They want to coat our nation in syrup and feed us to a moose herd. Really. I heard it from Michael J. Fox.
Tonight, the United States, whether we are baseball fans or hockey fans, stand together.
Tonight, we fight Canada!
Cue the Pledge of Allegiance!
Seriously. Why isn’t your hand over your heart? Do you hate America?
Because JoJo Reyes does!
Do it for the troops, Boston!
Those wiley syrup makers are trying to take over, eh! They’ll bring their moose (the size of pickup trucks, I tell you!) and their hats and their bacon and their gravy fries. They’ll put wigs on our lawyers and Nickelback on our radios! Do you like Nickelback? Well, do you, punk?
Tonight… WE FIGHT!
(The author would like to point out that this is in no way representative of how she feels about Canada, a place she’s spent lots of time in, or, more specifically, Vancouver, her dream city, a place where, while she hopes their hockey team loses -and loses violently-, she hopes to retire in someday so she can watch the killer whales from her yacht -she will have a yacht- . She can prove it. She does speak French, after all, and has spent time utilizing this skill in Quebec. She just really, really, really hates your sports teams, Canada. Like, a lot. And she doesn’t actually like Ann Coulter. She is actually terrified of Ann Coulter and thinks she is the praying mantis of America.)
PS- Did you read this? Looks like our Bruins are getting the no-no from management about their apparel…
Gotta disagree with management on this one.
It’s like that. We see him coming. But there’s nothing we can do. So we stand there, helpless, and get flattened like shoe gum.
Speaking of wildly unpredictable things (<-sarcasm), Jed Lowrie is sick! Gasp!
I like how people are shocked by this. It’s JED LOWRIE, people. He is ALWAYS sick.
Welcome to the rest of your life.
It is the end of days.
There is nothing we can do but fasten our seatbelts and drive toward that far off mediocrity. So, pedal to the metal, people.
And watch out for that bird!
.500. It’s possible.
Just not, apparently, for us.
Hopes dashed, just as we could see the light of mediocrity down that deep, dark, sucky, sucky, sucky tunnel.
See, I don’t think it was a light. It was a flame. A horrible flame from a horrible fire that consumes, consumes, consumes and leaves you as one of those photos on page one, the kid crying with a blanket as his house goes kablooey. We are the kid in the blanket whose house goes kablooey, oh god.
Why yesterday hurt worse than… oh… I don’t know… another day.
1. .500 hopes were kablooied.
2. We didn’t just lose for Boston. We lost for America.
3. We lost to John Farrell.
4. We were so frick-tasting-ly close. (Did it remind anyone else of an old school loss? The kind that doesn’t just split your mind with a bullet but lingers, makes you suffer a little bit… lets you come out of surgery okay and then, WHAM, blindsides you with its painful, heartwrenching conclusion- a mac truck as you’re crossing the street in front of the hospital)
5. It wasn’t a John-Lackey-so-we’re-bracing-for-pain kind of game. It was a Jon Lester game.
6. Tonight’s match up IS a John Lackey-brace-for-the-pain-kind-of-game. So. There’s that.
Feel free to add to this list in the comments.
Speaking of John Slackey…
John Lackey. You are a monstrous pit of a pitcher. A pit full of mediocrity, saliva and failure. And your lip is ridiculously large and offsets your gigantic head.
That oughtta do it…
See, I hate on my players all the time in anger. But I don’t usually mean it. Ask K-Youk. What is it about Lackey that makes me mean it? Because I do. I do mean it. I really, really, really want to send him back to Anaheim.
I really do think it has something to do with my hate-issue with the Angels.
I’m working on it. These things take time. And I am not the ONLY ONE who thinks Lackey has a few issues with acknowledging the crap he hurls across the plate.
Speaking of hate issues, still NEED YOUR HELP. Click here ASAP. Only two days ’till the Stankees…
Go Sox! For America, people. For America. Every time you strike out, Youkie-Bear, Canada wins. It’s what they WANT you to do.
Note: If it is too painful to recap this game, feel free to click here.
.500. What. The. Frick. It’s just a number. It is not like I am asking you to murder a puppy.
Come on people.
Now, I realize there could be a goooooood explanation for the stomach twisting 4-4 I see before me at 9:07. I have, after all, missed the majority of what I see is a spiffy performance (Jon, I will get to you in a minute).
But remember that discussion we had yesterday? Remember?
How some of us have things to do other than pitch? Remember how I said, pleaded, begged, wept for you people to just keep it at 9 innings? Fix it, boys. Fix it now.
9:14. 5-4. Okay, guys. So. Not. What. I. Meant. Why do you guys have to take me so literally?
Okay, Jon Lester. Don’t get so excited. We can… we can talk about this… no… you don’t have to throw it all away. You have innings to live for, Jonny. Innings. Happy times ahead, do you hear me?! Do not go gently into that dark night… turn the boat around, buddy. Miles to go before we sleep. Miles to go! Do it for the children, Jonny! 9:18.
9:20. Okay, Jon. What do you want? Unmarked bills? A helicopter? Well… I… um… can’t get you that-but-no-wait… wait-wait-wait… I’m sure we can work something out! How do you feel about chocolate milk?!
Hi, Rich Hill. We don’t really know each other. I mean, we’ve seen each other in passing. I’ve… I’ve always liked you. Really, really I have. It’s your name, really. Simple. Direct. So, now that we’ve established that we like each other… about that .500. Did I mention I have salt and vinegar potato chips? 9:24.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Okay. We’re okay. We. Are. Okay. 7th inning. Okay. Hit, people. Hit for AMERICA. Stop stalling! That’s what Canada WANTS you to do! 9:27.
While we’re having this special moment, Pedroia (and it is special, Skip, it is), let’s try to get to the heart of this .500 issue, shall we? Is there some childhood trauma you associate with .500? Like… um… some video game reference I don’t get because I was too busy playing with barbie dolls or something? Dusty, baby, if you can’t talk about this with me, you should talk about it with someone. A trusted adult, perhaps? 9:29
Gonzzzz! You get a treat. It’s a psychic cookie.
Sorry, Youk. You got cookies last night.
Speaking of my one and only… Hi, Youkie-Bear. Buttercup. Show ‘em how it’s done. Let’s stop this silly fake hitting and get down to the nitty gritty, the kind of hits that kill birds and dent space shuttles, k?
This is stressful. This seems more stressful than normal. Is it the .500? That pleasant spark of mediocrity that’s just in reach?
Why do you build me up, Buttercup baby, just to let me down…
Many phobias stem from the parents. Did your daddy issues contribute to your utter avoidance of a .500?
9:47 p.m. A strike out. Okay. That’s something.
Now is not the time to hit people with pitches, Aceves, but I appreciate your enthusiasm. Save it for Friday. I… um… didn’t mean that.
8th inning. You know, that’s the best time to rally, really. I’d muuuucccchhhhh rather rally in the 8th than the 9th.
Okay. I like Jed Lowrie when he’s not injured. Which apparently happens now. A double, people.
SALTY got a single?!
Wait… is this the part where my heart goes a flutter and you rip it out?
Yes, baby. 13-7 hits. Yesyesyesyesyes.
10:13. I am tired. You are doing this on purpose. Let’s just all admit it. Youkie, can you tell your boys to stop building me up for heartbreak? You’re supposed to be only one with that power, sweetikums.
Hi, Daniel Bard. Keep that last convo we had… keep that in mind, k? Okay. I am going to go walk the puppy. I will be back in five minutes. FIVE MINUTES. FDA, I’m leaving you in charge. Don’t screw it up.
6-5?! 6-5?! Someone needs to tell me what happened. Is this my fault for leaving? Is this my puppy’s fault for having to go outside? Is this my carpet’s fault for not being grass?!
9th inning. Okay! No worries. All hakuna matata here, kiddies.
Okay. All kidding aside, this is a kickass game. Thanks, Gonz, for improving my attitude with your sexy homerun. 6-6. Annnndddd, darling Youkie-Bear, I’m going to let that massive strike out pass. You better buy Gonz chewing gum or something. He just saved you from a mini-me-rant.
Thunder. Did anyone else hear that?! Of course not. Because you guys are in Boston. I wish I was in Boston. Anybody have any jobs in Boston? I write stuff.
That was fun. I’m glad I saw that. Jose Iglesias, you’re alright. More wild pitches, please!
Anddddddd… Carl Crawford. Blast. Out. Yep. All’s back to normal.
Okay. Let’s take to inning 10, people.
Okay, people. We need a tight ship. We need… Albers?! Well, um, okay, Curt… if you’re sure you know what you’re doing.
That thunder is super loud. You might can hear that in Boston.
Thunder means my 35-lb sheltie-shepherd mix is a lapdog. It’s kind of hard to see over her. One. More. Out. 10:42.
And the tenth starts with the Captain. Remember when that wouldn’t make you nervous? Fisk be with us all.
Dustin Pedroia. It is up to you. If you do not knock one out of the park, I will have to stay up to see inning 11. Trust me. You don’t want that. You wouldn’t like me when I’m cranky.
Crap, that lightning was close! I know it’s all cool to say things like, “I love thunderstorms, I’m exciting like that, blahblahblahblah….”
But I don’t love thunderstorms and I am NOT exciting like that.
So, Pedroia, if you could knock that ball hard enough to divert a thunder cloud in North Carolina… my puppy is shaking so hard she looks like she’s having a seizure.
Okay guys, let’s make it to 11 innings. Who else is glad Bobby Jenks isn’t in the bullpen tonight?
I am so stressed out. Why are you on third?! Why?
No. No! Nooooooooo!
.500, I never knew ye…
Dugout, you need counseling! Your daddy issues are getting in the way of .500 mediocrity!
It’s going to be like this. Except, instead of a wedding… (wait for it) it’s going to be a funeral! (waiting for the LOLs)
And people say working 16 hour days makes me unfunny…
I am HILARIOUS.
Do it for AMERICA, soxies. Because tomorrow (um, today?) is not just about Boston. It’s about Montana. And other sad states and cities without baseball teams. Like Pittsburgh (hah, any minute now, those LOLs. Any minute now).
And should we win the day, the 10th of May will no longer be known just as a Boston holiday, but as the day when the United States declared in one voice:
“We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We’re going to live on!
We’re going to survive!”
Wow. And, on this date in 1893, the Supreme Court ruled that the tomato is a vegetable and not a fruit.
PS- Thank you, Crawford. I will not call you Crawful again for at least a week.
- The Orioles. (8 and 11? I do declare…)
- Toronto (Hey, they’re under us thanks to alphabetical preference, so it counts.)
- The Yankees (because the team with the WORST record wiped the floor with them at Fenway Park…)
- Bobby Abreu
- Minnesota. (8 and 12)
- The White Sox. (8 and 13)
- Seattle. (8 and 13)
- The Mets. (eh…)
- Houston. (8 and 13)
- Arizona. (8 and 11)
- San Diego. (8 and 13)
- The movie “Secretariat” because it (and Diane Lane) was awful.
Tied for third and on a hot streak thanks to a stellar outing by one Dice-K. Here’s hoping the stressballer himself, Lackey, can pull out another miracle.
And then we escaped Paris. It was exactly like that.
Is it a sacrilege to say that the Red Sox have risen on this Easter morn?
PS- I didn’t need to put the Angels on my list, right? It would be redundant?
So, as I was explaining to my blogger bro earlier- I’ve figured out what happened today. It’s just so obvious! I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. So… ahem…
(Imagine that’s Dice-K and Josh Beckett and not Bill and Ted)
2011 Dice-K discovered the time machine Josh Beckett built (explains a lot about the rocket scientist wife, doesn’t it?).
Josh Beckett’s like, “You can’t prove anything.”
And Dice-K (“haltingly, through a translator”) is like, “Can too. And I’m going to tell everyone you’re really 2009 Josh Beckett!”
And Josh Beckett is like, “No one will believe you!”
And Dice-K is like, “Of course they will! I have a baseball card with your ERA!”
And Josh Beckett (the 2009 Josh Beckett) starts to freak out.
And Dice-K is like, “Don’t freak out, 2009 Josh Beckett. I’m sure we can come up with a solution that will work for everybody.”
And 2009 Josh Beckett is defeated, and he’s like, “What do you want from me?” <- but in a dramatic voice.
And Dice-K is like
“A trade… bring back pre-World Baseball Classic me and send 2011 me to somewhere nice.”
“Yes, somewhere nice. Like the south Pacific.”
And 2009 Josh Beckett is like, “How about Hawaii? That’s where I sent 2011 me.”
And Dice is like, “Sure. Why not?”
But 2009 Josh Beckett didn’t send Dice-K to Hawaii.
And that’s what happened.
Someone, quick! Destroy the time machine so they can’t come back!
I have an alternate theory. Maybe Farrell is a double agent…
On a semi-related note, another reason I’m in love with Kevin Youkilis- he’s got your back. Even if you’re scarily unreliable Dice-K. (Eating those words as I’m typing them) Nobody puts Dice-K in the corner. (anymore)
You know who shouldn’t talk to reporters? Curt Young. He’ll say something like this:
“he’s a guy that has such great command. I don’t think there should be any issues.”
Who’s he talking about? Beckett? Nope. Lester? Nope. Dice? Nope. Buchholz? Nope.
JOHN FRICKING LACKEY.
I know, I know. I’m already eating words where it comes to Dice- but there’s a difference. I’ve always liked Dice-K. I thought he was broken.
John fricking Lackey isn’t broken.
He just sucks.
See the difference?
So offense, you’re going to have to pick up the slack. No amount of fairy dust and clapping is going to help this one. Youkie-Bear, I’m leaving you in charge. We have an official win streak. Do. Not. Screw. It. Up.
It’s interesting. I questioned how switching Dice-K one day would make a difference. Tito, I will never question you again. At least for the rest of this blog post.
Can it be that the clapping and chanting of “I believe in Dice-K,” “I believe in Dice-K…”
Can it be that they worked?
That dreams really do come true?
Because… um… we’re approaching the top of the 6th and… he’s… um… kicking ass? Dice-K. Dice-K is kicking ass. Like… um… really…
I don’t… I don’t know how…
I mean, I live in a world of constants. It’s how I, we, humans achieve balance. The sky is up. The grass is on the ground. The sky is blue. Dice-K is broken.
But… if Dice-K isn’t broken…
What… how… why…
What other constants are skewed? Where is the sky today? Does this mean Nicholas Cage CAN act? Oh. My. God.
Up is down… down is up…
with… um… Dice-K?
Does this… does this mean John Lackey doesn’t suck?
Am I over-analyzing because I’m sleep deprived, at work, and can only catch game day updates?
Oh, universe, you confuzzle me. Thanks.
I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to ride the insanity…
PS- Dice-K… I am… considering… opening my heart to you. My heart has been broken before….
PSS- Seriously. I’m not actually drunk. I am at work. So, “Drunken Live Blogging” is kind of a lie.
PSSS- A lot can happen in three innings. I’m terrified it’s all going to be ripped away, like how god ripped away this guy’s cheeseburger over the weekend.
1 p.m. – Who else is fricking stunned that THEY had a pitcher change before we did?
I’m walking on sunshine. Literally. I can’t figure out which way is up. How am I supposed to concentrate on work now?
I want to watch this. I really do. But I’ve been hurt before. I don’t know if I’m strong enough. Fortunately, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. World, universe? Will you still be here when I get back?
The walls themselves do tremble…
Until my meeting lets out…
Dmitri, since I know you’re watching, can you make sure they don’t screw this up? Thanks. Thanks…
1:55 p.m. 9-1. 9-1. I… I… I don’t know what to say. And… Crawford… he… god help us, he… hit something? The diary… it… worked… (have you seen it yet? you should)
I get back from my meeting to… good news?
And the pitcher that messed up the shut out was… not Dice-K? It was Wakefield?
I’m going to need time. Serious time to process this. These are powerful, unpredictable forces…
1:57 p.m. We… won? We… won. We won!
It’s a Patriots Day miracle!
And, while it may just seem like two games to YOU, to a battered and bruised Sox nation, it’s an eternity. And it’s a long way down.
Dice-K is all that stands between the nation and what COULD be its first series take in 2011.
The United States versus Canada.
The south versus the North.
Good versus Evil.
What used to be our secret Japanese weapon, however, has become the elephant-in-the-bullpen. The big, pouty, crazy pitchin’ elephant.
(Did that scene terrify anyone else as a child?)
And, while elephants make great Disney movies, they don’t make great pitchers.
So what to do… what to do… pack it up? Retreat to our dugouts like Tampa did in that World Series that one time? Whine, cry and sneer like Johnny Damon did that one… um… ALL the time?
We do what all good Americans do. We compensate.
Only, instead of increasing our tire size or buying gas guzzling SUVs and relaxing our lower jaws in a Vin Diesel sneer, we’re going to bat like hell. Bat. Like. Hell.
You hear me, K-Youk? This isn’t a time to back down from that bee dance you do at the plate. And you, Jacoby! Steal like you’ve never stolen before. And Dustin, baby, you knock them out of the park!
Gonz! Drew! Step the frick up. Lowrie! Don’t get injured!
And Crawford… um… intimidate them with your …. um … Look for the walks!
If we all work together, maybe no one will notice that we’ve draped an elephant over the mound.
Now back to that elephant…
Dice, baby. You’re 6-1 against the Blue Jays. SIX to ONE. But with a Fenway era since your last win of 9.36… you’re broken.
How can we fix you?
Do you need a hug? How about a cookie? A Hallmark-esque greeting of encouragement? Or maybe, just maybe, we should clap our hands together as a nation. You know? Like how Peter Pan saved Tinker Bell?
I do believe in Dice-K. I do believe in Dice-K…
Did… did it work?
Quick! Someone find more fairy dust.
Maybe if you say it too… maybe if we all say it together…
“We do believe in Dice-K. We do believe in Dice-K.”
Humor me, okay? Say it out loud
Oh, don’t give me that. We’ve all told lies before. Don’t think you’re special.
Say it again. I think it worked. It felt like it worked.
I guess we won’t know until tomorrow…
Say it a few more times before you go to work, k? Just in case.
A battle’s raging at Fenway.
Between two nations. The United States. And Canada.
And it’s being semi-live blogged. Right here. Right now.
It’s a battle for a 2-game winning streak.
Top of the 5th. 4 to 1. Jon fricking Lester.
But today’s game isn’t just about Jon fricking Lester.
Today’s game is also about Jacoby fricking Ellsbury.
My feelings on Jacoby’s three-run homer can be best expressed by the chorus of the song “Defying Gravity” in Wicked.
I don’t know how to classify this post since I’m sober and enjoying the sunshine between game shots. Seriously. Only half watching the game. That’s because I’m trusting you, Jon Lester. TRUSTING YOU.
It is a beautiful day and I have a porch. And I plan to use it.
But I can’t resist watching Lester pitch… he’s making me nervous today, for some reason.
Sweet. Jon, I’m glad your last name is Lester and not Lackey.
Sunshine. Porch. Tequilla. Blender. But no Margarita mix. I do have lemons. Hmmm…
Right. The game. Coming up on bottom of the 5th.
And Crawford bats. He’s 0 for 2. Surprise.
Make that 0 for 3. Not surprised.
He’s … Crawful. <- get it?
Hi, Destroia. Make Litsch work for it, baby. Crap.
Well, that was fast.
Coming up on bottom of the 5th. And a sunshine break. 3:12.
Yay! A Papi single! I like this laying in the sunshine only to come inside every time something good happens. It’s like the exact opposite of a John Lackey game. 3:27 p.m.
A Lowrie single! Jed, maybe I judged you too harshly. Maybe you’re not a nambi-pambi DL list junkie…
3:28. Maybe I should go outside again with my lemoniquila (it’s this new drink I’m inventing) before Drew messes this up. Crap. Someone at door. Company. Company and baseball games… dangerous combination. Maybe she knows what to do with lemons and tequilla… Hi, Hannah. Yeah, you can’t stay. I’m watching baseball.
A walk?! Loaded bases?! And… crap.
Salty walks up to the plate. Sunshine break. 3:31.
Crap. I can’t do it. I can’t just walk away when the bases are loaded. Crap. Salty. That reminds me. I need salt. Okay, Salty, let’s knock one out of the park.
Come on, Salty… if we can just make it to Jacoby…
YESSSSSS! A single. And a purpose for Salty. A purpose, people. 6-1, baby. With Jacoby fricking Ellsbury at the plate to start the next inning. This shot (which is much more effective and less gross then the lemonquilla) is for you, Salty.
Top of the 7th. Sunshine break. 3:38.
3:43. Daniel Bard makes me nervous. You know, because he’s not Jon Lester. or Josh Beckett. That double play was sexy. Hi, Dustin.
2 outs. Walked onto first. Runner at second. Please don’t mess up Lester’s work, Bardy-boy. One strike. Just one strike. Awesome. Loving you, DB. Well, liking you. I can forgive but I cannot forget…
Of course I care about the Braves, Daniel. Kind of. Um…
I care that YOU care.
You know what would be nice? To see Crawford hit something.
I hate to complain. Really, I do (when it’s 6-1), but we’re hitting. We’re hitting again, Tito! Except for that guy you spent a bazillion dollars on. What’s with that?
And you know what is really, really, really gross? When you blend lemon juice, ice, tequila and brown sugar.
3:56. Come on guys. Do it for America! Show Canada that they’re… um… north?
Oh, look… Carl the Crawdad is out. Crawdad. Crawful. Crapford. What say you, internet?
Hello, inning 8. See, old school Sox fans will remember this is where we screw it up. This is why we, as fans, tend to be slightly… what’s the word… paranoid? Cranky? Frazzled? Because the old school way to lose isn’t by playing a crapcombo (like the entire first week of baseball this year)… it’s by playing kickass baseball, then screwing it up for NO. REASON.
But see, I have new school pep and optimism. So I’m not even thinking about those days. Not even thinking about them.
You know, brown sugar should not be mixed with alcohol.
Hello, Doubront. So we meet again.
Does anyone else think the ump has it out for this guy? Totally a strike.
Okay. Um. Well, that one was fair. Okay. At least two of those were strikes, damnit.
That’s okay. Just six more outs and we have a streak, Doubront. A streak. Do it for the troops.
Another walk?! Why do you hate our troops, Doubront? Why?
Crap. The announcer says “Bobby Jenks, they might use him to close this game.”
No. No. No. No. No. No.
That’s right! Out on third (thanks, Youkie-Bear). Who do you think you are, Jacoby Ellsbury?
4:11. 2 outs.
Bobby Jenks. Oh. My. God. No one reads my blog posts! Okay, several of you do, but CLEARLY not Curt Young.
I’m not being a very good hostess. But it’s okay. Because the girlfriend I am currently hanging out with isn’t actually watching the game. In fact, she hasn’t stopped talking for two innings.
So I think it’s okay if I ignore her completely for these last two innings, right?
Bobby Jenks will be fine. I’m so, so, so confident.
Oh no. The world stopped for like five seconds. My husband was just hit by a pitch. How DARE you, Shawn Camp. How DARE you?! 4:23 p.m.
Ack! Ack! What happened? Gonz scores? Youk scores? And… I… miss… it… crapola.
Was saying goodbye to my friend… and…
I will never let friends inside my house again.
Okay, that’s not true. But I will only be available during commercials.
My phone is ringing. But I won’t answer it. Oh, no…
Okay, guys. Streak of two. Two streak. Hot streak. Winning streak. Let’s go.
What’s a good pun for a two streak? A double streak? Crap.
It’s okay. We’ve got this. We may not have puns, but we do have a 2-streak. Almost.
Dear Bobby Jenks,
Can I call you Jenks? Okay. So, it’s the 9th inning. Which means three outs and we have our FOURTH win. Not one win. Or two wins. Or three wins. But FOUR wins.
Four. Just a few wins away from people at my office leaving me alone.
I know that doesn’t mean much to you, your office is a dugout, but really, after your fantastic failure the other day (one might even call it epic, epic failure), you’ve got to be experiencing some ragging yourself.
So you know what? Don’t do it for me. Don’t throw those 9 strikes just for me. Do it for yourself. Do it for America.
Jenks, do it for me.
Oh. Hi, Dan Wheeler. THIS is what happens when I’m not paying attention, HANNAH.
We… we won. We won?
We are the champions!
We are the champions…
of TWO games!
Back to the happy music…