No Rhyme or Reason
Fenway Park sounds like heavenly choirs of joy when things are going right, as I have pointed out before on numerous occasions. But until now I have not had occasion to hear what Fenway Park sounds like when things are going drastically, potentially-season-ruiningly wrong, and I can tell you, it ain't pretty.
As Joe Castiglione called the game in his nasal tones tonight as I drove through the drizzle to the newsroom, behind him I could hear what sounded like the incurables at the nastiest, filthiest, most corrupt, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest state psych ward. Now a man's voice snarling out sarcastic exhortations to Derek Lowe; now the incoherent shrieks of a female or child; now the same man again, gravelly, nasty, bitter, ripping into Cabrera. If joyful Fenway sounds like heaven, it stands to reason that angry Fenway sounds like its otherworldly opposite.
The Fenway Faithful had the right to be angry tonight, as Derek Lowe (with generous support from Orlando Cabrera) did his damndest to blow the game in the 7th inning, which is of course when I chose to turn on the radio.
I should have known better; earlier when I turned on the radio while leaving my day job, I'd heard the following: "...so I said to him, 'if you can do it for an inning or two, why not a full game?'"
"It" being play second base. "Him" being Doug Mientkiewicz.
To understate things ridiculously, this made me quite upset. So upset, in fact, that I tried calling the Whiner Line for the first time ever, only to be told that the mailbox was full--not a surprise considering I'm sure there were livid people all over New England with plenty to say to Terry about what I continue to hope desperately was a rhetorical question (even then, it's stupid). Meanwhile, I listened, yelled, slapped my forehead and pounded the steering wheel while the Big Show hosts had themselves a nice little Tito barbecue.
Throughout a spectacularly boring School Committee meeting (yes, again, don't I lead a glamorous life?), I was procuring the necessary provisions for my own little barbecue, planning out a truly scathing entry about the complete idiocy of Terry Francona and venting my spleen about the team. It was going to be a beauty, let me tell you.
Then I got to the newsroom, it was the top of the 9th, 8-4 Sox, and "Foulkie" blew away the side. So for tonight at least, Francona ends up looking like a friggin' genius.