I don’t even want to go to work, you guys.
I think my coworkers are jackassy enough to make me a sympathy card.
Youktastic- The new word for ultimate, shoddy, heartbreaking betrayal with a side of suck that can best be expressed by the cult classic, Bloodhound Gang.
I didn’t mean that. That was harsh.
Yeah. I think I meant both of those.
I’m going to go eat ice cream for breakfast.
PS- signs your boyfriend is starting to get it:
“Well, at least you got to see him one more time before he, you know.”
There really aren’t words.
Well. They are. But I am an adult now. And I’m trying not to SAY those words, see.
I’ve had some time to process. To process that thing. You know. The one I will LINK to, but not say out loud.
There are a lot of emotions right now. Anger. Heartache. Anger. Despair. Anger.
And to find out this way.
I was working a corporate event on no sleep and a hallucinatory caffeine buzz. Go back to office. Open email. Get a “haha” email from a coworker with a Link. This link.
I know what this is, guys. It’s me.
It’s my new job. The new job where I’m making actual money.
The kind you read about. The kind people put in banks.
Like real banks.
Not the kind your sister rules in plastic when you play monopoly.
Like a bank with papers. And ids. And signatures. And cash.
See, I think it’s clear what this is about.
Kevin Youkilis does not like working women.
He is threatened by a strong, career oriented woman. Career women who don’t have time to 100 percent fawn and cry and scream and curse and be fun. Working women who are busy doing things like ironing shirt collars and working and driving and putting actual gas in their car (like, the kind that fills it up, not the kind that goes to the halfway point. The kind that you pay with on the card because the $60 hold on your account won’t compete with your water bill). I’m finally happy and fulfilled and he just can’t stand it. He wants me all to himself, see. He thought he’d pitch a fit. Leave me for the fricking White Sox. Thought that would bring me back. It almost worked, Youkie. It did. But then another project came along and I got busy and… and…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
You’re like Mr. Banks from Mary Poppins. “You know how Mr. Banks hates the cause…”
I would think that you would be proud of me, Youkie. My readers are. Seriously. So many of them have emailed me to see if I’m okay, alive (a few thought the season killed me). They EMAILED ME. They didn’t send me a nuclear bomb of vomit. That’s what you did to me today, Kevin. You sent me a nuclear bomb of vomit.
In the form of…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
I don’t think he’ll do it, guys. I don’t think-
Seriously. I am happier than I have ever been. I have an amazing boyfriend. I-
Oh God. That’s it, isn’t it? You think just because Matt moved in last month (Matt moved in last month! I live with a boy! I live with a boy and sometimes I wash dishes! Well. Um. I have washed a dish! Um. It was a cup. Um. I have a dishwasher. Um. Well. I threw the plastic cup away. Um.) that I don’t have room in my life for you. You did this, Kevin Youkilis. When you left me for Chicago.
What? You didn’t think I’d move on? You didn’t think I could find someone else? Someone taller? Um. SOMEONE WHO CAN REACH THINGS AND CHANGE LIGHT BULBS AND LISTENS TO TAYLOR SWIFT WITH ME SOMETIMES DURING CELEBRITY REHAB COMMERCIALS?????
You NEVER listened to Taylor Swift with me, Kevin Youkilis.
Maybe I want you to go to…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
I’LL CHANGE! I will quit my job! And wear an apron! And wash your dishes!
You know what, Youkie? Do what you want. You’re irrelevant. And your feet are stupid.
Anyone who can’t support me and my career and my goals and dreams (I have goals and dreams now, guys!) can go to…
I didn’t mean that.
YES I DID.
I can’t say it.
You know who can say it?
As for my readers,
I miss you.
I miss baseball.
I do not, will not, won’t ever… MISS BOBBY Valentine.
Oh. And regarding Farrell news, I DO have a statement.
(Interestingly enough, the above link references the job I have RIGHT NOW)
Won’t be another two months. I promise. The nonfunny truth is, my job is really hard. It is really wonderful, but really hard, and required my complete focus. I’m starting to get a grip. Stay tuned.
In the meantime… be happy for me?
And ignore this Youkilis news. It shall go away. Yes. It shall.
He wouldn’t do that, people.
JEB WANTS this to happen. HE SAID SO ON FACEBOOK.
PLEASE, baseball gods, let this be true. USA Today is reporting that… my FAVORITE Yankee player to watch of ALL time has mounted a comeback.
Nope. It’s not Joba (who you know fills me with giggle fits) or that humble stalwart Johnny Damon.
It’s not Grumps (aka: AJ Burnett, who you know I also adore).
Nor is it the scariest pirate of them all, MATSUI.
Oh no. MY favorite Yankee player to watch should undoubtedly be YOUR favorite Yankee player to watch.
He is, after all, the greatest Yankee player of all fricking time.
You heard me.
It’s ANDY PETTITTE.
Really, Andy? It’s been since 2010? I kind of thought you were hiding behind CC Sabathia’s Balloo belly…
Why is Andy Pettitte the GREATEST Yankee player of ALL fricking time, you ask? Why, because of THIS moment:
Pettitte is 39 which, as we have ALLLLLLL learned from media coverage of Tim Wakefield and Jason Varitek, is like Father Time. I am so happy you are back, Andy Pettitte, and I hope you continue to mouth curse words. Because the Andy Pettitte drinking game has NOT been the same without Andy Pettitte. Who’s YOUR favorite Yankee to watch? It’s Andy Pettitte, isn’t it?
In honor of Andy Pettitte, I have compiled a list of FAVORITE Andy Pettitte moments in recent history that DO NOT involve Jacoby. Could you imagine these links being watched to the tune of “Memory” from “Cats?” Thanks.
Those two days when you errored.
“If what I did was an error in judgment on my part, I apologize,” Pettitte cries. “I accept responsibility for those two days.”
Oh! That time you testified.
Oh! And that time you ratted out Clemens.
And that time when you ratted out Clemens, but he got indicted.
Longtime Clemens friend and teammate Andy Pettitte told congressional investigators that Clemens confided to him that he had used HGH. “I believe Andy has misheard” the conversation, Clemens responded. He said he had simply mentioned to Pettitte a TV show about three older men who used HGH to get back their quality of life.
Seriously? It’s been two years? I’m so glad that Roger Clemens has been in our lives so that I haven’t been able to miss you. My little heart would have bursted. Are you SURE he retired? Maybe he was on vacation…. Ahem-fromtesting-ahem….
Yankees hat? Biebs? Really?
You were everywhere during Soxsplosion. You were so helpful, news media. Like the stalker from SwimFan.
Pointing out everything from our beer choices to our attitudes. I, for one, really appreciated the loyalty. You stuck it out with us, us specifically. I mean, one would think we would see more coverage of Bravesplosion. Since, numbers-wise, it was kind of worse. Or coverage of the Cardinals. You know. Since they won. And, see, I thought the World Series was a big deal. But I also like to listen to Justin Bieber on my shower radio, so, sometimes my thought process is different from that of other 28-year-olds. I kind of thought you would pay more attention to the Stankees, since their loss was pretty hilarious. Seriously, for like a brief second, I thought you were going to abandon us for ten minutes. But nope, you’re nothing if not loyal, you faithful ones, you. Through November, when you made sure that, even as people started to forget the Cardinals’ new rings, they’d NEVER forget that time Josh Beckett pudged up. Oh, and in December. When you were so considerate. Spreading your Soxsplosion evangelism. Just to make sure Americans really, really got those oh-so-subtle fried chicken cracks. (Can someone tell another chicken joke? I feel like it’s been a month since I’ve heard one) I love how you continued your close, personal relationship with us in January and February. Remember all those special blurbs about us? Even when everyone was paying attention to the Giants and the Patriots- you didn’t let them forget about how Papelbon left us and how Papi wasn’t worth the cash and how our players are old and how Jacoby is leaving us someday and … oh… something about chicken…
Where are you now, Media? When we do things like shut out the Stankees?
Suddenly, I feel so alone. It’s like, the world is dark and all I have is the ability to laugh at Justin Bieber’s hat.
Tell me you’re at least still bugging my closet.
I have my best phone conversations in there.
I’ve been working for sixteen hours. SIXTEEN HOURS.
I miss you.
Today has been ridiculously icky. Not only did I have to work (gahk. At least I didn’t fall into a deer carcass this time. See Twitter.), I had to teach my last class at Appalachian State University. I think I scared the bejeezus (that’s a word they use in Boone) out of the little dreamers and hopers. I might have told the little newsy hopefuls that their destinies included $18 k jobs and a lack of health insurance. Oh, and that stress and 80-hour work weeks would cause them to die alone of a heart condition with only the distribution of their underfed cats and a missed deadline to remind people they existed in the first place. You know. Unless that get a snazzy new biz journal job and a the promise of a snazzy new paycheck. But that probably won’t happen to you, I said. You are all too idealistic.
I must make myself pretty for my date tonight (I have a date. Yep. Now that I’m moving. I’m dating. That’s apparently how it works)- but you deserve news briefs. So, here.
And repeat after me- We DON’T need Roy Oswalt.
I’m thinking Alfredo Aceves will astound us all. Um. Maybe. Here you go:
Edwin Jackson dissed us officially. For – and this one will make you roll your eyes- THE NATIONALS. Whatever. $10 mill? Really? Whatever.
Some people say we should go after the Nationals reject now- John Lannan.
Lannan is a groundball pitcher who has never induced fewer than 50 percent grounders, and holds a career groundball-to-flyball ratio of 1.9. His FIP haven’t exactly been stellar despite this, as he’s been about 12 percent worse than the league in that regard over his career.
Um. I’d rather have Scut back.
Curt Schilling WON’T STOP TALKING.
This time he’s not talking about video games. Or the Red Sox. Traitor boy is talking Cubs.
“I would feel very comfortable putting a very large chunk of money that [a World Series title] would happen in the next five to 10 years. This guy is a game-changer from a baseball knowledge perspective. He is as smart, as aware as anyone I have ever been around, and I’m talking about game smart. The kind of smarts that generally have been associated with people who have been on the field.
“He understands the human element to this. A lot of what I learned from and about Theo I’ve taken into my company and tried to help my company grow. Theo gets it, and it’s not lost on the people who played for him. He’s the only general manager I ever played around who fit into the clubhouse. That’s a very dangerous thing for general managers, especially if they don’t fit. He was always welcome. He’s a very smart guy.”
Whatever. Thank you for 2004. Now go home.
So, Cubs. If Curt is right, you’ll get the WS. Whatever. We get your scout. Um. Well, we DO get your scout.
The Red Sox have hired one of former Cubs GM Jim Hendry’s top assistants to help out their major league scouting staff. He’s veteran scout Gary Hughes, who served as special assistant to Hendry before resigning in late September after Hendry was fired.
Hughes is 70-years-old. He scouted Tom Brady as a catcher. So. He’s old. And he recognizes good hair when he sees it.
And in news that makes the reporter in me cringe in utter heebee jeebees, New York Times Company lost like $40 katrillion (eeek!) and had to sell some of its Sox stock to an “undisclosed” buyer.
Let me repeat that parenthetical: EEEEEEK.
So, not only does some rich kazillionaire out there (hey, it could be Snookie people, you don’t know) own us, my industry is melting faster than a wicked witch in a rain storm.
I think my feelings can best be expressed through the dramatic David Grey classic, “Nightblindness.”
I really enjoyed Bleacher Report today. Read under-the-radar-free-agents-that-paid-off.
They give Aceves (my personal fav) a shout out:
For a mere $635,000 Alfredo Aceves probably provided the highest overall return on investment.
Seriously. In a year that brought us Crawflop and A-walktofirst-Gonzalez, Aceves was a rock star.
It was such a nice season that Aceves may have a shot at a spot in the Red Sox starting rotation this coming season. Even if he doesn’t start, another season similar to last year’s will net Aceves a considerable raise the next time his contract comes up.
I’d really, really, really like to see Aceves start. Over Bard. Just saying.
Troy O’Leary is another nice example.
In irritating news, our very own East Bound and Downesque Vincente Padilla may be delayed by LEGAL TROUBLE. An arrest warrant in Nicaragua (I have to interview someone in Nicaragua at 5!) for child support something could delay him getting back to the states. So it’s not even a nifty arrest warrant. Like for assaulting a Stankee.
And here’s something irritating. Theo’s now all roses that him and Cashman can be buddies. It’s all about the shirt.
“I was never able to totally relax because I felt like he was always lurking,” Epstein said. “He had a great sense of the marketplace.”
But now they can jog down the hillside and pick poppies together.
Brian Cashman and Theo Epstein said that after years of being on opposite sides of baseball’s most bitter rivalry, they are looking forward to being able to make deals with one another.
Oh- and Carl Crawford is now an accused swindler.
Somehow, I think Carl can afford the lawsuit.
Have a lovely Friday! Off to get pretty(er).
J.D. Drew is “probably” retiring, reports today indicate. Despite the mad flurry of Drew-hate peppering the nation over the past two years, I’ve never had a huge problem with you, J.D. I find your breakability irritating. I find your inconsistency mind-numbing (but attribute it to your breakability). But I remember the real you, J.D. I can still remember your home run pops and that cool indifferent reaction to your own badassishness. You’ll finish your career with a respectable 242 homers and my respect, sir.
You were very, very expensive. I mean. I don’t want to nitpick. But you were very. VERY. Expensive. I loved you in 2007. But I loved everyone in 2007 (mostly). I mean, you’re no Kevin Youkilis, J.D. Drew, but you can afford a Kevin Youkilis beard implant, if you want. I mean, you did average like, $8 million a year for 14 years. That’s even more impressive than those 242 homers. I hope you can use your retirement to… I don’t know… take vitamins or something.
In addition to the hefty salary, Drew’s inability to stay completely healthy contributed to the stigma that he was overrated. He never appeared in more than 146 games in a season and averaged just 470 plate appearances per campaign from 1999-2011.
But, in the words of Marc Antony, I come to honor you. Not pick you apart flaw by expensive flaw. But I think you need to retire. I think you need to retire. And up those fricking Flintstones because every time you break, angels cry.
In “whatever” retirement news, Jorge Posada officially announced his retirement today.
I am devastated. Really.
Just when my Posada verb was catching on.
Just when people were starting to say “Go Posada yourself” when they were cut off in traffic.
Just when “I don’t give a Posada whether you take my lunch money. You’ll never take my self respect,” was the new “it” phrase to thwack bullies with…
“I could never wear another uniform,” Posada said at a televised Yankee Stadium news conference.
Literally. Didn’t you… um… try? And then have absolutely no success? Because no other uniforms would take you? You really Posada-ed yourself with that temper tantrum over the summer, mate.
Our very own Jason Varitek (possibly the next name on the plaque in front of the old folks retirement home) even had a comment. But he’s old too. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
“After hundreds of head-to-head games during the regular season and the postseason, I can’t say I respect and admire anyone at our position more than I do Jorge. The hard work and preparation he put into catching is a huge reason he has five championships on his resume. He is a true grinder.”
As for the Tek (we alllllll know my Tek obsession. I won’t give you a double dose)-
It seems to me that dragging this out is helping no one, guys. He’s the captain. Show him a little more respect than arbitrary offers. Get real or get him coaching. ASAP.
I’m 27. And I’ll retire at age like, 97 at this rate.
Wow. That’s depressing.
I need a moment, guys…
And if you have a comment on ANYTHING you see here today, feel free to shoot me a buzz at firstname.lastname@example.org. I LOVE e-mails. Like LOVE e-mails more than Posada loves his rings.
Side note- $214 million? NINE years? Um. Okay. I don’t want Prince Fielder anymore. Um.
In random news- the midday to your Monday- our own goalgod Tim Thomas did NOT accompany the Bruins to the White House. Because Tim Thomas does NOT want to meet the president.
In further proof that no one is perfect- he clarifies that it’s not a case of the sniffles. Nope. He’s skipping out on the leader of the free world for “political reasons.” Insert eye roll here.
And, in 2012 fashion, Tim plans to release a statement on Facebook (really? REALLY? at 6 p.m.).
Okay. Tim. You know I love you. I do.
But swallow the ego. Seriously. Swallow it.
REALLY, Timmy???? REALLY? What political comment could you posssssibbbllyyyyy be expressing?
Make a comment. Don’t make a comment. I don’t care. But please don’t think this is important enough to schedule a statement. And please don’t do it via FACEBOOK.
I’m giving you a free pass on this one because, well, you gave me the Stanley Cup. But I’m quirking my brow at your picture and mouthing out “Oh REALLY?” right now.
And I promise I won’t care any more at 6 p.m.
Thomas, a known fan of conservative talk show host Glenn Beck, won both the Vezina and Conn Smyth last season, breaking the single-season record for save percentage and leading the Bruins to their first Stanley Cup victory in 39 years.
A KNOWN fan? I didn’t know that. Did you know that?
I saw Glenn Beck CRY on stage while reading a Christmas story, Tim.
Seriously. You don’t have to vote for him. But he doesn’t have leprosy (that’s Ryan Braun). You can shake the guy’s hand, Tim. You’re “one of two Americans on the roster.” Your hand won’t fall off. I promise. I have shaken Obama’s hand four times now. And I still have all of my fingers.
At least Tim won’t be suspended.
Ross has become a very popular player in San Francisco, earning the nickname “Ross the Boss” for his timely and sometimes powerful hitting, and above average fielding skills.
But re-read that. “sometimes powerful hitting.” “Above average fielding skills.”
Remember when we used to sign someone and the article said “extraordinary?”
Roy Oswalt has officially turned down the Tigers. So, rumor has it… he could be wearing Red Sox.
Oh. And in news that should surprise no one- Jorge Posada. Retiring. Official. It’s happening tomorrow. I am devastated by this (really). Because I think my Posada verb was just catching on. And now it has no chance. Jorge Posada really Posada-ed me on this. Go Posada yourself, Jorge.
And in roll-your-eyes news. I read that Sox Judas, Johnny Damon “really” wants to play for the Yankees. Okay, America. Roll your eyes.
The quest for a new Nomahhhhhh-
It’s dominating the painnnnnnfffulllllyyyyyy boring headlines (if you can call them that) of Sox nation today, as we mourn the passing of Scutaro and quirk our confuzzled eyes at our roster. Seriously. Boston short stop=Spinal Tap drummer.
The kryptonite Nomar Garciaparra left behind when he was traded in mid-2004 has lost none of its potency in 71⁄2 years. Saturday night’s trade of shortstop Marco Scutaro to the Colorado Rockies for $6 million in salary relief — and, don’t forget, pitcher Clayton Mortensen — once again put the spotlight on the Sox’ curiously consistent inability to groom Nomar’s heir.
Other than giving the Herald’s Michael Silverman‘s inner child the chance to use words like “kryptonite,” not much is new.
That’s kind of the story of this off season: Nothing new, folks. Enjoy the cheese plate.
Nick Punto and Mike Aviles are going to tag team shortstop. So. Um. Apparently it takes two to make one Nomar. I hope it’s like those two guys in the Mighty Ducks. Remember the bash brothers? But with less time in the penalty box? Maybe it will be like Batman and Robin. I kind of think Mike is going to be Robin. I’d like to make a Captain Planet reference here, but I’m just not up to it today.
Does it really take TWO players to equal Marco Scutaro? I mean… I dig the Scut, really I do… but the math is fuzzy for me. Is it fuzzy for you? I get the why. Really, I do. But I still don’t understand the math. I don’t understand why we couldn’t unlock Lackey. Or Dice-K. Or a plethora of other money sucking black holes. And I really, really, really don’t understand why we care about luxury taxes. Or taxes in general. Aren’t our wallets supposed to be endless? Maybe you could sell your yacht, John Henry.
Speaking of strange purchases, Detroit wants Johnny Damon. And Roy Oswalt (who, undoubtedly, they will buy. I have no faith in Sox’s shopping department right now). Fascinating.
In other news, Josh Beckett is listed as the #25 “biggest hothead” in sports. Well. He is pretty hot. I don’t think his hotness is confined to his head…
Newly acquired Vicente Padilla (oh goody) is also on the list- number 19.
Red Sox pitcher Vicente Padilla never met a batter he didn’t want to hit with a baseball; he’s pegged an impressive 106 batters in his career so far.
Vicente, do you take requests?
He also apparently shot himself- accidentally- in 2009. Oh, goody.
A nasty temper and a deadly weapon are an excellent combination.
Oh. This is funny. Apparently he nailed Mark Teixera in consecutive at-bats in 2009.
Does Vicente remind you of anyone?
Good job with the bargain binning, Benny C.
No Yankees made the hothead list. And no Kevin Greggs either.
In other news, Doug Mirabelli isn’t even PLAYING and he’s winning. So maybe we should snatch him up too. Why the frick not? Dougie, want to come home?
And, if you want to sigh an audible awwwwww at work today, read this.
It was a day like any other day. Except it was in Delaware. Oh. And it was a night. Last night. And I tried to take a cell phone picture. But it was too dark.
There was this bar, see. With beer. And, my fresh off-the-boat Carolina girl appeal is apparently very, VERY appealing. So I sit. I make a friend. His name is Owen. He is the hot bartender. We were going to run away together (you know, and have Delawarean babies. Start a tribe of Delawareans and buy a boat). But then tragedy ensued. He said, “you don’t like the Bruins, do you?” And he scoffed at me. There was SCOFFING.
Alas. We were not to be. My heart, however, did not stay broken for long. Oh no. Can’t keep a broken heart with the intense, intense laughter.
Not thirty seconds later, I met my very first Guido. I have heard of them, Guidos. But they are elusive creatures. And very, very rare in North Carolina. But not here. Oh no. Not here.
The hair. Check.
The accent. Check.
The (not kidding) pocket comb.
I know my world is about to change forever.
“How you doin’?”
Seriously. “How you doin’?”
“I’m from south Jersey.”
Wow, I think. Clearly, this is a defining moment in my life. I will remember this forever. I take a moment to absorb this. He is clearly in the middle of absorbing cologne. And a spray tan.
He sits sideways. It looks quite precarious. He rests his cheek (I think it was a cheek. It was shiny) against a hand, elbow on the bar. And flashes his teeth.
Awesome, I think. Then I wonder whether his hand will turn orange from the spray tan on his face. And if it will rub off on the bar.
He reads the “awesome,” but I think he misconstrues the tone of my inner-voice.
I marvel at how he is able to demonstrate his entire chest toward me (oh, it’s a demonstration) when his legs are directly facing the bar. I had a Ken doll that could do that. But I accidentally lost its head.
“I’m….. (and then he says his name. But I don’t remember it. So let’s call him Carlos. Because I like the name Carlos).”
Carlos proceeds to tell me that I look like I’ve got a lot “up here.”
It takes an awkward thirty seconds before I arrive at the correct conclusion.
Oh. He’s talking about my brain.
“That’s an accurate observation,” I say, amid spiteful background laughter from Owen (see, I remember OWEN the bartender’s name. Because I was almost Mrs. Owen, see).
“Do you like music?”
Um. I say. Um. I’m a music writer. (Damnit, why didn’t you lie? Never, NEVER tell weird people you write about music. It will only encourage them, children)
“No kiddin’?” incredulous face. I think his hair is reflecting the lights over the bar. “I do too! What a co-iss-eee-dense!” (Coincidence. It takes me a second too)
I don’t talk. I stick practically my whole face in the pint glass. It’s either this or laugh. Bubbles. Uhoh. I’m laughing. Screw you, Owen. Stop grinning.
“What music you like?”
Um. Opera. Sure. Why not? I wrote about it today.
“No kiddin’! Me too! What a co-iss-eee-dense!”
Really? Brow quirk. What’s your favorite opera?
Longest. Moment. Ever. As his eyes race around the room. Clearly he was not expecting a follow-up. He’s thinking opera… opera… any opera…
After two minutes of silence (and awkward breathing. I timed it), he says, rather loudly, “Carmen! I like Carmen.”
Tragic, I say. Nodding.
“Yeah, yeah. Tragic,” he says.
And then, the most glorious part of the evening. He (not kidding. Ask Owen the bartender) starts to sing.
I have NO idea what he is singing. But it’s loud. And I think he thinks it’s Italian. I hear the name “Figaro.” People are staring now. I think he thinks this is making me feel special. I almost fall off the bar stool because I am holding my breath so I don’t laugh… and it’s not working… I’m just not breathing…
Awkward pause. He orders me another beer. You know how I like free beer. Plus, I can’t leave now. I’m an anthropologist. And he is a monkey. Albeit with less hair.
I am pretending to watch the Heat game.
“You like sports?’
“No kiddin’! Me too!”
He has take a moment. The co-iss-eee-denses are way, way too uncanny for him to process. He manages to switch hands. One must hold his chin at all times.
“You like baseball?”
He has my full attention. Mmm-hmmm.
“No kiddin’! Me too! I’m a Yankees fan.”
Oh good, I think. Brilliant smile. I congratulate him on their 2011 World Series victory. Oh wait. You play-off bombed. I congratulate him on the stellar attitude of his players. Oh wait. Jorge Posada. I then tell him not to worry. I’m sure Jeter will have a bang up year. Last year he was distracted by gift baskets. I tell him that I hope no one has a garage door opener in Yankee stadium next year because who knows how A-Rod’s new robotic body will respond.
He looks very, very confused.
“Oh, I like the Yankees, but you know, not really,” he says.
“What do you mean not really?”
“Do you like soccer?”
There is another pause. He’s really thinking.
“But you have a brain. I see you have a brain.”
“You see that?”
“Yes. It’s really soulful.”
Owen walks by again. He wants me. I can tell. But he’s a sadist. I see that now.
Long pause. Carlos doesn’t like the silence.
“I have tickets to the World Cup. I love soccer.”
“So you said.”
“I’m from New Jersey.”
It’s like he’s a doll with a pull string and catch phrases.
He tells me he is an engineer (really???) in Wilmington on business. And that Jersey is the “bomb.” I’m intrigued by this, because I haven’t heard that anything is the “bomb” since a 2004 frat party.
“So, can I like, get your number?”
No. But thank you for asking.
“Oh. It was an absolute pleasure meeting you. An absolute pleasure.” He stares. He’s not staring at my brain, people.
Really long pause.
“Okay then,” I say, scowling at Owen across the bar. Owen who is laughing. A lot.
“So. Do you not like soccer?”
What’s not to love about this place?
With puff-chesty vengeance, the Stankees stole OUR Osakan last night. Hiroki Kuroda is officially in pinstripes. And we’re officially stagnant, party of one.
Seriously. I was feeling a keen sense of camaraderie with the stripeys. They’re doing a fat load of nothing this offseason. We’re doing a fat load of nothing this offseason. I thought maybe, possibly, we could put this stanktastic rivalry aside and be friends. Buds. Mates. Play chess on the weekends. But NOOOOOOOOO. You had to stick your chest out and steal OUR Osakan. Don’t say I didn’t try, Hal.
Clearly, this means war.
Not roll-over and stay stagnant, BEN. That’s NOT the way we do things in Boston.
Now take out your checkbook. We KNOWWWWW they gave you a checkbook. You aren’t fooling ANYONE with your bargain binning, Benny C.
Fix this, Ben Cherington. Fix. This. NOW. It’s time to stop shopping off the rack.
Watch Texas. TEXAS KNOWS HOW TO PLAY.
In other news, the internet is a-buzz with the happy/confusing/conflicting news that Tekky could be back- news I reported with a mixture of glee and confusion last night.
Jason Varitek would make a move. Jason Varitek would make a big move.
I nominate Jason Varitek for GM.