Erik Bedard. Glad to meet you?

When I start watching, there’s a C.C. Sabathia Pepsi commercial on. Pepsi, I am never drinking you again. Okay. So I don’t drink Pepsi. Or soda. But you know what? I’m double not drinking you now.

Nervous. Haven’t seen the score. Just want to watch Erik Bedard pitch. It is 8:11 p.m. How much damage can be done in an hour? Right. Right.

I like that you are French, Erik. If you are sucking, I plan to yell at you in French. Oh, look. The same bad screen problems.

Oh, Masterson. I loved you so.

I cannot see the score because of the split checkerboard screen.  We must be winning.

3-2. Oh. 3-2.

I am so conflicted. Justin Masterson, I want you to do well, but I want my team to hit your balls. Oh, was that a look of recognition? Did you recognize me through my computer screen just then? We were something special, you and I, Justin. Remember the happy nights we spent together? While you pitched okay plus and I fantasized about your potential? In a few years, we said… in a few years…

Alas. Our love story was not to be. Like “Love Story” with Ryan O’Neal (or is it O’Niel?). Except instead of cancer, you got Cleveland.

Kevin Youkilis. Awkward. Two of my loves fighting, pitcher and batter. I am going to imagine they are fighting for me.

Youkilis is out. I am agape. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.

Justin! That’s not the way to win my heart. No sir (she says as she shakes her fist at a Theo Epstein graphic. For me, I said, Theo! For me! Why couldn’t you have kept Justin Masterson for me?!).

—-

Strike out number four for Bedard. Okay. I like strike outs. I like how Jerry Remy pronounces your name. Be-dod.

I’m not sure what happened with the three runs. So I am withholding judgment. I was late because I was giving my dog a hair cut. She looks awful. I may take a picture and put it on here. I don’t know. She doesn’t want me to because she’s embarrassed and partially bald on one side.

Oops.

Strike out 5. Okay.

So. Um. From what I see, you’re okay.

So why the three runs again? Was it Lackey? Did you tag him in? Because I meant to warn you about that.

Ellsbury catches. Ends. Niceness.

But 3-2 Indians? What’s with that?

—-

Once again, someone asked me why I am in love with Kevin Youkilis.

It’s really not an easy question to answer.

But I will try.

Well, he’s affectionate.

He’s a hugger, Youkie is.

Oh, and he is a kickass baseball player.

Oh, and he gives me a secret signal. You wouldn’t understand. Ours is a spiritual plane kind of love.

—

Justin just struck out Ortiz. I think I have a corner tear. Oh. It’s from dog hair, wafting through the apartment. Next time I give you a haircut, Ellie, you will be outside.

Justin Masterson, can you come home? I will give you Jed Lowrie. And John Lackey, Cleveland. And, okay. You can have Bobby Jenks too. But only if you can get Justin to us by the 7th inning stretch.

2 outs. I blame Theo.

—

Josh Reddick. Home run. 3-3.

Now, Sox-Rox (see comments), Cleveland is not cancer. That’s just mean.

They’re more like Roundworm. Oh! Or Rabies.

That’s less mean. Right? Isn’t that less mean than cancer?

I am drinking vodka and Gatorade tonight. And it is not good.

Home runs are good. Thanks, Josh.

—-

OHMYGODYOUGUYSSHUTUP! It is Jason Varitek. I haven’t seen Jason Varitek in so long! He will do great things for us today. He will… strike out.

OHMYGODJUSTINYOUSTRUCKOUTTHECAPTAIN. You deserve ice cream or something.

NO. No ice cream for the person who strikes out the Captain.

No.

Feelings are confusing!

—-

It is 8:31. And Josh Reddick just spit. CHILDREN ARE WATCHING YOU.

I can’t stand a spitter.

Hi, Bedard.

Qu’est-ce qui était cela?

Youkie. Merci.

Honestly, people. It’s so stressful watching a pitcher you do not know. Oh, and John Lackey.

Hey, you ended the pledge, buddy. I tried.

Hi, Erik.

I like you.

I do.

We’re going to be friends.

We will speak French to each other and say things with French accents. And you can braid my hair.

I think I love you. Enchanté.

Strike two. Full count. “Bedard has not walked anybody in the game tonight.”

He won’t start now. Not when I’ve just professed my optimism. He won’t…

Crawford running catches it. You knew he was going to do that, didn’t you Erik? Clever. Giving him a false sense of security like that. But see, Josh gives me a signal so I don’t have a heart attack. You should… you know what? You’ll learn. You’ll learn. De rien.

—

Hi, BH (see comments)! Glad to see you. Glad you didn’t miss the Reddick homer. Go away. And then come back. Maybe that is the key to our home runs tonight. Go! Hurry, so you can come back!

—-

Marco Scutaro. Oh, Bedard- à quoi bon? Seriously.

Out. Of course.

Oh, Heidi is talking about Jed Lowrie.

“I need to make sure that I’m healthy so I can help this team win.”

Hah. You. Healthy. Yeah. Okay.

Now he’s talking about in 2009 “playing through the pain.”

Really? When did you EVER play through the pain?

—-

Left Center…. can’t get it! Yess. Ellsbury gets to first. Sweet.

—–

Either of you guys interested in guest blogging? No?

—–

Ellsbury still at first. Pedroia sinks into an out. A stinky, stinky out.

I really hope I get to see at least ONE Stanks game this weekend…

Hi, Masterson. I mean Gonz! I mean Gonz!

So confuuuuuussseeed.

Justin. For old time’s sake. Could you…

No… I could never ask you to be what you’re not.

We live in two different worlds, Justin. It’s like in “The Last Unicorn.” You’re my Prince Lir. It’s very romantic in a mythical cartoony way.

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.

Like the wind off the sea…

Justin Masterson. I just don’t know what to say.

Screw that.

My feelings can best be expressed by Idina Menzel.

Erik Bedard. You are kind of great. I say kind of, because, thanks to checkerboard MLB that I am paying $20 a month for, I can’t entirely tell.

But you seem swell.

My dog looks really horrible. I kind of feel bad. She’s being boarded for a few days starting tomorrow. All the other puppies might make fun of her.

High fly ballllllllll Jacoby at wall… Jacoby leaps… Jacoby flubs. Double. Whatever. WHATEVER.

Oh no. A home run. Oh no. It’s okay. It’s… It’s okay. A two run home run.

Carlos Santana. Pffft. Il ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard. Pfft. We’ve still got this, Erik.

5 to… um… 3.

Pffft. Revenons à nos moutons.

Two runs. Whatever. Two runs is nothing. We’re fine. We’ve got this, you and I, Bedard.

And, thanks, Pedroia. We finally have an out. That’s something. We’re fiiinneeee. Not even worried. Not. Even. Worried. No.

Okay. I just got the memo that wasn’t you, Erik. That was Morales. Because I just saw through the checkboards. And NOW I AM ANGRY. YOU KNOW BETTER, Morales. YOU KNOW BETTER. This is YOUR fault. YOUR FAULT.

FIX ITFIXITNOW.

——

Make. It. Stop.

MAKEITSTOPNOW.

—–

Gatorade is a TERRIBLE drink.

—-

Alfredo Aceves. Ohmygod, Alfredo. Did you see what Morales tried to do to us? Did you see what Morales DID to us? Did you see? Ohmygod, Alfredo.

I ate your pasta today.

Okay. I didn’t. But I wanted too. I went to Which Wich again.

Oh, Alfredo. Fix this. And then go give Erik a hug. I don’t want him to think we do this to pitchers. I mean, you know we do this to pitchers. But I want him fooled. I don’t want him to think our bullpen hates our rotation. Okay?

John Lackey! Stop talking to Erik! You might be contagious! Stop it!

It’s okay, Erik. I won’t let them hurt you. I hear you hurt easily. I’m going to protect you. With. My. Mind.

Alfredo?

Alfredo? Why?

Why would you… Why?

Double for Matt LaPorta.

“As he plays pepper with that left field wall.”

What does it mean to play pepper with something?

I don’t understand. I am confused.

Google search time!

Oh. That’s what it means?

That does not make sense, Jerry Remy.

We really only have one out?

Alfredo? You’re supposed to fix everything and then you were going to go tell John Lackey to stay off our Erik. You were going to do that intimidating snarl that you do. You know the one. No. Not that one. No. Not that one. Nope.

Oh good. Now the audio is checkerboarding. It’s like a Jerry Remy round. Seriously, MLB. I can’t believe I pay money for this.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Full count. STRIKE. Stop saying that, Jerry! Stopppp it.

I don’t understand why you keep repeating and why I haven’t muted you. Oh. Mute. You sound better now.

And I can hear myself. I will sing.

You are so deprived. I wish you could hear me. I bet my neighbors can hear me.

They’re so lucky.

Did you know there are Youtube videos where you can sing opposite Idina Menzel?

Oh. Neither did I.

After a discussion from Jason Varitek… Yes. An out. You were struck out. With an out. Two outs.

There are supposed to be three outs, Alfredo.

—-

It’s okay, BH. I think I handled it. I explained to Alfredo that there are three outs and that innings are supposed to end. It’s okay now. You’re welcome.

—-

Just YOOUUUUUUUU AND I… DEFYYYYYING GRAVITY….

My neighbors are so lucky.

I can sing and type. Can I sing and type?

Um. Kinda.

Come on, Alfreeeeeddoooooo…..

Striiiikeeee threee… and the indians suckkkkk <- you can sing that to the tune of “Defying Gravity” if you want.

Out.

More Gatorade!

—-

Dear Justin Masterson,

I hope you’re happy now.

Now that you’re choosing this.

I hope it brings you bliss.

I really hope you get it. And don’t live to regret it…

Okay. I’ll stop.

Typing. I’ll never stop singing. Never.

“I met Pedroia at Red Sox Camp,” kid’s sign says. I am sooooooo jealous.

And you jerk. You just outed Youkilis. I mean you gave him an out. I mean you made him out. I mean… he was out. You know what I mean!!!!

Molina spit on an ump? really? Fascinating news tonight, Heidi.It is the bottom of the 6th. And David Ortiz is batting. And it is 9:12. And his helmet is REALLY shiny today.

Clap those hands, baby. Clap those hands! Work it!

See that Justin snarl, Alfredo? If you had snarled like that, you probably would have pitched better.

Just saying.

—-

I think I would like “So You Think You Can Dance.” But I don’t have a television. Is your computer doing weird boxy things that break up your image, BH?

Maybe MLB just hates North Carolina.

Ortiz is walking. Masterson’s first walk.

Thanks, Justin. Thanks.

Don’t think I don’t know that was for me.

—-

You can’t keep doing this, Justin. They’ll know. They’ll know about us. And there’s no telling what Cleveland will do.

Outside ball? They’re going to find out, Justin. And Cleveland will tell Youk. And then we’ll both be in trouble. More Gatorade? Okay!
—-

Electrolytes are good for you. Really. I looked it up.

And an error leaves us with no outs! Swell.

Swell!

But Justin, you’ve got to be more subtle. Belcher’s talking to him. Oh no! They’ve found us out! Quick! Alfredo! Cover Youk’s eyes!

—-

Oh, it must be dramatic. They’re playing previous clips like the Reddick homer. Oh no. I’m sorry I got us into this mess, Justin. Blame it on the ‘rade.

—-

Josh Reddick, aka Joshy-poo, is going to get a three run homer. He will. You’ll see. They’ll all see!

—-

In the air to left. Caught. Joshy-poo?

—

Two outs. But two on base.

Masterson is faced with a dilemma. Help the one that got away (that’s me) or save face with his buddies in Cleveland.

Ball two.

Jason Varitek.

Jassssooonnnnnn Varitek.

Foul. Two and Two.

Justin. Stand strong. Help a captain out. You knoooowwwww you want to.

Tek is like a FATHER to you. He’s like a FATHER to me. That makes us… um…

DAMNIT, Justin.

We’re over.

Again.

Stop calling me. Cleveland can have you.

—-

I didn’t mean it.

—

I did!

—

I like how the commercials come in crysssstttalllll clear.

—-

Anyone know any good knock-knock jokes? I heard this one today about Florida. But it wasn’t a knock-knock joke. It was something like a Canes fan, a Gator’s fan and… um… A Noles fan? Yes. They’re all on this roof, see, trying to show how great their fanship is, right? And the Noles fan jumps to show his devotion and says “This is for …” I can’t remember. But he says something dramatic, right? And then the Canes fan pushes the Gator’s fan off of the roof and says, “This is for the Canes!”

I know. I know I’m not supposed to drink Gatorade. It is not the drink of my people. But it is lemonlime. And at the corner market near my house.

—-

Pestano is warming up. For the best, I suppose.

—-

Is Miller really pitching?

FDA, I have loved Youkilis since he started playing. We got married in April of 2005. I am nothing if not faithful. And marital status does not matter to me in my baseball marriages.

—–

Oh no. Asdrubbbbbbbbbbbbubbbbbbbuubbbbuaaallllaaabear is about to bat. That’s his real name, you know.

Miller. What are you doing? Is this on purpose? Because you are not Erik Bedard. You do not get a free pass from me.

—–

Strikeeeee out. See? Snippy comments work. Good, Miller. Gooooood.

—-

And FDA- I LOVE Youkilis. I LIKE Chinese food.

—-

On the other side of the planet. Um. Internet. Jeb just said the Pirates are losing.

—-

I don’t think Andrew Miller has seen “Wicked.” If he had, he would be inspired. Because everyone in all of Oz, all Wizards that there are or were are totally going to briiiiiingggggg himmmmm dowwwwnnnnnn…

Okay. I’m done. With the typing. Not the singing.

My dog just went upstairs.

Hmmm.

—-

No. No. No. NO.

Cabrera, aka Asdrublahavomitabeaaaarrrr, scored.

—-

I do not know what the score is. Because of the checkerboards. Okay. I do know what the score is. But I’m not typing it. That makes it real. And this? This isn’t real. This isn’t reality. There are too many walls. That’s deep. Deep. Like this Gatorade. They give you a lot for six dollars.

OUT. Fahfricking finally. 6-3. SIX TO THREE. There. I said it. Don’t hurt me, sky.

—-

Let’s write fanfiction about this game. Let’s. Okay.

The game that one day when we weren’t losing

by Lauren

One day there was this game.

It was at Fenway Park.

There were these Red Sox. And they hit lots of home runs. But not normal home runs. Magical home runs. That hit irritating people in the stands and made them fall off Fenway Park. No one died or anything. But this girl with the spikey hair who cut off Lauren on King Street today? She got hurt.

Oh, and Kevin Youkilis got four grand slams. And that was only part of the 87-1 score. Justin Masterson cried a lot. And said, “Whyyyyy? Whyyyyy?” And Theo Epstein (he was wearing this hat. It was a big hat) looked upon him and said, “Boy? Why are you crying?”

And Justin said, “Because no one loves me and I suck now in Cleveland. And my only friend is Drew Carey.”

And, since the thimble didn’t make him feel better, Theo decided to take him away to a magical land on the other side of the stadium.

“Come with us, Justin,” he said. “You will never be sad again. And we’ll let you grow your hair out so you don’t look so awkwardly bald.”

“But, Theo?! However will I escape?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

And, with Youkilis’ help, Theo threw John Lackey and Jed Lowrie (whose injury made him bouncy) and Marco Scutaro at Cleveland and they stuck like double sided tape. And we got this amazing new short stop. Named. Um. Greg. His name was Greg. And he had many home runs.

And The Red Sox Won.

The end.

—-

I am really talented.

I understand why no one wants to guest blog. But if none of you volunteer, I am going to call Jeb again.

—-

Bottom of the 7th. 9:42. Ohno. If the Yankees win (and they are winning) and we lose (and we are losing), we would be tied.

OHNO.

Dustin Pedroia, I hope you heard that. Swing and a miss makes quick work of Pedroia? Stop it! Stop making quick work of yourself!

—-

Clearly your laundry is cursed, BH. Hurry! Roll it around in grass or something!

—-

Adrian Gonzalez. You should do something. Like. Um. Score. Like hit a two-run homer and let the crowd cheer. “Adrian!” They’ll chant! “Adrian!” And then they’ll throw crepe paper and streamers and candy and everyone will be happy again and… Gonz chops it toward the shortstop. And Cabrera ends the inning. Didn’t you like my scenario better?

—-

BH, did I tell you that awhile back you were comment 1,000? You win a prize but I have not drawn it yet. It is something you can look forward to.

—-

If I do not have a guest blogger, my blog will be blogless for days! For days!

—-

I would like seven guest bloggers. SEVEN.

—

It may not be today. But some day, Cleveland. This day you will rue!

Rue is the name of the kid in the “Hunger Games” books. Not the big kid. The little kid. Great books. A lot like the Red Sox, really. You would like them, FDA. They are violent.

—

Heidi is telling everyone to donate canned food. I would love to. But see, I can’t. Because no one loves me enough to take me to the games.

—-

6-3. Still. Top of the 8th. Tony fricking Sipp is warming up. I HATE that guy. I think it’s because of the necessary “p” in his name. I’m not a fan of most verbs as names. I am not fooled by the extra letter.

Jacoby makes a running catch. And you are out.

Lalalalalalalalala.

Gatoraaaaaade.

—

Yeah? Well at least my team name’s not racist.

You heard me.

No. Cleveland isn’t so bad. Blogger friend Bheise is just swell and dandy.

But you, weird fan at Fenway, you are not swell or dandy. And I saw that finger. I saw it.

I met a guy today in a Red Sox hat who told me he was a Twins fan.

Yeah. That’s the expression I had too.

I am going to start an anti-spitting campaign.

“The spitting starts with you,” it will say. And it will show a little meek child with a quivering lip. And then it will say:

“Spitting means no Santa Clause.”

Yikes.

Hit by a pitch. Yikes.

Yeah. Let’s not do that again. Two on. Yeah. I’m not happy about that one…

—-

Strike out. Two down. But see, two on. And that’s what I’m not liking, Curt Young.

—

Yes. All of you should e-mail me your guest blogs- ohnolauren@gmail.com.

—

Pedroia flips to second. Out.

Still 6-3, Indians. But at least that half of the inning is OVER.

—

Okay. SOMEONE keeps using the following keyword phrase to find my site: “Is Jacoby Ellsbury on steroids?”

Seriously. I’ve gotten six searches in the last day.

Let me make it easy for you: NO.

—-

Youkilis hits it high in the air to left! And…. they make the catch. Is a period the opposite of an exclamation point?

—-

It is the bottom of the eighth. One out. Stupid. Sipp is slinking up. Stupid Sipp.

—-

Speaking of sipping- Gatorade!

—

If you have NOT answered my curiosity question, I encourage you to do so. Answers entertain me verily.

—-

Ortiz. Monster. DOOOOO IT.

Boston Globe guy catches it.

Whatev.

I would so catch it.

You know. If I was there. SIGH.

David Ortiz, your helmet is muccchhhhh shinier today. Did you wax it?

Ortiz to left… caught.

DAMNIT, GUYS.

Two down.

Stupid Tony Sipp.

Stupid.

9 appearances has not given up a hit to the Red Sox. This will be the day, SIPP. This will be the fricking DAY.

I could be watching “Into the Woods” with Bernadette Peters right now. Did you know that is on Netflix??? I know.

—

Tony Sipp falls. He falls! He collapses! He’s…. laughing? Laughing? The baseball dirt? It’s tickling, he said? And the ball rolls out of his hands and Carl hits it out of the park.

Oh, sorry. I was fantasizing again.

Come on, Carl!

And he ends the inning. Blah.

—-

Of course. It is great news when we lose. Because we are perfect, and all. Of course. ESPN must overreact, you see. They have to, FDA. Because this will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN (Right guys? Right?).

—-

Dan Wheeler is in the pen. Chris Perez looks like Johnny Damon. Blah.

—-

It is the top of the 9th. We are still pretending we know how to throw. I say pretending, because you LOOK like a pitcher, Miller. You do. Except for the whole NOT PITCHING THING.

Are we really going to tie the fricking Stanks?

In a way, it’s a good thing. We’ll beat them in Fenway and there will be nothing the punk Stanks can say about it.

Strike out. Okay. Thanks, Miller.

Thanks for the thought. But it doesn’t mean anything, see, until we actually start HITTING THE BALL.

Lester against Colon tomorrow. Lackey and Sabathia (crinnnggggeeeee) Saturday.

—-

Asdrububuablahbloserjerkfacethrowupvomitbrerabel is up. Outside Ball Three. THREE. See this, Miller? Strike. Okay. Okay. Strike. Gatorade. Oh yeah, Asdrubabbeliwetthebedbel, adjusting your gloves. Because -that- was the glove’s fault, I’m sure.

In the dirt. And a WALK.

A WALK. You know who should walk, Miller? YOU. Back to the fricking bullpen.

—

It’s okay, BH. When we beat them with LACKEY, they will be humiliated.

—

Swing and a miss. Strike out. Okay. Um. Good, Miller. Good.

—

Adrublahbrattabel just stole a fricking base.

—-

Miller, your hair is doing this flippy thing. I wish you would fix it. If I could just cut that one little piece…

—-

2 outs. 9th. 2 outs. “A little nubber up in front of the plate.”

Silly announcers.

—

Okay, Ellie. I’m SORRY. I’ll never cut your hair again. Just come back. It’s like she knows I’m laughing at her. It’s like she’s a people again.

—-

Chad Durbin warming up. Yes…. I like that better than the Sippy Cup.

COMEON. First and third. Distress. Ball. Hit. Foul. Youkie hits the photogs. I’d rather you hit the ball.

—-

Theo, this really is your fault, you know.

—

Ball off the wall. Double. 7-3 now.

Theo, are you happy?

Yeah, go to the pen. GO.

—-

You know what other musical I like (and it so counts even though it is just internet)? Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog. It is on Netflicks too. Check it out.

—

Dan Wheeler. He has a Lackeyesque quality to him today. I don’t know what it is…

Matt LaPorta. Please make Matt LaPorta sit down.

—-

Two outs. COMEON.

Seriously, Theo. If you had kept Justin Masterson, none of this would have ever happened. And, with the Butterfly Effect, who knows what other wonders might have ensued? I might have a pony AND a boat by now.

YOUR FAULT.

Gatorade.

—

I liked Tonya Harding. You know. Before she went crazy. I wasn’t really a Nancy Kerrigan fan. I LOVED Katerina Witt. Remember her? I wanted to be her when I grew up. But I decided to eat.

—-

Crawford catches it. The inning fah-fricking-finally ends. And Josh Reddick is up next. It’s just BOTTOM OF THE NINTH. No pressure.

—

Your pitcher looks like a classier Johnny Damon.

And catch. One out.

Seriously, Erik. Please do not think this is something we do all the time. Please do not think this is acceptable here. This game is not your fault, Erik. This game is Theo’s fault. This game is an opportunity for me to scream “I told you so,” after telling him so when he fricking ripped Masterson away.

Tek to right field. Caught.

Out.

Two outs.

That’s okay. There are three of them, the outs.

—-

OHNO.

It’s Marco Scutaro. The man who is SWELL at being the last out. SWELL.

—-

Who doesn’t like Dr. Horrible? Clearly Bad Horse has Scut on his side.

STOP ALIGNING YOURSELF WITH THE THOROUGHBRED OF SIN!

Justin Masterson, I do not know what to say to you. I just don’t.

Scutaro. I know exactly what to say to you. But I’ll say it French. That way, Erik and I can have a secret.

Plus. It is very vulgar.

Tu me fais chier! Faut péter dans l’eau pour faire des bulles. Brûle en enfer!

And you, Theo!

Le cerveau il etait en option chez toi. Tu es betes comme tes pieds! Comprend bien, tu parles à un con.

Vous avez le cervau d’un sandwich au fromage.

Blah.

Please lose, Yankees.

~L

I have seen the Potter musical. Of course I am a Harry Potter fan. I am an American.