The Sox roller coaster heads back uphill again...
He's now gone 11.2 consecutive innings without allowing an earned run. That was unthinkable just 11 days ago. --Buffalo Head on the now-hilarious SoSH thread "Is Lowe Done"?
"When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy."--Oscar Wilde
Derek Lowe. Of all people. The streak stopper. The ace in the hole. The lights-out sinkerballer conjuring shades of the ALDS while spinning a beauty in the Mile High City.
Derek Lowe. Of all people. Getting that sinker to sink real good in the thin air of the Rocky Mountains where breaking-ball pitchers go to die. Getting 15 ground ball outs in seven masterful innings.
Derek Lowe. Of all people.
But, believe it or don't, here's his line today:
7.0IP 4H 0R 0HR 0ER 4BB 3K
Meanwhile, the Poke is gettin' his props.
I move that they make commercials featuring Pokey Reese. I don't care what product it's for. My pitch for a commercial would be like this: Pokey rolls groggily out of bed, and from there goes on to make a series of jaw-dropping, acrobatic moves (possibly with the aid of computer graphics) while going about his day to day business. Such as, yawning, pouring coffee behind his back without spilling a drop, one-handing a thrown newspaper on his front stoop without looking, jumping clean over a construction site in his way while walking down the street to the store, catching a fly between his thumb and forefinger, again, without looking, as he eats a sandwich, perhaps finishing by effortlessly fielding the entire contents of a bag of groceries as they're thrown upward by someone tripping and falling...you know, stuff like that.
Where is Madison Avenue on this?
But, of course, we are Boston Red Sox fans and we cannot be entirely happy. And so it is incumbent upon me to step into the bullshit tornado that has become The Nomar Garciaparra Saga.
If things keep going this way, next year you're going to read a story in the newspaper that goes a little something like this:
BOSTON--Fenway fans have long had a harsh vocal response to former Boston Red Sox that show up at the old ballyard in pinstripes following their Boston careers.
But though Nomar Garciaparra has joined a long line of players--from the Babe to Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens--who have made the switch to the Dark Side, the Fenway faithful had to dig deep for an appropriate response as Garciaparra, the erstwhile toast of Boston at shortstop, made his first appearance on his old turf at second base for the Evil Empire.
Where before a simple "boo" would do, last night witnessed something astonishing: nearly the entire capacity crowd of 35,000 standing and turning their backs to the field while keeping a stony silence.
"There aren't any words to express what we're feeling," said die-hard fan Sully MacDonald, from his bird's eye view in the Monster Seats. He glanced back furtively over his shoulder toward the field, where the pinstriped No. 5 settled in for what would become a 5-0 Yankees rout over the dispirited Olde Towne Team.
At a press conference following the game, Garciaparra, flanked by his fellow shortstop-turned-Yankee-baseman Alex Rodriguez, told the press he felt much the same way.
"Boston fans always treated me incredibly well," said Garciaparra, who has admitted he is "bitter" about the way he parted ways with the Sox, "I don't understand this. Well, I guess I do, in a way. I think the fans got [expletive] over at least as much as I did. But still, I never expected that kind of reaction. What can you say?"
You don't want to live that nightmare? Then stop throwing him under the bus for being injured, for rehabbing, and for being rusty after being injured and rehabbing. Stop suggesting with a straight face that Mark Bellhorn and Pokey Reese should usurp his spot after just fifty-seven decent games, fifty-seven games, I might remind you, in which every batting and baserunning gaffe was rationalized as being due to Nomar's absence.
It's that simple. The current hubbub surrounding his state of mind and Achilles is only going to drive him straight into the arms of Steinbrenner, who I can tell you right now is salivating at the prospect.
As Sully or Murph would tell you from the box seats behind home plate, while gesturing passionately with their cups of beer, I shit you not, kid. You mahk my words.