This Rant Brought to You by the Letter B
Dale Sveum ought to be shot. Without a last cigarette. Or a blindfold. I'd be happy to do the honors.
I wondered aloud last week what it would take for someone upstairs to look down at the field, watch Sveum windmilling wildly by third base, realize, "Dear God! He's a moron!" and send him packing. Sending someone to their literal death at home plate?
Granted, it wasn't death, and, granted, there were two outs, but yesterday on a sloppy track at Fenway, Sveum launched Kevin Youkilis, and Kevin Youkilis' right ankle, into the fires of Red Sox hell. Sveum's victimization of Sandy Alomar was even worse, as every milligram of Youkilis' 220 pounds smashed directly into Alomar at full speed in what the Rem-Dawg politely termed his "midsection."
And there stood Sveum, looking like Francona's idiot cousin while Youks and Alomar writhed in agony in the batters' boxes, picking his ear and smacking his gum at third base, his every movement a seeming repeat of Grady Little's famous, "for what?", his every vacuous blink a cruel symbol of the idiocy that has kept this year's team from reaching its potential. Nothing would have made me happier than to see a gigantic hole open in the ground and swallow that guy, never to be seen or heard from again.
The rest of us, meanwhile, took a collective kick to the "midsection" later on, when after another two out, two-run rally in the bottom of the ninth inning (twice in one series! what are the odds!), Orlando Cabrera assumed the position again and ended the game while representing the go-ahead run.
At this point, my frustration level--not to mention my blood pressure--is hitting the Red Zone. I'm starting to demand things like, "Have we entered the level of Red Sox hell wherein we can only use Timlin and Embree as punishment for screaming for them in Game 7?" I'm starting to wish physical harm upon people simply because they make mistakes while wearing a baseball uniform. I'm beginning to wonder who's going to step up and beat Pedro with that little red foam bat until he remembers he's the best pitcher on the planet and 32 years old, not some Romper-Room retard and five.
At this point, I want blood. Bring me the head of (edit for certain smartasses in the audience) Ricky Gutierrez, and don't let me ever see Cabrera up to bat in the bottom of the ninth again, or there will be hell to pay. Hell. Do you understand me?