I can’t do this. My feet hurt. And my tolerance has been crushed by children with sticky fingers and funnel cakes.

So I am giving you a pass.

I’m giving you the whole night to think about what you’ve done.

Sob into your pillow, Jenks. Let it out now. Because Monday, when MerleFest is over, I am going to yell at your face so loudly that if your face was a house with pigs it would be like that fairy tale where all the pigs have to run into the brick house because their straw house dies.

Bobby Jenks, I HATE you.

~L

PS- Random. A reporter today (not me) asked Patrick Simmons of the Doobie Bros if Jesus was still alright with him.

Patrick Simmons replied, straight-faced, “Jesus is just alright.”

You know what’s not alright, JENKS? LOSING TO THE MARINERS. I bet Mike Cameron glares at you in the locker room. You RUINED his homeruns, Jenks. Damn you.

At least it’s not the Orioles again.

Jon Lester. You can pitch. Which is great. Since that’s your job.

Jon Lester. You are my hero.

See, I’m distracted by THIS all weekend. So I’m going to need you guys (this means YOU, Dice-K) to really apply yourselves, okay? Because I’m going to be in writer-work mode. All. Weekend. So… if you’d be in pitcher-work mode, I’d appreciate it.

Oh god. I hope that 2010 Dice didn’t hitch a ride when loser 2010 Josh Beckett swiped the time machine back from 2007 Josh Beckett Thursday.

Stupid time machine politics.

Daniel Bard, we are NOT okay. I am too angry to blog about you adequately.

I didn’t get to see the whole game today, Daniel Bard. But I DO see you saddled with the mega loss.

I am too angry to articulate right now.

So Daniel, I want you to spend tonight THINKING about what you did.

Nose in the corner mister.

I’ll yell at you tomorrow.

Thoughts, Soxies? Fricking Baltimore of all places…

The WORST team.

Sigh.

Clay, if you screw this up, I swear I will make an effigy of you out of cardboard and flick it multiple times.

7:49: So, at work. A late deadline once again…

but I did happen to catch that run in the second.

And I did happen to notice that the Orioles have had 4 hits.

You know, and how we haven’t any…

So… um… Clay… dear…

I swear on the grittiness of baseball dirt, on the existence of preservatives in yellow hotdog mustard that I will throw a grade A, circa 1986 temper tantrum if you mess up our winning streak.

Do you hear me Clay Buchholz? I have had a long fricking day and we are not going to lose to the fricking Orioles! Who, in my opinion, are going to show themselves as the worst team in baseball (after Tampa. Give it time).

Now, I know we’re not super-losing yet. I know that we’re only in the second inning. I just thought that I should communicate my feelings to you, Clay Buchholz. You know, before you pitch in the third inning.

Thanks.

——

9:23.

Oh. My. God.

12 hits? to 5 hits? Really? TWELVE HITS, CLAY?!

Mark Reynolds is batting. Bases are loaded. FRICKING loaded.

You know, kiddies. Like that time that we had the bases loaded and YOU, Gonz, decided to strand them on little itty bitty base islands.

Remember that?

Because I caught that millisecond.

And… Another score.

See? That’s what is supposed to happen when you LOAD THE BASES, Gonz.

And that is why we don’t let them LOAD THE BASES, Clay.

I am walking my dog. If I come back and it’s WORSE than 4-1? Well… let’s just say I’ve got plans for your cardboard effigy, Clay.

—

Okay. Let’s just breathe for a second. Okay? Okay. Just breathing. Breathing. Not thinking about icky-horrible-no-good-day worthy of a comic strip. Not thinking about Clay Buchholz cashing in that compounded interest on the bad day and losing to the fricking ORIOLES.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Just breathing.

Gonz starts the 8th. Okay. 9:31 p.m. Feeling good. Feeling fine.

—–

A double. Okay. Thanks, Gonz. Okay. Annnnddddd a pop out for Youk. But that’s just one out, right? It will be just dandy… 9:34. Papi in the 8th. Papi, Papi, Papi. Strike out. Crappola.

—

It’s okay. It’s 9:37. We’re a “two out team,” Matt said earlier today. We live for two out moments, he said. Okay, Matt. Okay.

—-

Jed Lowrie. Strike out. 9:39.

—-

Matt Albers. I have lots of cardboard, Matt Albers. Lots of cardboard for effigy makin’.

Good. One on base and only one out. Nope that’s a strike. No outs. NO OUTS. Good.

SARCASM, MATT ALBERS.

9:44

—-

An out. That’s something. I. Guess. 9:46 p.m. You know what, Boston? You make me sorry my work day ended. At least I’m writing magazine stuff on the river tomorrow. I won’t have to think of you people for several hours. I’ll work out my aggression on the whitewater.

—-

Another out. Long inning. This is like the inning that time forgot. 9:50.

—

Three outs. Okay. Neat.

—-

Time for a rally. What can I do to motivate you boys? See, it’s difficult when you live in a computer screen. I can’t even flash you.

—-

9:53. RALLY. Now. Do it. JD DREW.

—

Out. Damn. 9:56.

—

Carl Crawford. Fah-fricking-tastic. And two strikes. Good. And a strike out. Of fricking course.

—-

I’m thinking an exacto knife would work better for this cardboard. 9:57.

—

And SCUT pops out.

Damn. It.

‘About time.’

“About time,’’ Crawford said when he arrived in the dugout and was mobbed by teammates.

Sweeping is our favorite chore…

Happy off-day, Soxies!

And Buck Showalter, we’ll see YOU tomorrow!

PS: Friday, May 13 isn’t that far away… time to start thinking of some killer Yankee jokes. Jokes like:

How many Yankees does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

None! They pay someone $500 bazillion dollars to do it.

Please feel free to shoot me your Yankee jokes in the comment section.

Okay. I’m… um… Sorry.

Dear John Lackey,

I’m sorry, okay?

I… I… I shouldn’t have said that thing about you… and Sloth from the Goonies.

Or that thing about you and… um… Napoleon Dynamite. And Lenny from “Of Mice and Men.” (But come on. That one’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?)

Or… about how you reminded me midget version of Andre the Giant with less hair who was less cool.

And that thing I said about how your cookie monster voice grates on every fiber of my being, especially when you’re blaming the offense for your shitty pitching… um… I didn’t mean that either.

Your pitching isn’t shitty. At the moment.

It’s kind of great.

So. Um… are we cool?

Love,

Lauren

(Yeah, so I’ve used this before. But… um… I suppose it’s relevant…)

PS- Thanks for making us third. And… um… putting us 3.5 games behind the Yankees. Um… okay.

We are not the worst!!!

Worse than us:

• The Orioles. (8 and 11? I do declare…)
• Toronto (Hey, they’re under us thanks to alphabetical preference, so it counts.)
• The Yankees (because the team with the WORST record wiped the floor with them at Fenway Park…)
• Bobby Abreu
• Minnesota. (8 and 12)
• The White Sox. (8 and 13)
• Seattle. (8 and 13)
• The Mets. (eh…)
• Houston. (8 and 13)
• Arizona. (8 and 11)
• San Diego. (8 and 13)
• The movie “Secretariat” because it (and Diane Lane) was awful.

Tied for third and on a hot streak thanks to a stellar outing by one Dice-K. Here’s hoping the stressballer himself, Lackey, can pull out another miracle.

And then we escaped Paris. It was exactly like that.

Happy Easter!

Is it a sacrilege to say that the Red Sox have risen on this Easter morn?

~L

PS- I didn’t need to put the Angels on my list, right? It would be redundant?

This year, the bunny’s bringing a broom…

I smell a sweep…

Live blogging will commence at 9 o-freaking-5… and we have company. In honor of that terrifying bunny-esque holiday, I am at my parents’ house. Enjoying icecream, clean blankets and the occasional car insurance lecture. But I’m also enjoying super cable.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight’s game will be watched on an actual television screen. Not a laptop screen. A television screen. With my parents. (insert scary music here)

And… if you think -I- am an abrasive baseball watcher…

Well… it should be interesting.

The match-up: Dice-K. Hopefully, it’s the vintage Dice-K we caught a glimpse of last week. The 9-1 fury with that innocent expression that delivered the real-time smackdown.

Can’t wait.

But while we’re waiting, let’s talk trades.

I’m reading lots of internet conversation about Papelbon and Cameron possibilities. After Papelbon’s recent upswing, I’m hoping Theo’s got another thing coming…

I mean, I get it. Bobby Jenks. Bard.

But Theo, have you MET Bobby Jenks?

He. Does. Not. Jig.

What are your thoughts?

Clearly we need a catcher…

Who should we go after?

Who would you offer up? Hmmm…

——-

“I don’t think they’ll trade Papelbon,” Dad said. “Right now they need him.”

8:55. See how impatient we are in this household? The baseball convo has been going on for an hour. It’s interesting that they don’t seem to notice my laptop.

Ohmygod, Firedannyainge. The Easter bunny is the scariest mall model, hands down. Had to man a biz expo booth a few days ago and I could hear the screams from across the mall. It had red eyes. It kind of reminded me of Jorge Posada. But with bigger ears and less of a neck.

8:57. More icecream.

—-

Are you guys watching the Yankees game? It’s stupid.

—–

Now we’re having discussions about soccer. Parents are confusing. Is it 9:05 yet?

—-

Youkie-Bear is back!

Crap. Back to back homers in the Yankees game. This is crap. Trunkneck grosses me out.

—-

Now my father is explaining tome why HD is the bomb diggity.

He says he was watching HD the other day and a girl in the stands held up a sign with “will you marry me?” and a phone number. He said the camera kept shooting back to her with a “holy crap” expression on her face and lots of phone calls.

This, dad (aka mr. history) says is where when “the Red Sox were down by three runs, top of the ninth, american league division series… the angels were within one strike of winning the series. They had all the police officers lined up… everyone was about to jump over for the last strike and Henderson hits a homerun and the game is tied. And before you knew it, we won. And we won the series. That was 1986.”

Gosh, Dad, you’re old.

“and 1986 is when…”

Yeah, Dad, I know.

—-

9:09 “Any worries about his foot, that’s gone,” Dad said.

Smart base steal. Good description, announcer.

Yay, Pedroia. My mother just suggested I target him for marriage instead of Youkilis. “He’s married, mom.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Mom?!”

—–

“Tell your boyfriend not to spit when he’s on the camera,” Mom said.

“He sweats more than anyone else on the team,” Dad said.

It’s okay, Youkie-Bear. You don’t have to listen to them.

There is controversy, great controversy in the TooSoxy Parental Household in regards to that “strike out.” 9:14.

“I wish they still had Beltre,” Dad said.

—-

Oh, TheCatcher, I hope you’re right about Bard… but I’m not seeing it as an asset that’s worth losing Paps… how will we boast our victories without the much-loved jig?

—-

Hi, Dice-K. Look at all that green behind Dice! Is there anyone at this game?! That Gordon Levitt kid would have been ashamed of ALL OF YOU,  Anaheim! Heaven can’t help you if you don’t believe!

Oh, I can’t watch this. Full count. Come on, vintage Dice… And… an easy catch by JD Drew.

“The key to the game is scoring better,” Dad said.

“That’s very insightful,” Mom said.

—-

Yankees are 13 now? What the frick, Buck Showalter?

—-

Yeah… this is the Dice-K pace. The efficiency of last week a distant memory… high pitch counts… Let’s just hope that the skill of last week continues. So far so good. The parents are still discussing the lack of fans in the bleachers. It is a little weak, heightened by the smarmy HD. The “A” kind of looks like it’s puncturing something. You know? Like, it’s not a halo, it’s a flesh wound. Would I have noticed that if this wasn’t HD? Anddddddd the Angels go down. Second coming up. Now we’re doing that super-not-annoying channel flip during the commercials thing. Flip. Flip. Flip. Nope. Not annoying at all, dad.

—-

Hey, Papi. You know, the A also kind of looks the Space Needle.

I never realized how dumb the A looked before.

“He’s my favorite,” mom said.

“Oh, the played him just right,” dad growls.

Out.

“We don’t care about y’all,” mom screams at the announcer banter.

Annnnnnddddddd ground rule double…. the Parentals rejoice.

SHUT UP CHUCK FINLEY!

Ew. These Angels close ups are grossing me out. Jered Weaver and his gum. Was it this gross in non-HD? I miss my small screen. Ew. Gagging. Ew.

—

“They’ve already shown him many times. Can’t we just watch the game?” Mom, re: Chuck Finley. There is much aggravation at JD Drew on the couch.

“You were three and o and you struck out,” dad yells.

I am the quiet one. Wow.

And the look my dad just gave Crawford.

“Crawford,” he huffed. It was more of a growl, really.

See, we don’t talk baseball on the phone, so I don’t really know how they feel about our 2011 team… but I’m starting to see that they are… um… passionate.

Off the glove and into the outfield! Yay, Crawford!

Lucky, they say.

Wow. I find myself defending Crawford…

—

“He’s one to twenty three? Why are you even worried about the guy at first base? The pitcher shouldn’t even worry about the guy at first,” Dad said.

Stop giving the Angels tips, dad.

It’s okay, Tekkie. I think you can knock it out of the park. Right here.

“If those announcers don’t shut up…” mom growls.

Hmmm….

“Oh come on! He didn’t go around! That’s two,” Dad said. And other things. We are not pleased with the umpires. Oh no.

Flipping the stations again. Good. Good. How long does this game last again? Oh good, the subject shifted to my car insurance. Good.

—-

“It never gets old talking to Chuck Finley,” Announcer said.

Really?! Really?

9:37. Dice-K with the game face on.

—-

I like this HD thing. I wonder if I could fit this television into my car. I wonder if they’d notice. I wonder if I can steal cable. I don’t mean that, thought police.

—

“He always looks like he has a stomachache,” mom says of Vernon.

—-

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. I thought Dice-K was going to die. Right. At. His. Face.

Crawford catch makes two outs.

I’m glad you’re not dead, Dice-K. So is my mom. Dad wishes you would throw less balls.

Annnddddd STRIKE OUT. 9:46.

—-

Did you know there’s a Military Channel? Apparently that’s what we watch during commercials now.

Jacoby! Yay. Pedroia with his Destroia face on.

Andddddddddd a Jacoby steal. Love it.

Ohhhhhhhhh, Jacoby. You just gave me a mini spasm with the steal to third. A mini-freaking spasm.

Yessssss! Gonz, you are swell. And Boston, thanks to the base stealing dance by Jacoby… is two up. Here’s to taking opportunities!

Hi, Youkie-Bear. Did he just mouth “hi” to me? Did anyone else see that?

Okay. There’s some Youk hate going on in this room and that, Soxies, is unacceptable. He has a bruise, people!

Hi, Pappppppyyyyy. Nice. Left center field and we’re on first and third, baby. Lots of Sox cheers in the crowd. I’m trying to hear something… anything, a “go angels.” Can’t hear it through the “Let’s go, Red Sox” chanting.

Inning ends and we’re back to watching Sylvester Stallone on the Military Channel.

—-

Oh, yuck. Tom Brady’s in the crowd. I’m sorry, Pats fans, but that hair and my Miami heritage are two reasons I cannot endorse that..

Yuck.

—

What do you think of Tom Brady, mom? She purses her lips and narrows her eyes.

“I’m obviously not as impressed as our northern neighbors. But I do know where he lives,” Mom said. A little scary… um…

—-

Third strike out for Dice!

This guy has huge eyes. Like… huge eyes. Andddddd another strike out. Way to go, Dice KKKK.

And JD fricking Drew ends it.

—-

Top of the fourth. Drew taking a strike. I do not like the home plate umpire. Someone find me his name…

One, two, three. Crap.

—

Dice-Dice Baby…

Dad is vocally trying to help you, but I don’t think you need help today.

This pleases me.

Top of the fourth, two outssssssss…. and three outs.  Yay.

—-

My mother is critiquing the fanware. So that’s where I get it…

A great steal by Jacoby. Great. I will buy you two tacos for that steal, Jacoby.

You suck, 44!

But you know who sucks the most????? You, Home Plate Umpire!!!! I have counted four super bad calls. FOUR.
And THAT is why he’s my husband. Oh, Youkie-Bear. Thanks for doing that right over Bobby Abreu’s head, in particular. I hate Bobby Abreu.

Loveeeeeeeee.

 4-0, baby.

“He does sweat a lot, Lauren,” mom said.

“He does,” dad said.

“Maybe someone poured something on his head,” mom said.

Shut. up.

—–

Bottom of the 5th. Dice-KKKKKK. Did I say Dice-KKKKKK? I meant Dice-KKKKKKK. That was fast.

—-

5-0. Hi, Captain.

—-

Bottom of the 6th.

It’s gotten a lot more serious on the couch, I see. No time for fun in the 6th inning. Now we’re talking about how easy leads are to wreck.

Anddddd a stellar catch by Youk.

I hate Bobby Abreu. Dice, I NEVER condone hitting people with pitches. NEVER. But… um… if you were going to…

I didn’t mean that. Really, Dad, and you don’t mean it either.

Remember this? Almost two years to the date.

Two outs. I still hate you, Abreu.

Time to get serious, Dice, baby. Otherwise they’ll do something stupid like send us Jenks.

Yeah. Eat it, Abreu. Eat it and choke.

—-

Guys, guys, guys! I just checked the standings anddddddd… we’re not last anymore! Well… okay, we’re last… but so is Buck Showalter! BOTH of us have 8-11 records… which means… which means… if we win… we REALLY won’t be last! Huzzah!

Hey! I saw that! Did you see that? Santana’s trying to KILL my husband.

“Kevin has a knack for getting hit by pitches, 71 times,” announcer said.

Papi just gave him a death stare.

That’s right.

Crap. Youk is shaking his head. I’m with you, baby. I’m with you.

—-

“When the batter moves back thinking it’s going to hit him and it’s a strike, that’s a good pitch,” Dad said.

Dice, this is the first time I haven’t questioned you being in the 7th inning in… a long time.

So could you not screw it up? Thanks bunches.

Two outs. nobody on. Bottom of the 7th… exhausted. This house feels like it’s in a different time zone.

Annndddddd Dice-K’s 100th pitch is…. a…. a foul. Okay.

But it’s a one, two, three inning. Nice.

—-

“We need another insurance run,” Dad says. I like the way you think.

“I’d just like to see some homeruns to up their stats a little bit,” mom said.

Um…. yep.

Lowrie. Oh, Lowrie.

“He’s on fire,” dad said.

Apparently my Lowrie issues aren’t genetic.

AWESOME. Great job, Bobby Abreu.

Do it again!

And Crawford breaks the streak and causes a few expletives on the couch.

Hi, Tek.

Earn that C! Earn it! Look at those Boston fans in the background! They LOVE you. What a pretty day in Anaheim.

And the Captain nods. Come on, baby. Top of the 8th. The time moments are made. Crap.

Still 5 nothing. And still Dice? Um… okay.

—-

Just practicing “sweep” images.

You know. Just in case.

One out. Bottom of the 8th. A good strike call by the home plate ump against Kendrick. I’m amazed.

Oh… the announcer reminds us John Lackey’s at the mound tomorrow…

Two outs!

11:25 p.m. A girl with hair extensions is talking about an Angels calendar. So they can mark their shame with frowny faces?

Three outs!

—

Top o’the 9th.

Can you rally when you’re already spanking them?

Come on, Jacoby! Two runs scored, two stolen bases… and I want more!

You know, it’s interesting. Since we’ve been winning, my blog visitors have gone down. I thought this was curious until I saw the exorbitant amount of Yankees and Angels fans that have subscribed to this blog.

Seriously, more of you who read this hate the Sox than love them. It’s curious. It’s like… you guys like seeing me rant in frustration… but hate cheery pep.

Well, no more, people. The Sox are BACK. So it’s all positive from now on. So adapt.

Okay, Jacoby. I will forgive you this one time. Your hair looks terrible.

Hi, Pedroia. It’s time to play baseball.

Damnit, Pedroia!

Anddd… damnit. Three outs.

—-

Bottom of the 9th. I’m feeling a shut out… shut out? Yes, shut out.

And Bard? Well… okay… 99 mph fastball… well… okay…

Safe? BARD!

Okay, my dad (who is a tv photog) is now critiquing the base camera’s color correction.

Okay. Bobby Abreu. This is important, Bard. Okay. You don’t know this, but there’s history. Sordid, sordid history.

Defensive indifference? That’s crap.

“See? Look at how the sox look orange from that other camera behind the plate? The settings on that are wrong,” dad said.

But Bobby Abreu’s out? Oh so right.

Goes down swinging.

Last out. Come on, baby. Do it for Dice-K.

Do it for me. Do it for my father, who is quite invested in this game.

Do it for… YES! Pedroia! Pedroia will back you up during your weak moments, Bard. A diving play and a shut out.

Hi, Bobby Abreu. How did that feel?

And Crawford? Out of a slump? Um… okay.

But we won! Yay.

MLB! Update your fricking standings online! I want to bask!

Because, soxies, we are NOT in last place! We’re not the worst!  Huzzah!

OHMYGOD you guys! It’s better than we could have ever hoped. We are in THIRD PLACE. THIRD PLACE!!!!!!!

I mean, so is Toronto, but THIRD PLACE! And a FOUR streak! A FOUR streak!!!!!!!!

Click here and see for yourself. Kiss your computer screens and let the world feel the love.

How Bobby Jenks and Saltalalalalalalalalalamacchia tried to stress me the frick out. Why would you do that to me, Bobby? Why? Why? Why? Is it because you weren’t loved as a child? Does it have anything to do with a beloved family pet? Because Bobby, I’m not a fricking psychologist. I’m just a girl. Trying to watch a game. Damnit.

Grrr.

Damnit, Salty!

“I was looking for Bobby — I looked at him real quick, turned around; I didn’t think the ball hit off my glove, I thought I had trapped it in the dirt,” Saltalamacchia said of the passed ball. ” Obviously not.

Bobby Jenks!

You let BOBBY ABREU kick your ass! You were out Bobbied and you ARE a Bobby! Damnit, Jenks.

Matt Albers?!

Who ARE you and why are you trying to ruin my game?!

Bobby Jenks!

You deserve two chastisements! For shame!

Salty!

You too, Salty.

“It was frustrating. I’ve never done that before. I can’t remember ever doing that. But we still got the win.”

—–

Darn tootin’.

Six of the past seven? Wins.

3.5 games out. Oh, and Bucky boy? We’re a half game from not last.

9:05, soxies. 9:05.

Here’s to hoping that the time machine has been destroyed for good and old school Dice-K will have to make an appearance tonight. And YES Crawford. I saw that. It was okay. It still wasn’t worth a katrillion billion dollars. Geez, Crawford. No, that’s all the recognition you get. Don’t like it? Why don’t you go journal about it?

Paps, I love you.

~L