Archive
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!
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.
200 or BUST.
4:23. At work. Explaining to someone the tradition that is Tim Wakefield.
So, betting time. I’ve got all my imaginary money on a win. That’s approximately 127,450 imaginary dollars. Imaginary dollars that I was saving for my imaginary boat and my imaginary high-interest mutual fund. It’s all I have left after purchasing my imaginary island last week with my imaginary savings. If I lose it, I’ll be marooned.
What do you think, Soxies? Is today the day that Father Time… um… Father Tim will deliver double hundreds?
See you in a few hours!
—-
6:15. Getting off work. Step closer to being able to watch entirety of actual game…
—-
HILARIOUS story about Alex Rodriguez on Deadspin (thanks, Jeb!).
Check it out while you tailgate.
—-
7:15. Okay. Carlos Carrasco. There’s something funky about the video on MLB.tv today… anyone else experiencing this? Checkerboards? No? Just me.
Jacoby chops to first. First out.
I wish they would stop spitting in public. It’s embarassing.
This is frustrating already. two outs. Sorry, Pedroia. I thought it was a homer too.
Gonz has an extremely dramatic single. Jacoby would have made that a triple. But whatever. The crowd goes silent as Youkie steps up to the plate. Okay. I may have assisted with the mute button on my computer…
Okay. They’re picking on Youkilis. The announcers say they’re picking on Youkilis. STOP PICKING ON YOUKILIS.
Thank you. With that complete and utter fail, Cleveland, you stopped. And helped my husband have one hell of a double. Okay, sound. You can come back again.
Papi at the plate. This MLB feed is really going to annoy me. I can tell. Base hit! Youkie! Gonz! 2-0 lead. 2-0. I like how this is going. Yes. Go team 200. That’s what I will call you all today. Team 200. Do it for Wake. Do it.
Carl Crawford, buddy, pal, friend, let’s widen the cushion, shall we? Let’s spread out that cushion like a picnic blanket. Like throat coating cough syrup. Like… like a home run.
Out. Okay. Um. First inning. Two runs. Okay.
—
Top of the second. 7:29. Travis Hafner. at the plate. Strike two.
Youkie in the shortstop spot (????) throws him out.
K.
Carlos Santana who has shifted from catcher to first base? What a weird game.
Okay, announcers. I don’t want to know how well the batters hit against Timmy. This is not helpful information for my pro-200 mindset. You will go on mute again. Mute, I say.
Steeeerike. First K of the night.
Knucklin’. Knucklin’ your way to 200. Knuckleballs look so silly. I wonder how they look coming at your face. Judging from the confuzzled expression on Konerko’s face, not pleasant.
Throws it in the dirt again.
Um. Let’s not do that.
Tim turned 45 yesterday? Why didn’t I know that? I would have thrown a party.
A-Gonz shoves in the out.
Sweetness.
—
7:35. I am so tired, guys.
Bottom of the second.
Not. A. Good. Sign for my awakeness…
Cleveland, I’m sorry your pitcher lost his last five starts. Really. And I’m sorry that tomorrow it will be six. Heidi Watney, I really don’t care about this. Thanks.
Reddick. Base hit. At the wall. Dramatic single. One out. But Joshy on first.
That ball almost hit Baltimore… wayyyyyy on the bottom of the wall list.
Marco Scutaro kind of looks like this guy I went out with this this one time. Not sure why I’ve never noticed that… my, what an awkward memory.
Good swing by Marco Scutaro? Um, Remy, a good swing is going to be when it’s out of the park and we’re two runs scarier.
Full count for Scut. See, I’m not worried- because Jacoby’s up next.
Fly to center… catch. Out.
Whatever, let’s see you, Jacoby.
Ball one. Okay. We can walk there. That’s fine. My computer keeps freezing on ridiculous expressions in the audience. Like this guy in a pink plaid shirt with his mouth open. He is clearly a Cleveland fan.
No offense, Bheise. You would NEVER wear that shirt.
In the air to right. Makes the catch. Ends the second. Okay. That’s fine.
—–
0-2. Top of the third. Tim Wakefield is about to be a badass. You’ll see.
Any minute now.
Pop out. Jacoby’s all over it.
Any minute now.
He just smirked. Was that a badass smirk?
Yes. Yes it was. Second strike out for Tim Wakefield.
That’s KK, for those of you paying attention at home.
Two outs.
Ground ball. Easy out.
And then Scutaro kicks it.
Scutaro kicks it?
Scutaro kicks it.
SCUTARO!
Bunt. Out at first.
Okay. Scut… you better go shake Gonz’ hand.
—-
Up the middle, base hit for Pedroia… our 5th hit of the night, by the by… on a new 5 game hit streak… Okay.
25 game streak broken by the White Sox. That one hurt.
Gonz tries the bunt. Not so much with the success.
Pedroia tagged out. Pedroia!
“That’s a helpless feeling for a baserunner, when you take off too soon,” announcer said.
Caught stealing. Bah.
Gonz grounds into the shift. Obvious out- but he runs for THAT one, notice.
Shut up, Heidi! Youkilis is batting.
Ball and a strike. I just love the Youk chant. It’s like a moan, really. Ball and two strikes. Two outs. Come on, baby. I believe in you. Want me to clap? I’ll clap. I can do that. Hell, it worked in Peter Pan.
Damn.
Clearly, you are not Peter Pan. End of inning.
—-
39 pitches for you, Timmy. 40th… a strike. And a fast ball.
Home run.
DAMN.
Okay, Timmy.
Okay. Breathe. 200. 200. Just repeat that. You know. 200 times.
Hopefully this won’t take 200 tries.
Zeeeeerooooo outs.
Chop.
Ball bounces. Ridiculously.
Clearly witchcraft. 2-2. Tie game.
Yeah, Salty. I think you SHOULD talk to Tim Wakefield. Maybe you should talk to him longer. NO outs. 2-2. 8:05 p.m.
Wild crazy pitch puts the guy to third.
Okay. Wakey. Okay. Let’s just calm down.
This inning is gross. Let’s start over. Or. Um. End it. Or something. Wake?
52 pitches. Tonight a year ago collision at the plate with Santana? Yeah. Let’s not repeat that. I’d rather Wake just strike you the frick out.
Like he just did. Making it KKK.
55 pitches. Okay. Let’s give that lonely out some friends. Two, to be specific.
Pedroia catches.
2 outs.
ONE MORE.
Thank you. Sit down.
—
Papi walks.
And, in the announcer booth, we’re talking about Tito bobbleheads. I really, really want one. Is that wrong? Will you buy me one?
“Where’s his finger so I can dislocate it again?”
That’s a bit much, announcer. A bit much.
A bobblehead night?
Doesn’t make the catch- Ortiz stopped at third, double for Crawford. Lovely. Kismet.
Second. Third. ZERO outs. ZERO.
BASES LOADED! BASES LOADED!
One out.
But BASES LOADED!
And…
Crap.
Marco Scutaro.
Crap.
Strike 2.
Crap.
Come on, Marco.
Come on, Marco. Stephen King is watching.
3-2 lead.
Okay. Okay.
I mean, it’s not a grand slam… but… at least we avoided a double play.
2 outs. Carl at third. Marco at first. Jacoby at the plate. Scut steals.
And crap.
—
Anddddd we start the bottom of the 6th with an out.
And about fifteen yawns from me.
And two outs. Blast.
That was a dramatic fail… and we’re on first.
Of course, it may be moot, because Marco’s up.
Out. That was fast.
—
Top of the 5h. 8:30 p.m., but it feels like midnight. Wake… can you do this quickly? Thanks.
Thanks. 1 out.
Crap. And one on first.
2 outs. Okay. Okay. Guy on second. Whatever, guy on second. Wake promised this would be fast.
First and second. Okay. And Asdrubal is up to the plate.
Wakeeeee…
3 outs. Thanks be to Fisk. I’m so sleepy, guys. So sleepy…
——
Gonz and Pedroia are trying to wake me up. It’s sweet. Thanks, guys. But it’s not working. Youk is going to load up the bases. He will.
Crap.
Youk.
Crap.
2 outs.
Papi. Papi.
And the fifth crashes. Like I am about to…
—–
Hi, Timmy.
Tim Wakefield. Please?
Oh no. Alfredo Aceves is warming up.
Oh no. Wakey, you can do it. I believe in you…
200. 200. 200. 200. 200.
—-
Tim. 200. Tim.
He is stressing me out. Are you watching this? Is anyone watching this?
Tito looks stressed out. And Salty, I hope that’s stress, because you are causing some plate scariness with your not catching.
Okay, One on first. One on second. two outs.
Oh. AND IT IS TIED AT THREE-THREE now.
Tim is gone. And I have this sinking sleepy feeling that this is only the beginning of our journey to 200.
Top of the 7th. I am too tired to yell at you, Randy Williams.
—
It looked fair to me too, Jacoby. It is 9:20.
—–
3-3. top. 8.
Bottom.
Nothing changes.
This game will clearly last forever.
Youkie. Fix it.
Ball four. Leadoff WALK.
Okay.
Tony Sipp. Whatever.
Mike Avilles pinching. This is the first time I’ll really see you in action, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Papi. Oh, Papi. Swing and a miss. ‘Course.
Zero outs, Aviles on first.
Aviles steals second. This Aviles, he’s alright.
Pop out. Papi.
Carl. Can I call you Carl?
Seriously. Ties cause me to lose sleep. Fix this, Carl. Be a buddy.
Out on strikes.
Okay. Um. Aviles is still in scoring position. One out left. So. Um. Salty?
Oh no. Justin Masterson tomorrow. Oh no. I am so conflicted. I loved him so.
Right. Back to the actual game.
13-1 Yankees? Really, White Sox? REALLY?
Bah.
Salty. Yes. Salty.
Strike three.
Damn.
—–
This game is stressful. I know what will make us ALL feel better:
You’re welcome.
—-
The 9th. An out.
Papelbon.
Second out.
Crowd on its feet. Wish we were there.
Strike out.
—-
Score. PLEASE.
Hi, Darnell McDonald.
FAIL, Darnell McDonald. Go. Sit. Down.
Oh, Marco.
Marco Scutaro.
DAMNIT, SCUT.
Crap.
One out left.
ONE OUT.
ONE OUT or extra innings. And I can’t stay awake, people.
Jacoby, if you CARE about me at all…
OHMYGOD. You… you love me… you… you really love me…
HOME RUN.
OHMYGOD.
I love you too, Jacoby. I love you too.
4-3.
~L
“Just want to try to drive the ball.”
You did, Jacoby. You did.
I love Paps’ victory face. I love it.
“We’re going to compete until the last out,” Jacoby said.
The Good. The Bad. The Ug– um… Gritty.
The GOOD.
It’s the BEST July ever. Really.
The BAD.
Clay Buchholz has a stress fracture. As a gal who has had many… they super-suck. And sometimes take awhile to diagnose.
The Gritty.
Nixing one hypochondriac trade for another.
The Gritty… um… The Gritty-er.
We’ve still got lots of baseball left. Plenty of time for dreams to die…
Hi, Cleveland.
~L
Those birds sure do throw tantrums…
Hi, Buck Showalter. You have lots of time to read this now that you’ve been banned. Get your Kleenex ready.
See, apparently, if you whine enough, you get to play. Gregg and Gonzalez get to play until their appeals are heard. Their whining, you see, has already been heard. A lot. Like a firetruck siren. Ohmyfrickinggod. Oh good. He’s not done.
Right. Because insulting the umpires is a sure-fire way to win an appeal…
Mad about it? Like how Ortiz reacted? Remember how aghast you were at that? I do. I blogged about it.
Ohmygod just pop an anxiety pill already, okay? Stop ruffling your tail feathers. You are an insult to birds.
I am so tired of writing about whining and bitchiness. I feel like I’m writing a gossip column for the barbie pepsquad at a middle school. Jesus, Bucky. I knew you were irritating, but I had no idea your salty tears would flood the world.
Speaking of salty, salty tears… David Price is pitching tomorrow. You may recognize him from my hate list. My, how hate lists change. Don’t worry, David Price, you’re still on it.
On to business. Real business. Damn, it will feel good to play fricking baseball.
~L
PS- Oh no! Cleveland just beat the Orioles! Ohio, prepare for a monsoon! Of salty, salty tears.
Rain… okay, we get it. You’re wet.
Thanks to the wet stuff, we’ve got a double header with Buchholz and Beckett at the mound, respectively.
But hey, we also got a rest day. Kind of.
A wet, icky rest day. A much well deserved wet, icky rest day.
And the Stankees? They got another loss to Seattle, Lauren’s new most favorite non-Red Sox, non-Marlins team.
So Red Sox, today I’m going to ask you to play your socks off. Don’t do it for me. Do it for Seattle. And the stankcrushing they have done for you.
Ahhhhhhh… ALE. It’s lonely at the top… but someone’s got to be up here. Nice view, though. I think I can see Cleveland…
We meet this Verlander guy we keep hearing so much about today… I hear he’s okay.
And… oh no… oh no… Jenks could be… back soon…
But let’s not worry about that today. Let’s not… damn it. Let’s distract ourselves with THIS neat article on players on the cheap. Like Salty… and THIS article on how awesome we are…
L
PS- Super important decision to make. How exactly should I vandalize Jeff-the-Tigers-fan’s cubicle Monday? I was thinking real brooms, but I don’t know if that’s dramatic enough. I might paper his desk in pictures of brooms. I don’t know. But I feel like my conscience is telling me it should involve brooms…
Oh! And Bard has an excuse for sucking lately! (kinda) Wait, when was that sucky game? So, spread the word if you’re in the DC area.
And, by the way, as of 10 a.m., our 4-streak is tied with Arizona as the number one streak in baseball…
Pulverizin’
Guys-guys-guys! For the next few minutes at least… we’re tied for FIRST in the ALE! FIRST! And we have 27 wins to the Yankees’ (as of 3:29 p.m. est) 26!!!!!!! Quick! Somebody take a screen shot!
Would it be politically insensitive of me to make a white man small pox joke? Probably, so I’ll refrain. But there was some mad Indian stomping with highlights too numerous to list during the work day.
A THREE RUN homer by Salty. Stellar defense by Lester. 14 runs to their 2. 20 hits to their 7. Sutton has 3 hits. David Ortiz. Doing what Papi does.
Score. Score. Score. Plus 11.
It was a lovely, lovely day to be a fan of the hottest team in baseball.
Soooooooo… instead of pointless analysis, let’s pump up our egos further, shall we? My southernism experiment went so well… let’s do it again. But, instead of talking about how Bard poo-pooed on our parade, let’s pep it up. Like, why Jon Lester, I do declare, you done delivah-ed a sermon on the mound.
Cleveland fans, feel free to participate.
Don’t know what a southernism is? Click here.
Or ask Sports Attitudes.
Because he did pretty well in the last challenge.
And… if you have some spare time… root on a Toronto miracle… .5, people. .5!
~L
‘Nah, not a big win at all.’
“I think I won here in the playoffs,” he said, straight-faced. “It’s not my first win at Progressive Field. Those wins (in October) are bigger anyway, aren’t they?”
“Nah, not a big win at all,” Beckett said sarcastically on his way out of Boston’s clubhouse.
How can you NOT love this man?
In less than an hour, the “ace,” Jon Lester hits the mound- and remember how we’re .5 behind? Not if Lester can help it.
Here’s to hoping he can help it! It’s all about execution.
“I’m just not executing pitches,” said Lester of his last outing. “I’m not going to change anything, not going to the drawing board. It’s just a matter of executing pitches. I haven’t done that the last three starts.”
Let’s also keep an extra-protective eye on Pedroia- set to make his first start since the ankle hiccup.
PS- Cockiness aside, who doesn’t love Asdrubal’s name?
PSS- Lackey watch 2011 update: The Lackluster sloth of the mound could be back as early as June 5. What do you think, people? Can Lackey change? Can anyone really change? Once a flake always a flake? Can we learn to trust Slackey? We’ve been hurt before…
PSSS- Jenks watch 2011 update: Never fear, Tito‘s got our backs. Tito says he’ll likely pitch for the minors before being allowed back on our mound. Crisis averted. FOR NOW.
PSSSS- I love you, Jason Varitek.
PSSSSS Having a lousy Wednesday? This image might help. Click here.
The Captain is BACK
And… vintage Jason Varitek takes a ride on the time machine.
We missed you, Cap.
THESE are headlines I LIKE to read.
Jason Varitek finds his comfort zone
Jason Varitek provides latest example of resurgence
And that’s just what I found in the first two minutes.
There’s a lot to talk about today. But it’s late/early. And the captain is back.
And right now… that seems like all that’s important…
Captain, there’s no one quite like you… and there never will be…
~L
PS- Thanks for the A-MAZING southernisms. I feel better. Bard can live now.
Keep ‘em coming. I’ll announce a winner… sometime.
#2 in the ALE. .5 behind the Stanks. I’d say we’re gunning for them, but I think the Yankees will Posada themselves no matter what we do…
Is that catching on yet?
Sayin’s in the South
I’m not sure how to type the word “south” in a southern accent. They say it in almost three syllables here. It’s like Say-Ow-Th (the TH is totally a syllable, but soft) and fast. Like butter.
Anyway, one of my favorite things about the southern dialect isn’t the southern dialect itself. It’s the things the southern dialect says.
These cutesy sayings. You know, like “I do declare, Youkie-Bear, why, aren’t you just a tall drink of water?”
But not all sayings are complimentary or pleasant.
Like, “Why, Daniel Bard, you just poo-pooed all over our parade.”
Not to be taken literally, of course.
What a horrible parade that will be.
But you get my drift.
So I was thinking… the best way to describe last night is with a southern phrase I haven’t thought of yet.
Something that sounds like a disastrous country song on a Hallmark card of tragedy.
I thought I would get your ideas. So, implore your inner southerner to explain in cutesy southern speak EXACTLY WHAT THE FRICK HAPPENED LAST NIGHT.
You know, like *ahem*: We were just two sandwiches short of a picnic. One fry short of a Happy Meal. Bard’s as full of wind as a corn eatin’ horse. Bard, you could even depress the devil. You’re as mad as a mule chewin’ on bumblebees. We fell harder than a drunk into a tree. The game was so ugly that its mom had to tie a pork shop around its bullpen just so the dog would play with it.
My theory is, that *ahem* just like a cool glass o’ sweet tea (I’m working on it, OKAY?), this will provide cathartic rays of sunshine on our Tuesday.
So, hit the comments and get cutesy.
Because last night? Was SO not cutesy. So let’s fix it with southern sass. SportsAttitudes, I see you being good at this.
Winner gets a prize. It’s called respect.
~L
Tied for… first? But… didn’t you say that couldn’t happen, April commentators? Didn’t you say that would be… wait… let me make sure I get this right… Orioles? The Baltimore Orioles? Were you… wrong?!
Was that title long enough?
Because I meant to say “were you really-really-really-really-really wrong? And when we said ‘it’s early, sports commentators,‘ and you were like, I’m going to make fun of your hopes and dreams for a few hours on every blog and radio show I can find and inspire your coworkers to leave brooms on your desk, it was, in fact, too early to make broad generalizations?”
So, imagine that’s tacked onto the headline for this piece. And yes, if you’re feeling nostalgic, click on some of those links.
I think the following commercial fits recent Sox activities to a tee. Ahem:
See, Detroit? You’re the kid. And that VW symbol? It’s really a B. And Cleveland, you’re the adult guy at the end. And Jorge Posada, I’m sorry but every blog post is NOT ABOUT YOU!
So yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Tigers were, no doubt, losers. But the real losers this week? Not Detroit. No, not even Cleveland. The REAL losers were sports commentators and bloggers who were making fun of us in April.
And Buck Showalter.
Oh-oh-oh- and Jorge Posada.
And Johnny Damon!
And Dominique Strauss-Kahn!
Wait… what were we talking about again?
Right. The Red Sox.
Go us! The Yankees play at 10:10. Stupid west coast games. Say they manage to lose…
First alone, baby.
So, kiddies, stay up late for me and cheer on our Washington brethren, okay? Because I have to get up at 5 a.m. to shoot a Memorial Day ceremony.
Oh, and could someone ask the rain to stop? Because I want to wear a sundress. Thanks.
~L
PS- April sports commentators, you might find this helpful!