Home > Drunken Live Blogging > Because I can watch baseball and work at the same time.

Because I can watch baseball and work at the same time.

I wonder. 0-0.

Off the wall. Varitek gets to third. Double by Navarro.

I wonder.

With hits like this… pitching could get complacent.

That’s why we have Josh Beckett. Who is badass. Occasionally angry. Frequently belligerent. But NEVER complacent.

It is the bottom of the 3rd and I am watching the game. Working. And waiting on a phone call. I mean, if I knew there was the possibility of having a negative article about me in the Friday paper, I would call the reporter back. But, you know. That’s just me. Second and third. Thank you, Jacoby. Thank you!!!!!

That was nice. Did you see the way his tongue did that weird thing we he ran just now? 2-0. BOSTON. Jacoby on first. That’s the first game in awhile where we have an early lead. The one run that it is.

I hope Lackey is watching this. Jussssttttt an observation. In no way an indication of going against any pledges. One out. Okay.

—-

Gonz at the bat. And my phone is ringing. Which means we’re about to score fifteen runs I won’t get to see.

————-

One at first. One at third. Youk was robbed.

Okay. a fair strike out. Fair. I guess.

And Ortiz is at the plate. Ortiz, aka: the Slammer. I just thought of that. Does that work for you? The Slammer. I like it better than Papi. That was a power strike. And an out. But that’s okay, see, because we have Beckett. So the 10-run cushion isn’t necessary. Right, guys? Right, Youkie? You don’t need a 10-game cushion…

Why is it that these games against sucky teams have been so stressful? I’m sure there is a life metaphor here.

—-

Two phone calls later, I just saw THE coolest hat. Did you see that? It looked like a red sombrero with Socks instead of tassels. NICE.

2-0, top of the fourth. Zero outs. And an Alex Gordon on first. Blah.

Seriously. That was a neat hat. Let’s make one. We should have a hat contest. I would win.

Josh Beckett is doing his badass glare. That, mess with my mound and I’ll shove a cleat in something glare. Hah. And Gordon was tagged out. Gordon was not tagged out? Did I miss something? First and second have runners, Josh. Now, I don’t want to judge you. I’m a little afraid of your death stare today, but you know there are no outs, right? You know that? Just checking. Oh no. I hope you didn’t drink the Lackey juice. Eek. That sounded defamatory. I didn’t mean it, Johnny boy. I didn’t mean it.

1-1.

That guy at the plate sure adjusts himself a lot. Just saying. Necessary? Oh no. OHNO. Home run. With two on. That’s two thirds of the way to a Grand Slam, Beckett. IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. Billy Butler. Oh no.

What. Is. Going. On???? Is this because I have split focus? Are you trying to pin this one on my attention span? Because I didn’t make the schedule, Tito. Bud Selig did. 3-2 Kansas. Josh. Beckett. What happened? It’s the time machine, isn’t it? You accidentally switched places with April Josh Beckett. The real Josh Beckett is drinking margaritas on a beach with 2007 Dice-K. Ohgod. ONE out. ONE out. I am so full of hate.

Yay! Jup is live blogging too! Glad to see you, Jup. My coworkers are doing this glarey thing because I held a mini-temper tantrum over the Beckett bust a few minutes ago.

“Font sizes,” I say. “Silly Apple computers.”

Damnit. Full. of. Hate.

Josh Beckett… seriously. What’s going on? You can tell me. Is it the rocket scientist? Because we can send her away, Josh. Is it the trials of immediate fatherhood? Because we can hire people to do that. Just tell us what you need, Josh. Just tell us what you need…

—–

I do not understand this world.

—-

ONE out? ONE out????? STILL? It has been like ten minutes. Or an hour. Or something. And you are not applying yourself. Damnitdamnitdamnit. Base hit. And score. And… Anddddd…

Clearly, I am not mature enough to do this and work. I just threw a notebook. Okay, Lauren. Shrug it off. Calmly… calmly walk across the room… pick up the notebook… nothing to see here, guys. Nothing to see. It was… um… a source. A source was frustrating… and… and… DAMNIT, JOSH!!!!???? Who are you and what did you do with JOSH BECKETT???????? 4-2. In this cosmic joke of a game. Yeah. Foul. Hah. EAT THAT FOUL. YOU EAT THAT FOUL AND YOU DIE.

I’m okay, guys. Sorry. I just. Um. Broke a nail. That’s it.

—-

WHY? 4-2. ANOTHER one on the base. And ONE OUT. Someone is lying to someone. I want a DNA test. Can I do it? I really want to be the one to prick your finger, Josh Beckett.

Hi, Peter. Thanks for entering the conversation. Maybe you can keep me from hurling my rolly chair across the newsroom. Because that would be wrong. Yes it would. Second and third runners. I care. You care. We all care. Josh doesn’t seem to care. Nooooooooo. 2 outs. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU ARE WARMING UP RANDY WILLIAMS? RANDY FRICKING WILLIAMS? WE TRIED THAT ALREADY!!!!!! WHY? Seriously?! Are you watching this, Curt Young? Do you take notes? I take notes. YOU CAN BORROW MY FRICKING NOTES.

—-

This is like a group project gone horribly awry. You remember. In college. It’s a group grade. And there’s that guy who just doesn’t show up. But he gets your grade anyway. Even though you’re the one who had to stay up all night in the drafting studio. YOU ARE THAT GUY, CURT YOUNG.

Out. Fah-fricking FINALLY. I need a break. I need a… cigarette. I don’t smoke anymore. I need a… I need a cigarette. WHO ARE YOU AND WHERE DID YOU GET THE JOSH BECKETT SKIN?

—-

Jup is right. Maybe Beckett is just a reality television super fan. Because I feel like I’m on reality television. Given an impossible variable and being forced to maintain composure. Act normal. Like my shirt isn’t filled with snakes or something. And only the audience and I know the hilarious reality. And I must keep the peace for the million dollar grand prize.

Wow. That would be a great show. DAMNIT. Salty, salty tears of frustration. It’s okay, guys. I just stubbed my toe. That’s it. No. Don’t worry about me. I have phone calls to make. Josh Reddick. Hopefully the skin stealer didn’t go after all our Joshes. I would cry rivers of yelling. RIVERS.

I need a stapler to throw. Oh. Not that one. This one. The one I broke last time I watched a Sox game at work. yessssssssss.

—–

Hi, Heidi. I do not know what you are saying. Because my computer is on mute. But I know I would say it better. Faster. With more pizazz. Oh. JD Drew. I am imagining what he’s saying.

“I, too, was the victim of the skin stealing monster. And now, with Beckster’s public meltdown, perhaps others will finally believe my testimony,” he says. Maybe. He could be saying that.

Maybe JD Drew is a spy.

Drew Sutton. Oh. I had a teacher named Sutton. She hated my poems.

And Sutton is out. And that’s not poetic at all. See how there are two outs in like five minutes, guys? That’s what you’re SUPPOSED to do. Jason Varitek!

Oh, Captain. They’re trying to tear us down, Cap. They’re trying to break us apart. Me and Josh. The world’s against us, Tek. I’m getting my hair done Saturday. Should I go blonde again, Tek? I hear you like blondes.

Tekkkkkk… save us. Save us all.

That was a dumb fastball. It was intellectually inferior to other fastballs. That’s right.

DAMNIT. Why, Tek? Is it because we’re not believing hard enough? Is it because I’m not watching closely enough? WHY MUST YOU FORSAKE ME?! I thought you were my captain. MY captain. Robin Williams would NEVER have done this to his class in Dead Poets Society.  You, sir, are no Robin Williams.

Useless. All of you. USELESS.

—-

Yeah. I can’t do this. I have to minimize this for a few minutes. I… I… I… I am so full of hate. And at a job where hate starts trickling in when your foot hits the parking lot…

I… I… I…

I need the river.

I’m going to the river after work.BLAH. Deep breaths. Somebody give me a happy thought. STAT.

—-

THANK YOU. Outs. THANK YOU.

Clearly, you care about the functionality of staplers in my office. THANK YOU.

—-

Yeah. Um. Jackass copy editor just sent me an obnoxious e-mail signed, “cheers!”

He deserves to die.

Not really. I didn’t mean that.

Damn. One out. Still 4-2. 72 pitches. Bottom of the 5th.

In other news, we just saw the trailer for Battleship, the movie. It’s… um… it’s not good.

No. It’s not.

Liam Neeson is in it. It just created a “What the ffffff” wave over the entire office.

“That’s one of the worst looking things I’ve…” ~Film critic.

Now I’m pretending I’m being disgusted by the trailer. It’s my cover, see.

AND I THINK THE BLUE OF YOUR UNIFORMS IS OBNOXIOUS.

——-

TWO OUTS. It’s welling. From the pit of my stomach up my spine. At first it was kind of warm. A tingly feeling. Growing hotter. Painfully hotter. Like fire. THIS IS RAGE. Pedroia got to first. I think it was a walk. I don’t know. I don’t care. I DON’T CARE.

It’s just a game. Just a game.

I think, perhaps, the addition of a bad baseball game to an already toxic environment makes me meaner. Because I just called the copy editor short. He is short. It’s not like I made it up. His shortness is not MY fault.

—-

STOP SMILING. STOP IT.

Gonz. Hi. You wouldn’t believe my day, Gonz. AND people won’t return my phone calls.

That was a power strike. Hopefully the precedent to a power hit? Wait. Was that a power strike out? Jesus. That was almost an outsteal, Pedroia. You are very, very lucky that the Royals can’t catch. I think we are all very, very lucky that the Royals aren’t that good. Because Beckett, if the Royals were good, this would be a 32-2 game. And This rage that is building would make me explode. Pieces of my appendix would fly to Boston, I’m sure. I am like a confetti bomb of rage just waiting to blow up all over your televised image, Josh.

We should quarantine Lackey.

I didn’t mean that (I DID).

WERE YOU EVEN TRYING, GONZ? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN FASTER. He fake jogged that. Like a 19-year-old in makeup running in the short shirts.

—-

Aw. The kid that caught the ball just cried. I would cry too. I feel like crying. Let’s all have a group cry. That actually wouldn’t look suspicious. People cry in my job allllll the time. True story.

Hi, Eric Hosmer. Your eyebrows make you look mean.

Josh Beckett. There are zero outs. It is the top of the 6th. And we are trailing by two. I just want you to know that.

Anddddd, aided with that information, one out.

See what happens when we work together? When we listen? It’s like Israel.

Jeff Francoeur. No. No. No. No. OHTHANKGOD. Jacoby caught it. It’s okay. Two outs.

Okay. Okay. Okay. It’s going to be… damnitdamnitdamnit.

So, I’m writing about this pig. It’s a pot-bellied pig. And it’s 20 lbs. And illegal. And it escaped. So the town knows it’s there. And there’s this fine situation. It’s kind of hilarious. And kind of keeping me sane through this game.

Everyone is crowded over at my friend Frank’s desk. Watching youtube videos. How unprofessional.

TWO OUTS. We want THREE outs. I can help you count, Josh. I can do that for you. I just can’t throw the damn ball. Really. I wish I could. I have the drive. If I had talent, there would be no stopping me.

Josh. Beckett. Baby. I know you’re in there somewhere. You’ve got to be in there somewhere. Fight it, Josh! Fight it! Come back to us, baby. We’re right here! We’re right here! Move your head or something so I know it’s you in there.

Pedro could do it.

Just saying.

Out.

Thank. You. God. I say thank you, God and not thank you, Beckett. Because I don’t know who you are today, Josh. We are going to have a conversation about this. WITH a therapist. So clear your schedule.

—-

Phone call. Please don’t lose while I work. Please.

——

That was my fault. It’s because I wasn’t watching. I’m sorry, Youk. I’m so sorry.

—-

Up walks the Slammer. And back walks the Slammer. Because he is out. Whatever. WHATEVER. My foot is falling asleep. Damnit. My foot is falling asleep and I’m at work and I hate work and I hate you and I hate your sunglasses and you are disappointing my hopes and dreams.

Josh Reddick. Another member of the Josh Club fails.

And, in the fastest inning against a crappy team in history…

—–

No. I’m actually not DRUNK, e-mailer. I’m actually angry. That’s worse than being drunk. And if I was angry AND drunk, you’d know. Oh, you’d know. I’m actually at work, see…

—-

Jeff of Bickleyhouse fame just sent me THIS link. It is the only thing that has been able to remotely cheer me up in the last hour.

AND, after what just happened with VARITEK, I am glad I had one small laugh in my life.

He landed hard on the catch fail too. He better not be hurt. YOU BETTER NOT BREAK YOURSELF ON AN ERROR, TEK.

—-

One out. Fah-fricking-finally. Runner on third. Eminent doom everywhere.

It’s rising like nuclear ash. Or does nuclear ash fall? It’s doing whatever nuclear ash does, this eminent doom. It’s like in Rainbow Brite. You know. The gray people? That suck happiness and personality out of all the colored magical people? It’s like someone has sucked the color out of Josh Beckett and he’s this gray creepy cartoon with an anxiety disorder and dream breaking tendencies.

This is NOT the Josh Beckett I know and lust over. Ohno.

But I will find out who you are. Even if I have to do a google search and make something up.

Maybe the hemp necklace… maybe it’s been replaced with a cursed necklace. There’s a book about that.

Something mystical is afoot. It’s really the only logical explanation. Sometimes hoof noises are zebras, after all. Because zebras exist in the world. They do. It’s true. I’ve seen them in zoos. And on cartoons. Can you ride zebras? I’d like to ride a zebra.

This runner on third is of great concern to me. No one else seems concerned. Nope. No one else. Something Wicked This Way Comes. That’s a book. And how I feel. Right now. With the two outs. And the two on two. Something bad is coming. Like in Harry Potter.

Oh. Good. An out. That makes three.

Oh. Good.

You know that offensive explosion we apparently have? It. Is. Time. It. Is. Time. The time has come to pop these suckers out. The time has come to show America …. um …  A marine (is she a marine) is singing. I think. I don’t know. It is muted. I do not know what is going on. Maybe she is summoning the help of mystical forces. That would be, you know, useful.

—-

Okay. So. I have had like five minutes to think about this. And I think it’s obvious. Beckett has been bodysnatched. It’s like an alien film. But real. That’s the only explanation I can think of. It’s alllllll starting to come together. There will be a book about this, and we’ll be major players, you and I. We’re the people who figured it all out, see. So, probably, only one of us will be able to live (it is a movie, after all). I’m betting I’ll survive. I’m wiley.

Bottom of the 7th, Franklin Morales and Daniel Bard are in the pen. I vote Bard, Young. And we have one on first. And Gonz on the plate. Zero outs.

Two outs. Jacoby. Damn. Three outs. This is not the way I hoped this inning would go.

—-

Morales. Okay. Further proof that my psychic messages go unnoticed. You heard that, didn’t you? I mean, my brain was screaming Bard. I really thought it was more of a screech than a scream. But whatever.

—-

One out.

Seriously. Blonde? You think? Because I can pull off Heidi so much better than Heidi. Jussssst saying.

—–

2 outs.

WHY WON’T PEOPLE CALL ME BACK?

Someone just said I sounded young on the phone. Yeah? Well, you sound old.

—-

Francoeur is giving me a Jeter vibe. You feeling that? And he walks. Oh, he walks. Of course he does. See, if we had Bard on the mounddddd…

—–

OHNO. WHAT? That was like an ansta-out. And you … You… You dropped it. What was that? What… It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re okay. 4-2. We’re not okay. We’re not okay.

Out. Yes. Out. Inning over.

Okay, guys. THIS IS IT. This is the inning of absolution. Of vengeance. Of … of…

So, I get to do a hawk release tomorrow. That is exciting. I covered a set of owl releases last year. Yay. And they’re giving me a photographer. Which is swell. Because my photographer will even drive me there. And I hate driving. That’s a small victory. I get them sometimes.

—–

My boss is wearing a collared shirt. It is powder blue. Like… 70s prom without the ruffles. AND a darker (but still powdery) blue tie. Just an observation to distract myself from this fricktastic game.

Bottom. Of. The. 8th. No joke, Pedroia. You’ve GOT to do this.

—-

Thank you. Homerun. Thank you.

SOME people listen (glare at Beckett. Glare at Beckett). 4-3.

A beacon of hope. A lighthouse amidst a stormy sea. A sugary sprinkle on the crapcupcake of our lives.

—–

“You are full of hate today.” ~My office mate.

“So is your face.” ~Me.

“Wow, Lauren. Wow.”

—-

Youkie-poo. 4-3.  2 outs. It’s okay, Youkie-poo. You were the inspiration for Dustin Pedroia’s homerun, I’m sure.

No. You know what? Not even YOU get a free pass today, Youkie. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. You, too, are dead to me for the next ten minutes. THE NEXT TEN. Okay. The next eight.  Okay. The next seven. BUT THAT IS IT.

—-

Out. Out. Out. End of the eighth. We are 4-3. There is hope. There is hope in this sea of adversity. I am going to close my eyes and think of orca whales now.

—-

Put the lime in the coconut and drink it allllll up… that song always makes me feel better. Because it’s about alcohol. And coconuts. I will play it now.

—-

2 outs. And a mileage check! Huzzah. And a base hit. As soon as I sit back down. OFFRICKINGCOURSE.

Peter, what is going on? Why are they doing this to us?

Can you fix it? You’re closer.

—-

Orca whales. Penguins. Kittens. These things make me happy.

—-

So, I’m thinking of doing a question and answer blog. Do you have any questions? Because I’m thinking about answering them. ohnolauren@gmail.com.

—-

I wish our pitcher would stop spitting. He is embarasing himself. Why must they spit? Seriously. There are women and children present! Doesn’t he know the wild west code?

Two strikes. If you could make that three strikes, we could rally. Because we need to rally. We NEED to. See, it’s the 9th inning. And we trail. Oh, we trail.

WHAT? A steal. We catch. Plenty of time. We drop. He’s safe. Of course. Are you shaking your fist, Peter? I’m shaking my fist for us all.

Oh, Um. It was a mosquito. That’s it. A mosquito…

Damn you and the horse you rode in on. First. Second. Runners. It’s like we’re doing it on purpose. It’s like it’s charity game day. It’s not charity game day. There is no charity in baseball. They donate money when we get homeruns. That’s charity enough. We dont’ need to be giving games away too.

And a catch. And the inning ends. And we need to breathe. We need to breathe a lot. Because the bottom of the 9th… all the oxygen is about to leave the room.

RALLY.

—-

Okay. Seriously. I am working. I am doing about fifteen things at once. I cannot be expected to do this all by myself. Joakim Soria. OhIhatethisguy. Remember him from the game that wouldn’t end Monday? Fricktastic. Got to keep it in check, guys. Come one Josh-I-am-still-speaking-to. 1-1. Breathe, Josh. Breathe. Okay. That was not… um… ideal. One out.

Okay. We’re fine. We’ve got this. My imaginary hat is on backwards and I’m ready to rally. Okay. I’ve been using this stapler like a stress squeeze ball. I think I have jammed it permanently.

You were meant for greater things than paper stacks, stapler.

What is with the grounders? Wow. I can’t believe we made that. That’s god. Right there. Because that should have been an out. But it was a single. A single. Because … because… oh… someone wants us to have hope. It’s probably because he knows losing with a string of hope is much more painful.

Crawford. Ohno. He’s excited. I can tell. An excited Crawford could be a sloppy Crawford. And the only thigns that are sloppy and good are dog kisses and sandwiches.

And I’m not a real fan of the sandwiches. Because I like white t-shirts.

But that’s neither here nor there nor relevant.

Carl Crawford has 3 walk off hits this season. Three. Okay. I know it’s hot. I know you’re sweaty. But you can drink water in a minute, Carl. It’s rally time. Ohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohno. No.

Caught. Out. I thought…

It doesn’t matter what I thought.

Okay. We’ve got an out left. Okay. Oh.

That one hurt. Stupid Francoeur.

Oh.

It’s fine. Yamaico Navarro. Ohno. Okay, Yamaico. You just have to get on a base. That’s all you have to do. Just get on a base. I don’t care which one. Your team needs you. Your city needs you. My stress levels NEED you.

Strike. Watch it, Navarro. You do. Not. Have. To. Swing.

Maybe you shouldn’t swing. Maybe you… oh no. 1-2. Oh no.

I feel it… I feel…

Oh.

Damn.

Oh.

Shit.

Oh.

Damn.

And a close up on Youk. Don’t do a Youk close up. Close up on Josh Beckett. IF THAT IS HIS REAL NAME.

What’s worse than losing to a crappy team?

Losing to a crappy team with your favorite pitcher.

~L

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  1. Jup
    July 28, 2011 at 2:22 pm | #1

    It’s great to know that I’m not alone on the work/liveblogging thing. I don’t think my boss cares.

  2. July 28, 2011 at 2:41 pm | #2

    That’s what I get for changing channels for ten minutes. I wish you were kidding.

  3. Jup
    July 28, 2011 at 2:44 pm | #3

    He’s doing this on purpose because he knows we’re at work and he’s trying to make us lose our composure…..

  4. Jup
    July 28, 2011 at 3:28 pm | #4

    Hang in there, Lauren. I can’t watch the rest of the game, so they’re bound to do something wonderful. Just hang in there.

  5. July 28, 2011 at 3:53 pm | #5

    I hope you’re right, JUP. Top of the eighth with the unmentionable score still the same.

  6. FireDannyAinge
    July 28, 2011 at 8:46 pm | #6

    I want my MONEY BACK!

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