Yay! We won! I’ll get to that.
But something with way, WAY more longterm impact than one win smacked us in the face today. Like a mac truck.
It started… with REID BRIGNAC.
Reid Brignac is officially the most hated man in Boston. Think about that for a minute.
The most hated man in Boston.
And you’ve got Joe Maddon to compete with today, buddy… AND Danny Ainge. AND Tom Brady.
The reason Reid Brignac is the most hated man in Boston?
I am glad you don’t know, if you have to ask that question.
I wish I didn’t know.
See, Reid Brignac broke Jacoby Ellsbury.
And my heart…
I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I missed most of the game because of… you know. My job and stuff…
And I’ve been angry about work all day.
But my anger, see… it hasn’t had any focus.
I can’t be angry at my job. It pays me money.
I can’t be angry at MLB. They pay my Red Sox.
But I CAN be angry at you, Reid Brignac.
While I was waiting for your remorseful apology Tweet…
I took the liberty of WIKIPEDIAing you, Reid Brignac. 26-year-old Reid Brignac, who made your major league debut on July 4, 2008. You spent most of your career about ten miles from where I am right now. In Durham. With the DURHAM BULLS.
Your career statistics (as of 5 p.m. Friday wiki-fied) put you at a .231 batting average with 10 homeruns.
It doesn’t list you as a certified maimer… but, I’m sure “kill count=one” will be added to your wiki soon enough, Reid Brignac.
For when you curse his name later, know that his name is pronounced Brin-YAC.
And I HAD TO FIND OUT ON ESPN.
I mean, yes, I wanted Ryan Sweeney to play today. But not this way. Not this way.
Jacoby gets an RBI. Jacoby breaks.
Such is the circle of sh#$.
I have said that Jacoby’s slow start doesn’t bother me as much as it should… because I kind of want him to stay in Boston and not be stolen for his badassishness…
But this is SO not what I meant.
Is this my fault?!
Ellsbury was running on a 3-and-2 pitch when Rays shortstop Reid Brignac, who moved toward second when Ellsbury broke for the bag, fielded a ground ball by Dustin Pedroia, stepped on the base and threw to first. Brignac was upended by Ellsbury’s slide and fell heavily on the Sox center fielder’s shoulder.
I can’t talk about this now.
We WON (but at WHAT COST, Soxies? At WHAT COST????)!
So there’s that.
I did get to see the Tek/Wake sob-a-rama. I am, of course, talking about everyone else. You all know how I am excellent at maintaining that cool demeanor… Not even a sniffle.
IT WAS ALLERGIES.
Seriously. This game was bawl-worthy. And they do this crap to us on purpose. First they bring out Pesky… oh, Pesky… lead him on with two girls holding him up…
Then they bring in JETS. So you have patriotism.
And THEN… Just when you think you’ll be able to hold it together and actually watch some fricking baseball… they have the AUDACITY to bring out Wake and Tek.
This day was extremely emotional for me.
I need some time to process.
I’m still at work, by the way…
My anthem playlist ran out and I’m humming “Mama Mia” by Abba. Over and over and over and over…
PS- Really. Do you think this is my fault? Did I love Jacoby too much? Reid Brignac must have picked up on that… Jealousy. Foul, foul jealous.
PPS- Seriously- It could be my fault! Like in “the Craft,” with Neve Campbell? Even though she really wasn’t the star? It was that chick who looks like the chick who is in “the Truman Show” but isn’t? It’s the girl from that show on CBS that I don’t watch? Oh! And the girl from that classic of all classics “Worst Witch?”
In the Craft, when they do spells for personal gain, it comes back times three.
What if, when I ranted, “Why can’t Ryan Sweeney play today?” to my mirror self this morning… what if the magic from “the Craft” heard me and broke Jacoby?
PPPS- Oh GOD. What if it’s because I left the bar after my lunch break to go back to work? This is because I went back to work, isn’t it?
PPPPS- Do you think it’s because I called Jacoby Ellsbury a benchwarming paperweight and questioned his existence because no one needs to weigh papers in a dugout? Because, if he’s broken, then he’ll really be a paperweight. Like… like… John Lackey… which is REALLY irrelevant because paper does NOT need that much weight…
PPPPPS- Maybe this is YOUR fault.
PPPPPPS- Do you think, that if I wish really hard, it could be yesterday when all we had to complain about was 1-5? Remember those happy days of complaining about 1-5? Is it too late to go back in time and lose today? That would be a fair trade, right?
PPPPPPPS- This is YOUR fault. Yours. And ESPNs. And the MORON. And all those haters who HAD to complaina bout 1-5. 1-5. ONE AND FIVE.
Well, look where we are NOW, jerkwads! Frickdoublefrick.
PPPPPPPPS- Do you think this is my fault?
It’s going to be okay. I know it looks bad. I know it smells like Nicholas Cage now. But I am here to tell you- those of you too young to remember 2003… that it DOES get better.
And what’s the alternative? Really?
It’s like that dream Romeo keeps having in Romeo and Juliet… Where Romeo knows “untimely death” is ahead- and yet-
“But he that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail…”
He embraces it. It could be that Shakespeare degree I have (the one that just keeps making me bank, you know), but it’s exactly the same thing. You know the crap is about to rain from the cruel, cruel heavens… It’s going to smack into your soul like smushy hail… and yet you STILL leave your umbrella at home. Because, damn it if you couldn’t use the fertilizer…
You can complain. You can curse. You can shake your fist at the television. And you can throw things at that tissue effigy of Jacoby Ellbury you made under the table during your date last night… but you can’t quit.
You know it. They know it.
Such is the way of RedSoxism.
Boy does it blow.
Better bend over. It’s easier that way.
You know what helps me? This song. It was playing on my way home from work today. So, I rolled my windows down and blasted it through bad neighborhoods in Durham. In the Chevy Aveo. Because I am THAT cool.
Do it with me. Let’s do it together. Turn the volume up on your computer, stand in front of your mirror and let the tears flow…
Because… no matter how HORRIBLY you hit…
We’re going to … KEEP ON LOVING YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.
Am I singing by myself? Again?!
I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP… I JUST WANT TO KEEP ON LOVING YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.
Is it helping yet?
You are NOT alone!!!!!
And seriously. It’s been LESS than a week. It will be OKAY.
It’s Jason Varitek’s birthday today. I miss him so.
The REAL “It Gets Better Project” is really neat and worthy of your attention- it’s a valuable resource if you know anyone in trouble. Click HERE.
A World Series this boring needs cartoons.
Maybe that would have kept Zooey and company there past the 6th inning.
Seriously. I don’t even know what’s going on. I think this is the first year I haven’t watched the World Series AT ALL.
What a strange world to live in where we’d rather watch Gossip Girl reruns than baseball.
Apparently there was an almost comeback? And we STILL didn’t care to watch? I don’t know what you guys need to do to get ratings, Selig.
I just. Don’t. Know.
Seriously. The most exciting thing so far? A fricking whiffle ball. Most people DON’T EVEN KNOW THE WORLD SERIES IS ON. And, if it hadn’t interrupted episodes of “Glee” and “the New Girl,” well, no one would know.
Maybe you should talk to your ESPN buddies and get them to help promote your series. You know. Instead of devoting all its baseball screen time to a Soxsplosion that’s supposed to be over. Just a thought, Buddy.
And Joe Torre… aren’t there more productive things you could be doing? Like, I don’t know…. PRETENDING to root for the Cards? Wikipedia says you did play for them… and manage them… for like FIVE YEARS.
Right. My apologies, Joe. That was pre-Stankees. Must not count.
But… A-Roid… I thought ALL the games you lost were on purpose?
Click here. You will smile.
And Stanks: Try not to trip over all that nostalgia, k?
Anyone else find it fitting that the Rays were taken out by a former Sox?
Adrian Beltre, I always DID like you…
“It’s crushing,” right fielder Matt Joyce said.
Poor babies. At least no one saw you lose. No one in Tampa EVER watches baseball.
Ew. THROW UP. Here’s an article where Damon’s “eyes moisten” as he reflects on the season.
Yep. That just happened. Nope. Still not ready to talk about it…
Texts I received last night:
“Sux for you.”
“Told you so.”
“Let’s root for the Tigers.”
“Keep your chin up.”
And four missed phone calls.
Oh, and to the eight people that found this blog by searching “Curt Young Dead,” I… I… I just don’t know.
I am having an emotional affair with Jacoby Ellsbury. I can’t help it. Kevin Youkilis. The hernia. He just… He just can’t satisfy me right now like Jacoby can. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t know. But I can’t help the way I feel. And Jacoby, I can’t quit you baby.
In honor of Jacoby’s single-handed victory, I thought I would create a thank you card. I’d use construction paper and crayons and scotch tape and glitter and it would be even more glorious than that macaroni art I made Josh Beckett that one time. But, since you people kept me up all night with your stupid hundred thousand inning game, I don’t have time to wait for glitter to dry.
So, I am creating this blog post so we can all give thanks to the victor which is NOT Terry Francona. It is NOT Curt Young. It is NOT John Lackey. The person, the only person, that won THIS game is Jacoby Ellsbury. Please leave your “Dear Jacoby” thank yous in the comments section.
I will start.
I would have your babies.
Thanks for playing baseball, understanding the rules and actually trying.
All my love,
Your turn, America!
I love the Red Sox.
I mean, NASA says it probably crashed into the Pacific…
But I think we know better.
The good news. It can’t get any worse.
There’s no WAY we can lose.
My mother always said that when people talk about you, it’s a sign of your popularity. Like that time on the soccer team when two girls stepped on my face with cleats and I lost consciousness for four minutes and people talked about me. Oh, or the time when, in Powder Puff football in 11th grade, I got slapped by this bitch named Lisa. And the time I handcuffed myself to a cafeteria bench in protest of the no spaghetti straps rule and security had to use a hand saw to apprehend me. People used to talk about me a lot. I was so popular. It doesn’t matter if they’re talking about how pretty you are when you fall down the stairs or how many ribs you broke. Talking about you=popularity. Because that’s what my mother says.
The Red Sox are SO popular.
I mean, there are the usual suspects, the Boston Herald:
And don’t forget ESPN! Muck. Ah… drama. You can tell this guy’s working on a novel in his basement in his spare time.
It is unproductive to ruminate on the circumstances that have left them mired in the kind of muck that swallows faltering baseball clubs. Their mantra going forward in these final, angst-ridden days, we were informed, is to silence the “outside noises.”
The Baltimore Sun. This guy is smart. You can tell by his condescension:
If you’re wondering why the Orioles are suddenly beating up on the best teams in the American League, it isn’t all that hard to figure out. Their late-season resurgence is not a replay of last year’s miracle rally, which was spurred by new leadership and the physical rebound of some key players, but the backlash from the season-long intensity gap between the AL contenders and it’s chief pretender.
The New York Post. Simple. To the point. Lovely:
The Telegram. This guy clearly writes haiku on the weekend:
Watching the Red Sox fade into baseball oblivion this month has not been mind-boggling, it has been mind-altering. It’s like walking down the street and seeing a man 12 feet tall get out of a car, or checking the thermometer at noon and finding out the temperature on the back deck is 127 degrees.
The Sentinel. Heartfelt. Sigh:
The heartfelt round of booing that followed the third consecutive groundout in the bottom of the ninth of last night’s 6-4 loss to the Orioles was the sound the Red Sox richly deserved to hear as they slowly gathered their equipment and headed back to their clubhouse.
Oh- and here’s a piece about Cashman using Epstein as an example… It’s meant to be ironic, see.
Oh, look! We made the Business Insider:
Even random people from Connecticut that no one cares about are talking about us:
I don’t know what I enjoy more: the Red Sox current free fall that has them barely clinging to a playoff berth (yeah, I know the Yankees did Boston a favor by sweeping Tampa Bay yesterday, but I digress) or the way people freak when Facebook inevitably makes one of its unannounced, unilateral changes.
And even Cleveland fans are talking about us. See?
And there are only like a hundred thousand other blogs with a hundred thousand other authors. Not talking about Michael Jackson. Or Steve Jobbs. Or Barack Obama. Or the economy. They are talking about US.
It’s power, really. And that’s how we should look at it. So. When we turn things around tomorrow and start this streak of victory. Streak of dreams. Streak of JUSTICE. We’ll influence the masses with the dramatic conclusion of our turnaround. I can see it now.
The score: 1-0, Stankees. Dust. Settles on the field. Terry Francona rises from the dugout. Is there no one else, he shouts? Arms raised. No one else?
And then, from the mists of the baseball dirt, he shall rise. Kevin Youkilis shall come with a shiny new uniform. Oh! Oh! And a new hip! Standing like a stalwart… um… stalwart standing thing. Giraffes are kind of stalwart (except when they are eating). And mouths will be agape. And Derek Jeter will have to fan himself. Because the manhood Youkilis will exude will be THAT hot. And he shall take the bat (Youkie, not Jeter). Swing it. And GRAND SLAM….. And we win….
And the Yankees. They’ll cry and cry and say, “but we helped you! We beat Tampa for you! Show us mercy,” that’s what Jorge Posada will shout.
And David Ortiz will shake his great head and say…
“There is no mercy here.”
And Nick Swisher will have tears that will roll down his face. Roll, I say. And there will be puddles. All over the field. With Yankee tears. And then Kevin Gregg will join them. Because, at that point, Tampa and New York, it’s all the same.
And then Boston will take the post season by storm. And not like, a piddly storm. Like a debilitating, disaster-relief-required kind of storm.
And then, when it’s Philadelphia and Boston in the World Series, ESPN will be like, “I’m sorry, Boston. Forgive us. Forgive us all.”
And David Ortiz will shake his mighty head. And he shall say, “There is no mercy here.”
And then, when we win the World Series, we shall drink champagne. PINK champagne. And eat those expensive soda crackers from the gourmet food section of the grocery store. And expensive cheese. The hard white kind. And Joe Maddon will be like, can I just taste the cheese? And Dustin Pedroia will be like, “No cheese for you.”
And David Ortiz will shake his mighty head. And he shall say, “There is no mercy here.”
And then, our victory story will be so powerful that it inspires tv movies. And a musical. Oh, and a child into becoming a doctor or something. And then that doctor will save like, a bus full of children. And it will all be thanks to that moment. That moment on September 23. That moment that the Red Sox decided to throw strikes and hit balls and make proactive decisions and to neeeeevvvveerrrr let John Lackey pitch evvveerrrrr again.
You’ll see. You’ll all see.
In other news, Manny Ramirez is NOT going to be bringing his powers to the Dominican Republic. The wrath of Bud Selig is great.
An MLB official confirmed that since Ramirez has unresolved MLB drug-program violations and the Dominican winter league is affiliated with MLB, commissioner Bud Selig’s office considers him ineligible to play in the league.
So. Winning. We’re going to do that tomorrow.
So. How’s your day?
Here. Click this. It kind of made me smile. Like. Um. A little.
My feelings on the Sept. 21 game between the Baltimore Orioles and the Boston Red Sox can best be expressed through the following clip from the 1999 cult classic, “Office Space.”
Thank you for your time.
If you want an expanded crapola cupcake, click here, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Some things just make you gag.