So. THIS really just happened.
Sometimes, when I’m on a really bad Red Sox trip (and our fandom, Soxies, seems a lot like a bad drug trip. Not that I would know. You know, sometimes I wish I would know…), I wake up in those cold sweaty things, and I think, that didn’t really happen. Nope. No. It. Did. Not.
And then, Gordon Edes of ESPN smacks me with my morning news alerts.
Because THIS isn’t a Soxtrip hallucination:
The Red Sox announced it was a right shoulder injury, and that Ellsbury will be evaluated further. But a baseball source said Friday night that Ellsbury had sustained a dislocation or subluxation (partial dislocation) of his right shoulder. No timetable was offered as to how long Ellsbury will be out.
I’d look for more Google news alerts… but I don’ t want to. What if there’s one that says Jacoby’s done? I don’t think I could handle that.
I heard on the radio that they made Jacoby watch and he had to turn his head. Well, UM, YEAH.
Ellsbury collided with Adrian Beltre exactly two years ago. Broke ribs. DL. ELLSBURY, STOP COLLIDING WITH PEOPLE.
Reid Brignac says Ells was yelling and screaming.
“It would not be a stretch to guess he’s going to miss a good bit of time,” Edes says.
I just… can’t… stop…
So, I’m transitioning from that “Oh, my god, they broke my Jacoby” reaction to the “oh, my god, they broke my offensive lineup” reaction.
They’re talking about pulling up this Lin guy. They’re talking about getting Ross, Sweeney and Lin to combine rings and conjure up a super scorer.
I imagine it would look a lot like this:
And then, rising from the glowy lights, an image would materialize. I imagine it would be like, if you smushed together Mike Lowell and Jason Varitek from eight years ago… and David Ortiz and added tattoos like Brett Lawrie’s… and then added evil looking Padilla eyes…
It would be exactly like that, except less animated.
And then, the Lowellbeast would arise and inflict fiery batted doom on all balls in the strike zone (and some that aren’t in the strike zone, because the Lowellbeast is a BADASS).
“I shall avenge thee, JACOBY,” it shall say. In a somewhat gruffy voice.
Kind of like this (you know, except with a shorter name):
And then he shall precede to score 18 runs. EIGHTTEEN.
Yeah. It’s going to be great.
We’re going to be fiiiiiiine.
Jacoby, if I were in Boston, we could do crossword puzzles. I’d even do the writing so you wouldn’t have to. And I’d play as much Go Fish as you wanted…
Oh, Jacoby… I hope you are okay.
Don’t worry about us. Just worry about your shoulder. And about not joining the Stankees.
Don’t worry about us at all. We’ll be fine.
We have Captain Planet.
Good morning, Soxies. And what a morning it is! Slough off those losses in the shower because today is the REAL opening day… as we return to Fenway for the 100th- (um, technically it’s the 101, but don’t get me STARTED)- and Josh Beckett remembers how to play baseball… and Kevin Youkilis returns to us in hit-tastic fashion… And 1,000 runs each for Pedroia and Jacoby (um, long game?)… and my new boyfriend Ryan Sweeney will continue to be a delight… oh! And David Ortiz will slug them out of the park and Jason Varitek will-
But NOTHING can keep us down today. NOTHING.
Except work. Because, as you are all reveling in Beckettesque glory… I will be here. At work…
But it’s okay, see, because I have a plan. I’m going to catch bits and pieces- and when I’m not watching, I’ll be listening. To Red Sox anthems.
There are the obvious ones. Like:
And, you know-
And, of COURSE I’ll be singing this in my cube (my coworkers are sooooo lucky):
But there are not so obvious ones too.
Songs that just get you in that happy, poptastic mood I like to call SOXY. Like-
That’s YOU, Josh Beckett.
So help me out- let’s create a playlist of badass awesome…
Shoot your victory/peppy anthems to the comments.
NO Avril Lavigne-esque pity songs, please. We’ll let Tampa take care of that later.
Because we don’t need pity.
We’re going the distance…
And, if you want to laugh ’till you burst, just imagine your favorite Cleveland fan in a Damon jersey. Ohahahaha. That is never going to get old…
Youk’s coming back today, you guys!!!!
I am at work waiting on phone calls. So you, (you lucky soxies, you!) get astute ramblings, per yours truly, on the IMPORTANT news of the day. NOT stuff like this. I will NOT comment on that. If you want my comments on THAT, click here.
Okay, kids. I am officially (you know, as his wife) filing a missing person’s report for Kevin Youkilis.
And there’s bullet pointed evidence to back up my he-was-abducted-and-replaced-with-a-robot theory. Ahem:
- He is skinny. Seriously. Look at him. HE HAS CHEEKBONES. My husband does NOT have cheekbones.
- He is well kept. SERIOUSLY. Look at his beard! It’s… dare I say PRETTY? WHO ARE YOU, NUMBER 20????
- Oh. And he can’t fricking hit. MY HUSBAND CAN FRICKING HIT.
You may be able to fool Bobby V with a paltry imitation of that sexy batter’s dance… but you can’t fool me.
This is EXACTLY like what happened in Terminator 1.
Okay. So. Um. A secret. I never actually saw Terminator 1. But I imagine it was a lot like that…
I’M SURE THERE IS A MADE-FOR-TV-MOVIE I COULD COMPARE THIS TO.
I haven’t gotten a ransom note- and that’s what worries me. What if, instead of ransoming him, the evil robot overlords (there are evil robot overlords, see) want to use him for their baseball team?! Their baseball team on like, Mars or somewhere? WHAT IF THEY DO NOT WANT TO GIVE HIM BACK????
Seriously. My switched-by-a-robot theory explains a lot of things. Like Julie Brady. Just saying…
So, as Kevin Youkilis’ wife… I am making a personal appeal. Just drop him off at my house. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.
See, I know you didn’t mean to start serious trouble, evil robot overlords. You just wanted to win your company baseball league or something. I totally get that. But, see, because of what you did… well… there’s talk.
Just give him back to me and I’ll reward you personally. I am a HELL of a crayon sketch artist. Just ask my Soxy readers. I will give you a Lauren crayon original. IN A FRAME.
Or, if it will hurt too much (don’t want you to fizzle into your own guilt after seeing my stricken, stricken face), just drop him off in the dugout tomorrow. No one has to know. Just make the switch.
And… um… if you’re not using the robot… I mean… I’d take it off your hands… um…
Is Josh Beckett a robot too? You can tell me…
Blogger buddy PAUL sent this to me earlier today… mighty suspicious…
By the way, I LOVE it when people send me things. firstname.lastname@example.org!
In other news, because the paranoia train isn’t full yet… there’s talk about Dustin Pedroia… OUR DUSTIN… LEAVING. Leaving because Larry Lucchino might not cough up the cash.
I swear-to-fisk I will JUMP IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR, Dustin. It will cause a traffic accident. And so much TMZ drama.
Larry Lucchino and I will have this huge fight. And not even non-robot Kevin Youkilis will be able to contain my massive amounts of wrath. There will be so much wrath that you can bottle it and sell it at Belks Department Stores NATIONWIDE. Except you will not be able to contain it in a bottle. And it will leak out into your shopping bags and onto your car seats and cause TRAFFIC ACCIDENTS. And that will back up traffic on the interstate and everyone will be late for work. Which will piss me off even more because I HATE being late for work. Don’t do that to America, Larry. DO. NOT. DO. IT.
In Salty news- there are some who think Lavarnway could do a better job. I’m telling you. It is going to be Salty’s year. Mark my words. Don’t feel like marking my words? Well, have you been paying attention to your boy Lavarnway? Boom. But really, I LOVE Lavarnway. LOVE him. I’m just saying this is Salty’s time…
Regarding Bobby V on the radio. Hah. Hah. Hah. But it still doesn’t make up for your blinky eyes where our hitting (or lack thereof) is concerned. It’s going to take more than a mustache and fake glasses to get me to take you seriously.
Speaking of seriously…
People keep asking how I feel about the Tito snub. Confused, honestly. I mean, it’s not like we’re asking you to stick your tongue down John Henry’s throat (WE WOULD NEVER ASK YOU TO DO THAT). We just kind of wanted you to pat Ortiz on the back or something. Maybe smile at the camera.
I mean, the celebration is about history. And you made history. But I get it… I do. It’s just, you meant a lot to us- enough to overlook chickengate, pill rumors and your nasty sunflower seed spitting habit. I guess I kind of hoped we meant a lot to you, Tito.
It’s eyeroll worthy, but not enough for me to get really stewed over. I’ve got 99 problems and your bitchiness “ain’t one.”
I mean, the man gave me 2004. I did kind of give him a lifetime carte blanche. You know. Except for the Lackey thing…
But really. I’m not going to take it personally. I just kind of thought you were more of a badass, Tito. Maybe you’ve been out of the hat too long.
And… because he clearly hasn’t burned ALL the bridges in the ALE… Johnny Damon is aiming his ego at…
The land of Drew Carey is now the land of the unemployed caveman… or will be soon if this statement by Johnny Damon is more accurate than his humility-
Well there you have it. Because there’s no reason not to take Johnny Damon’s word for it…
Seriously, Johnny. You are the gift that keeps on vomiting all over our feet.
Do you think he has collected an unemployment check?
Now THAT’s something you should look into, Media.
Well, Johnny… All you need are Toronto and Baltimore and you’ve got a virtual full house of eye rollers.
Wow. I just read THIS letter. I TOLD you Johnny Damon reads my blog.
Now, remember to visit TooSoxy’s Cleveland buddy Bheise and congratulate him on his SWEET new addition. Hahahahaha.
PS- Even some RED SOX players would rather watch hockey. Um…
We’re going to be fine. FINE. See? Josh Beckett thinks so too.
On our game. Tomorrow. On… um… Friday. The thirteenth. Um…
So. Um. A whopping average of ZERO runs a game has me with a heebier case of the jeebies than the 0 and 2 record. Oh. And Mike Wallace died.
But seriously- let’s look on the bright side of the Sox.
No. There IS a bright side. Here he is:
Meet Ryan Sweeney! Captain of the Those-Who-Give-A-Fudge club. Members are you, me, Ryan Sweeney, Jarrod Saltalamacchia, David Ortiz. Gonz, since you ran, you get to be first alternate.
Your Sox hitters, ladies and gents!
You’ll notice a few frequent fliers missing from that list. Like, I don’t know. Jacoby. Dustin. KEVIN YOUKILIS.
Maybe they’re waiting for their ChickenFrat to get reinstated on campus. I didn’t mean that.
Bobby V doesn’t chew NEARLY as many sunflower seeds as Tito. So there’s savings there…
Oh! And remember- Verlander didn’t post a win the other day! That was. Um…
Oh! And John Lester didn’t give up five runs.
Okay. So there’s not a lot of good news. But it’s April, people. It’s APRIL. And remember last year? We’ve got to toughen up like beef jerky if we’re going to survive the blight to come.
It’s April. No one is panicking y-
Oh. Hi, media.
You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you.
Oh, yes, Olney. Let’s alllll recap Soxsplosion. Because I just keep forgetting.
I’d rather look ahead, see, with articles like this that use the word “schneid” (REALLY?) in their headline.
“It’s more of a relaxed state of mind knowing that everything’s fine and not having to worry about anything other than going out there and executing pitches and trying to help put this team in a position to win,” Buchholz said.
That is how we all need to feel.
EVERYTHING IS FINE.
The game is at 1 p.m. I’m traveling for that whole Easter thing- having Easter sister time at 2 p.m. in Greensboro- but I’ll be updating occasionally. You know. To curse and rant and… TO CELEBRATE CLAY’S BADASS PITCHING. RIGHT?! RIGHT?!
So comment away on your breaks from bunny hops, egg locator missions, mass oh, and baseball teeth gritting.
You’ll have a video in your basket tonight. So look for that.
Still not feeling Eastery?
THIS should make us ALL feel better.
Happy Easter/bunny day (is that the politically correct version? Screw it. I’m Catholic. I’m going to go with baseball day as the pc version. Ahem)/baseball day.
2:16. So. Maybe my iPhone is wrong and it is NOT 5-3, Detroit… At least we are… Um… Hitting? Apparently?
7-5? Boston? Of course. The game I cannot watch. Of course. Can someone tell me what is happening?! Please let this be a youk- driven initiative… 2:49
7-6? I feel so helpless! I am sorry, nieces, I can’t hide eggs with you. I have to figure out what is happening in Detroit… 2:58.
9-7. I have no idea what is happening, but I am quite thrilled. 3:34.
And by quite… I mean quite. Lack of hitting scares me more than lack of pitching. You can out hit your bum pitcher, but you can’t pitch runs on your scoreboard….
Happy Easter, indeed…
10-10? Bottom of the 9? Really? Is this one of those games where we are playing ourselves and losing?
5:57. I just got the we-lost-memo. Damn.
Okay. So Theo’s not going anywhere.
TODAY, at least. TODAY.
John Henry said something suspicious…
“I think there’s a certain shelf life in these jobs,” Henry said. “You can only be the manager, the general manager, if you’re sane, for a certain amount of time. It’s a pressure cooker here. It’s a long season. It’s 365 days. Theo is not going to be the general manager forever.”
Maybe it’s the yacht-concussion talking. Or maybe it’s the same crazy chaos juice that’s been brewing for a week and two days…
Do YOU want Theo to go?
Okay. So, it’s a mouthful.
But. Bear with me.
I have no idea what’s going on in the world of baseball.
No idea. And I am still too bitter to care (maybe I’ll be ready to talk about it tomorrow).
But, here’s a quick public service announcement:
Go Brewers and Tigers, World Series 2011! Woooooo!
Why? Because Fox Network blacked me out of a game that one time and Bud Selig let the fricking Stankees lose on purpose.
AND I HATE FOX NETWORK AND BUD SELIG THIS WEEK.
Allow me to elaborate. Big teams=big money for Fox and and Selig. Little teams=little audience. Little audience=little money.
Little money=tears for Selig and Fox.
Tears for Selig and Fox=irrational amount of laughter for Lauren.
BUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA<- see? It’s IRRATIONAL. And it has ALREADY started.
So, if you’re angry at Bud Selig and Fox and all the bastards making money off of this heartbreaking sport, clap your hands! For the Tigers and the Brewers. Because no one cares about them.
Join me, Soxies! Join me!
And THAT is your official TooSoxy endorsement for Tuesday.
Tomorrow, expect a rant. I’ve been working on what I fondly refer to as THE ANGRY BLOG for about a week. It’s coming. It’s fiery. And it’s so bitter it will melt your corneas into goo. GOO.
And, who needs an actual game? I like how Boston is the only team that manages to lose horribly and implode WHEN WE ARE NOT EVEN FRICKING PLAYING. More on this later. Oh yes. More on this later.
I am so full of hate.
NO ONE WILL BE SPARED!
Except for Kevin Youkilis. Who, no matter what ANYONE says, is completely, utterly and most profoundly (AS ALWAYS) blameless.
Got that, Jon Lester? Only ONE. Here. Let me illustrate it for you using the cult classic, Highlander.
We’ve got this. Oh. We’ve got this.
And today, that’s literal…
So, Soxies. It’s been a great season. And… if… if…
You know I love you guys, right?
Any last words?
I don’t know what to say, Soxies. I do not know what to say.
I don’t know. I had kind of a roller-coaster, Jerry Springerish night. Throw in a Beckett implosion, and I don’t think I’m fit to be around people. Sigh. Could someone else do the pep talk today? Because I’m spent.
You heard me. I REFUSE. Jacoby Ellsbury won a game yesterday, damnit. Haters? You can go the way of the Oreos. Don’t know the direction? Watch later today. Because we are going to shoot those Oreos out of the sky. Oh. Orioles. Right. I’m hungry. Sorry. One’s just wasted calories and the other’s a delicious cookie. It’s easy to get confused.
So, my day is splendid. I just learned I get to do field sobriety testing with the police department Wednesday. They called to ask me if cranberry and vodka will be okay. They said I could watch the baseball game in between tests. So it looks like I am going to have a very good Wednesday.
I’m not sure if I will be live blogging tonight or not. But I will be watching the crap out of the Orioles. THE CRAP OUT OF THEM. Especially you, Kevin Gregg. Because I get off work at SEVEN.
And my facebook status will be changed momentarily from “I am in love. Again. His name is Jacoby Ellsbury and we will be very happy together” to “Let’s punch Kevin Gregg in the face.”
Soxies, what’s your status on this fine, glorious, post-Jacoby victory day? Best status wins a paint photo illustration. And, if the last two days have taught you nothing, it’s that I am very talented.
In other news, I cut my hair.
Took a walk.
And went to work.
Two of these things were great. One sucked.
So. We’re winning tomorrow.
I have decided.
Going to happen.
and THAT, Soxies, is how you get things DONE.
I have had a lot of time to think about this.
Thanks to a town council meeting I had to cover for four hours…
I have had a LOT of time to think about this.
And there really is NO WAY we can lose tomorrow.
BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT TO LOSE.
I am not losing. Losing is for losers and I AM A WINNER. It is officially written on my mirror. WITH LIPSTICK. That’s right. IN WRITING. EXPENSIVE, DEPARTMENT STORE LIPSTICK. I’m not taking any chances on this cheap, Covergirl shit.
So, now that I have made this decision, I feel better. And you should too.
I mean, it would be nice if you guys would make this decision with me, but it really doesn’t matter. Because I’ve decided. I don’t need your input, really. It’s only a pretend democracy. You know. Like America.
I kind of wish I had made this decision last week. Because, I can’t tell you how good it feels. Knowing that we’re going to be okay. KNOWING that we’re going to win tomorrow. I mean, I’ll probably still watch. You know. So I can golf clap or something. Really, the game is a lot less exciting now that I KNOW the outcome. But that’s a price I’ll have to pay. See, today, while councilmembers were talking and data bases and architectural plans were blurring together on my computer and the clock was ticking and the numbers started to swirl… I had this little psychic chat with Kevin Youkilis. It was like he rose from the cheap carpet in a mist. A magic mist. Arose in a misty semblance of his televised self.
“Hello,” he said. “I am the great Kevin Youkilis. Your wish is my desire.”
(I’m paraphrasing. It took mystical K-Youk a really long time to get to this point. And there was this neat sailor dance…)
“Hello, Kevin Youkilis. Could you do me a solid and put a post-it or something in the locker room with the word ‘win’ on it?”
(I might have gushed with a little more immaturity than this quote implies.)
“Of course. Anything for you.”
“And, in case they can’t read or speak English or are too egotistical (ahem, Lackey) to look at anything other than a mirror in a locker room, could you read it out loud?”
“Of course. Anything for you.”
And then the town attorney gave me this really weird look. Which was weird in itself because it’s not like I actually drooled ON anybody.
But then. Just then. I knew. I KNEW it was going to be alright. It’s like that moment, the one you’re supposed to get right before you die? Of peace and finality and comfortable understanding? Perhaps that’s the wrong situation to compare this to…
But then I thought about this thing my guidance counselor told me when I was eleven.
“Of course you can be a fish doctor, Lauren. You can be anything you set your mind to.”
Anything I set my mind to, people. And I set my mind on being a WINNER.
And being a fish doctor! Ohwow. I just remembered that. I would be the best fish doctor. It could still happen. I ate catfish the other day, so it’s a dream in progress.
So, in conclusion, everyone can stop freaking out and making ledge jumping references. Because it’s all okay now, see. I’ve worked it out. YOU ARE WELCOME.
You guys should, I don’t know, give me a prize or something for being so smart. I take personal checks. Oh, and expensive cheese. And those soda crackers you find in the organic section of the grocery store.
Yes, I saw the Tampa score. Their paltry run count is of little relevance or interest to me. The more runs they score, the suckier it will feel when they fall on their faces. Their IDIOTic faces. That are partially bearded. With stupid haircuts. And stupid names with stupid JD initials and stupid websites that say stupid things on them.