Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man

Apparently the Mariners thought sending out the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man last night, codenamed Emiliano Fruto, would be a good plan.

Even considering the Red Sox were ahead four runs going in to this inning, and that Fruto was clearly sent in for mop-up duties, this has to have been the single most embarrassing half-inning of baseball I have ever seen, and the most embarrassing I ever hope to see.

I mean, the game itself was kind of a self-parody anyway; one only need watch the highlights of cut-together Red Sox homers from the game to get the idea of just how wretched a game this was on the Seattle side (FOX had a funny way of putting such a montage together, with the William Tell Overture as the background music). But a track meet can happen to any team. Emiliano Fruto is the kind of thing that only happens once in a great long while, and should really only ever happen to the Yankees.

One out in the top of the ninth, with Manny at the plate, is when I tuned in; I had been dorking out at my friends Andy and Andy's house watching Dr. Who all night. And Mr. Fruto seemed to be following a pitching strategy of hucking the ball in only the most general, loosely defined vicinity of the batters' box. Ball Four went clear over Manny's head, but where any other pitcher might have earned a mound charge with such a delivery, Manny merely collected anything that had not been securely fastened to his body, namely, his batting helmet and bat, and went to first base, probably glad to be out of Fruto's line of fire (presumably).

Jason Varitek's at-bat went no better. It was clear that there were two things preventing Fruto's immediate and, one would imagine, somewhat impolite removal from the game by his manager--1) the fact that, already conceding the loss, they didn't want to have to burn another pitcher and 2) even the other mop-up pitcher still needed several minutes to warm up. As Fruto flailed about on the mound, and ball after ball came screaming in on wildly varying trajectories, Varitek stood in the batters' box, clearing his throat, looking around, and trying to salvage some semblance of dignity within that whole scene.

It was truly embarrassing and terrible. Somehow Fruto got Trot Nixon to foul out, to derisive cheers from everyone in attendance (I think at this point even Red Sox fans were rooting for this ordeal to end).

More derisive cheers after Fruto got to two strikes on Coco Crisp. But then Coco hit a sharp single to left, and in the final indignity, a throw to the plate was way off-line, scoring Manny.  Finally, Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Fruto was relieved. A little while later, Timlin had sealed off the final out of the game and it was finally over.

Like I said. A loss that embarrassing should really only happen to the Yankees. Or maybe Oakland, depending on what mood I'm in. But poor old Seattle. What did they ever do to deserve this?

Just the same, the game of baseball shows mercy to no man. Here's hoping the Sox tee off on them again today. Every one of these wins is much-needed.

P.S. Apparently San Francisco is now trying to become the Dallas Cowboys of MLB and field the All-Asshole Team for the League; it was announced yesterday that that's where Hillenbrand will end up. Hopefully this also puts the kibosh on the Mike Lowell rumors.

P.P.S. Meanwhile, how enjoyable was it to see Man-Hug Fest 06 commence in earnest yesterday? Here's a video with more cuteness from Channel 38, via Joy of Sox. Watch it while you can, before they pull it for the, you know, copyright infringement stuff and all. The part where Trot runs in slow motion alone is worth your time.

P.P.P.S. Why did no one tell me about this?

I swear this is the end of the P.S.es: When Andy saw a photo of Kason (sic) Gabbard on the television last night, he immediately went to his Sling Blade voice.

Dog Days

We have reached my absolute least favorite time of year, some of which is related to baseball, some of which is not.

I despise the summer. This hasn't always been the case; when I was a child it was probably my favorite time of year, especially since it involved my birthday and the deployment of the Slip N Slide.

But as I've grown older, summer first meant a break from school, which most people loved. I, however, having been a workaholic from way back, absolutely hated those empty three months, especially when I was too young to get a summer job.

Then, once I have been old enough to work, I have despised, too, the summer job; the boring afternoons spent shelving books at the library, my utterly wretched tenure at the Showcase Cinema in Lowell on summer breaks in college.

I also have grown to loathe the heat. I sometimes think I have the opposite of the typical seasonal affective disorder--where I have friends who become lethargic and irritable in the dead of winter (and most people seem to have a limit on their tolerance for cold and snow), I am the only one I know in that same place in late July and into August, when the warmth outside is no longer a novelty, where it has settled into a deep, sluggish, humid sort of fugue state as opposed to the crisp light of spring or fall. I now have work that spans the summer, and more recently, it's work I enjoy. But there are still innumerable things that make me feel spiteful about the summer--getting into a car after it's been sitting in the parking lot at work all day; trying to sleep when even the air conditioner can't make my apartment comfortable; and of course, the frequent and high-pitched rejoicings of various summer types about how beautiful it is outside.

There are really only a couple of things I like about summer: ice cream stands are open, for one. I also do confess I feel some nostalgia on those summer nights after a scorching hot day, when the air feels exhausted. And, of course, I love baseball.

But now, at this late date in July, even baseball has a seasonal habit that irritates me deeply and contributes to my overall summer irascibility--the trading deadline.

I'm not a big fan of the hot stove; playing GM is not my strong suit. I am not only fairly poor at the kind of statistics and calculations involved in arriving at VORP, but wholly uninterested in it. Others are almost visibly lit up when discussing, haranguing, arguing, debating over multi-team deals and "packages" of prospects and big-league role players for that one starting pitcher another team so foolishly parts with and puts your team over the top. The Holy Grail of the trading deadline is a deal like the Nomar Affair, a deal that can be pointed to later as the turning point of a team's entire season. Little boys dream of being Nomar; older boys dream of being Theo, with the power to shape a multibillion-dollar franchise into a success, the ability to shuffle big-time athletes around the league like it's his personal chess board at his discretion.

I can understand all that, in a vague and detached sense. I get it, but I don't feel it.

I, for one, dislike everything about the trading deadline, but especially the rumors, especially since 99% of them turn out to be untrue and everyone gets all worked up for absolutely nothing. I hate, right now, HATE, that Mike Lowell's name keeps coming up on blogs and ESPN and all the rest, how some cockamamie deal with Lowell to the Padres (the scarier permutations of which involve Hillenbrand at first base for the Sox) has people wheeling and dealing and arguing as if it were fact. This is precisely the reason I stopped listening to WEEI--that phenomenon in which a premise is thrown out as speculation and by evening has evolved into God's Honest Truth about which we should be Very, Very Upset. This, in my opinion, is the worst trait about Red Sox culture in particular--the seemingly endless capacity for jumping to imaginative conclusions and then raising an emotional response to them before they've even been judged plausible. Hence the annual Mannygate. Hence this latest round of wild speculation and rumors and leaks.

Though 99% of the rumors turn out to be nothing, there are also some times where the steady rumble of the chatter focuses on one name or another to the point where it's fairly certain at least that player will be involved in a trade, regardless of whether or not the teams involved or other players involved are accurate. This is what happened with Nomar. Now, that chatter, that rumble, is steadily repeating the name of Mike Lowell. Regardless of whether or not the Padres are really involved or whether any of the rest of it is bogus, it's Mike Lowell's name coming up over and over and over again. That still might mean nothing, but it does not bode well.

And that's what I hate. You don't even know how to feel because there's nothing to feel anything about--only a vague sense of dread and a silent plea to the universe not to take that guy, not to take your guy, you root for the laundry but still...the trading deadline says "you've spent the last six months getting to know and love this team as it is. Now you get to find out who's going to be lost."

We have the best infield defense in all of major league baseball. I know our pitching situation grows more dire with every passing day, but the thought of decimating that defense by ridding ourselves of one of its corners--its hot corner--is a shuddersome one. Yet these are the happy prospects fans get to contemplate at the trading deadline.

I hate it. I really do.

P.S. Yes, I did cop out on writing anything about yesterday's afternoon game. This is basically because I am not nearly as creative or smart as Joanna. So go read her post, which is seriously among my nominations for "Blog Post of the Year" so far.

When the sun begins to shine I hear a song from another time and fade away

This is in honor of the "What If?" show that's on tonight, and also in honor of the fact that I can't watch either it or today's afternoon game.

October 16, 2003 was certainly a night to remember.

At the end of the game, long after Pedro had finally been lifted, my friends Andy and Michele and I were still in the living room at my parents' house (where I lived at the time, not yet a year out of college). All the lights were out, so the TV was the only thing casting a glow in the room.

I was in the recliner, where I had been for every other game of the series, convinced that was good luck. I was wearing my Nomar number tee for the eighth straight night, convinced that, too, was good luck. I was nervous because I wasn't listening to the WEEI radio broadcast of the game over Walkman headphones with McCarver and Buck muted, as I had taken to doing by Game 3--and had become convinced was also benefiting the team.

When the ball came off Aaron Boone's bat, I reached for the remote immediately. It hadn't even hit the seats beyond left field before I turned off the television.

Andy and Michele and I got up, wordlessly, from our seats. We wandered from the living room to the hallway area. I turned left to go to my bedroom. They turned right to go through the kitchen out the back door and to where their cars were parked in the driveway. None of us said a word, not even "goodbye."

But those moments were like the split second after you hurt yourself--the breath of time between hammer and thumb and a shriek of surprise and pain; the instant between a cut with a sharp knife and the first sign of blood. I lay there in the dark, in bed, eyes wide open, feeling nothing.

It was the next day, October 17, 2003, that really hurt.

I said this at the time, and I'll say it still: the collapse by the Red Sox in Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS against the Yankees was the single most painful event of my life in which I was not directly involved with the proceedings.

The next morning, when I opened my eyes, it took me a few minutes to swim back to reality, as it normally does. When I did, though, it felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

That feeling, a deep, dull ache in my gut, didn't go away for the rest of the day.

It was a Friday. Just one day till the weekend, but sadly, a day in which Boston had to go work.

The other people in cars on the road, on the street and in the coffee shop, all looked like me: hollows under their eyes and a hollow look inside them.

Just the day before, I had driven home listening to the WEEI Whiner Line, as was my habit at the time. Amidst all the little one-liners from blue-collar callers, I can still recall two to this day. The first, the one I remember every time I think about the entire Game 7 phenomenon, was a caller saying seriously, with gravitas, even, though the place was usually reserved for humor, "Boston--this will either be our greatest victory...or our greatest defeat." The voice was a man's, and it was dripping with Boston accent: "ahh grayd'st vict'ry...oah aahh grayd'st d'feath."

The second was a message from regular caller Ray from Lynn (who, as far as I know, is still calling). Ray from Lynn gave statistics on Aaron Boone, his career batting average, his homers and batting average this season...all mediocre numbers. And then Ray from Lynn--no word of a lie, call WEEI if you don't believe me--predicted that in the grand tradition of Bucky Dent, Aaron Boone would hit a home run late in the game into center field to win the game for the Yankees. He was off on the location, but not much else. He ended the call with his usual sign-off: "Ray from Lynn...right again."

At the time, the hosts of the Big Show protested the fact that their producer had allowed the call into what was supposed to be a feel-good Whiner Line. The next day, I, along with anyone else who had been listening, remembered the call and wanted to throw up.

At my office at the time, which was at a small company of about 50 people total, only about 15 of whom worked in the office (the rest were on a manufacturing floor), I was the resident Red Sox fan. My cubicle was plastered with pictures of Nomar, Pedro, Kevin Millar, Trot Nixon, and all the rest. But mostly Nomar. When I got to the office on October 17, 2003, I took every single picture down.

Undeterred by this signal that it was perhaps not the right time to approach me to shoot the breeze about the game, one of the engineers, a small Indian man who reminded me of Ghandi and was almost as sweet and gentle a presence, stopped in front of my desk and started to tell me all about the World Series game he watched once where the teams had been scoreless through nine innings and then one of the teams had finally won in extra innings, and how that had also been a heartbreaking loss.

He really was the sweetest, nicest man. But that day, it was all I could do not to tell him, "Fuck Off." I just said repeatedly that I really didn't want to talk about the game until he shrugged and left.

I didn't want to talk about the game with my coworkers, but that didn't stop me from thinking about it. All day long I'd be doing my dead-end clerical work as usual, and that stomach-punch feeling would come back, and I'd remember...

It wasn't even that I didn't really want to talk about it. Some group therapy could probably have done me some good. It was just that I couldn't articulate it. To this day I struggle to articulate the feeling of watching Grady Little walk back toward the dugout in the eighth inning--it was so much more than a loss to me, so much more than a baseball game.

It had been in July of that season, July 28, to be exact, that I had suddenly fallen in love with the Red Sox again. This was a year or so after I had become an ardent Patriots fan, during and following their Super Bowl run in 2001, and so was more interested in sports than I had been probably in my whole life, but definitely since I was a ten-year old with a modest baseball card collection, a knowledge of a baseball scorecard, and a few trips to Fenway under her belt.

Still, I had argued with my dad about watching the Red Sox, knowing even as a casual fan their track record of heartbreak. "The human capacity to learn from pain has to kick in sometime," was my line.

And then all of a sudden, that night...Andy, who would be with me when Boone hit his home run several months later, was over, and he wanted to watch the game...and we did...and that was it. After that I was hooked again. I was on the bandwagon.

As the weeks wore on, and I spent more time at a job I would grow to despise, spent more time in that post-college funk of wondering where the hell I was going in life and if any of the dreams I had for my future would ever happen, the Red Sox filled a profound void in my life. Unlike this daunting world of paychecks and 401(k)s and wondering if I'd ever get out of my parents' house, Red Sox games had clear rules, and clear strategies for winning.

As someone suddenly plunked back down in my quiet hometown after more than four years in a place where I was constantly surrounded by around 25,000 people, watching the Red Sox brought back a sense of community, first abstractly, and then more concretely as I started reading Bambino's Curse, and discussing the previous night's game in the comments section there with several people I have since come to befriend in real life.

It wasn't that I missed UMass, much of which had been an ordeal for me--but I found, in that post-college quandary, totally unwilling to be identified by my occupation of the moment, that I lacked identity. I also lacked structured extra-curricular activity. Sports, and being a sports fan, filled both needs nicely. Every night I drove home from work with WEEI on the radio, the arguments there distracting me nearly immediately from my utter loathing, most days, of what I'd just spent the last eight hours doing; when I got home, I escaped immediately into the night's game.

Meanwhile, like any Red Sox fan, my relationship with my father factored in heavily to my relationship with the team. My Dad and I spent most of my teenage years in a Cold War of sorts; things had eased once I was in college, but we hadn't really been friends since I was a little girl who was a tomboy and played softball with him in the backyard. The Patriots, and then the Red Sox, were an inroad to the closer relationship we've enjoyed since.

It's safe to say that by October 16, 2003, I was pretty "into" the Red Sox.

I had begun to follow them with the passion that can only be reserved for the thing which helps you escape--I had, for all intents and purposes, become an addict.

When they made their first trip to the postseason in four seasons, I could barely contain my excitement. The drives home every day grew more and more blissful, as I listened to in-depth arguments about the pitching rotation for the Division Series against Oakland. The small gap between the end of the regular season and the start of the postseason was one of delicious anticipation. Sucky job and all, I was happier than I'd been in years.

The first two games of the Division Series were unpleasant, to say the least. Two straight losses put our backs to the wall. But then the teams flew back to Boston. After they landed, it was reported that most of the team had shaved their heads at Kevin Millar's urging on the flight back. This "Cowboy Up" ethos made those of us watching simply giddy. By that point, this goofy band of brothers felt like family to me. I knew all their faces and habits, the way each of them kicked the dirt on the mound or at the plate. I knew the bench players, the role guys, the Dirt Dogs and superstars alike. When they came back to Boston, we were all convinced that the magic of Fenway would do them some good. When we were right, that first night, it was as if we had all personally contributed to the victory.

The next day, Oakland held a 4-3 lead into the eighth inning. Nails were bitten to the quick all over New England.  But then Oakland's reputedly indomitable closer, Keith Foulke(!), gave up a game-winning 2-RBI double to David Ortiz, scoring Nomar Garciaparra and Manny Ramirez. On second base as the entire six-state region exploded (including fans at Gillette Stadium, watching the Patriots' tilt against the Titans but listening to the Red Sox on the radio or watching for updates on what was happening at Fenway on the scoreboard, and who erupted into cheers when the Sox took the lead, despite the fact that the Titans had just scored a touchdown against the home team), Papi made a "raising the roof" gesture. And then, someone took the following picture:

That picture went up in my cubicle the very next day, and remains one of the most enduring images I associate with the Red Sox. Because that was it, pinned down and captured like an insect in a scientist's collection, the entire feeling of the 2003 postseason, the magic of it, the raw, primitive triumph of it, the sheer, somehow brutal joy of watching this team struggle and claw its way to win after win after win, each more incredible than the last...

If I had been "into" the Red Sox, the 2003 Division Series is what made me a fan forever. I had never felt joy quite like it before.

By the time it got to Game 6 of the ALCS, with those strange winds blowing trash around the outfield, the weird coincidences like roads being closed and several members of the Yankees forced to take the subway to the park, Hideki Matsui's wild throw into the stands...it had been dicey for a few games, there, but it was so easy to believe after that game that the tide had turned in the Red Sox' favor. All year long, whether I had wanted to listen or not, my father had been telling me that the Yankees were "ripe for the picking", and that was how it felt the afternoon of October 16, driving home on the highway, listening to the excited callers on the Whiner Line. I was merging onto Rte 3 North from 128 South when the "greatest victory" caller came on. It was a soft autumn afternoon, still mostly light out, a chill in the air. I remember it so clearly. I wanted to remember it clearly.

All that background gives some idea of what was lost that night, at least for that year. It felt to me like as soon as I had fallen in total, soul-deep love with this Red Sox team, they were gone. From July 28, 2003, right up until the eighth inning of that ballgame, I'd been riding that tide of joy and anticipation and giddy magic. And then it was just...over.

That was a long way to fall in the few seconds it took Grady Little to slap Pedro on the arm, turn, and walk back to the dugout alone. It was a long way to fall, indeed--a lot to watch slip through the fingers--as Jorge Posada's unforgettable bloop double fell into center field. That's the closest I can come to describing how it felt--like stomach-turning free-fall. I felt sick the whole next day.

So to come back to the present--I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought, as the title of the show asks, What If? All of us did, and swiftly came to a conclusion about it, which is why Grady Little was lucky to get out of Boston before the lynch mobs could find him.

Still, I'd watch the show if I could, which I can't, since I have other plans tonight. Because Game 7 is a bitter piece of history to relive, but it was also my fiery baptism as a Red Sox fan. It was the moment they let me down, sure, but also the moment I realized just how much I loved them.

Groundhog Day

Today, I was aware that the game started in the afternoon, since the Royals have to get away for their next victimization, at the hands of the LA Angels (of Anaheim). So I was contented to check the score on my cell phone. Often, the dozens of score-messages I get accumulate in my text-message inbox for a while before I delete them. So when I saw three messages, one saying START 0 Kansas City 0 Boston 0; another saying Kansas City 0 Boston 1; and another saying FINAL Kansas City 0 Boston 1, I just thought I hadn't gotten the messages for this game for some reason, and that these were just last night's messages left in my inbox. Then I checked around when I got home...and apparently it was another one-run special for the Sox this afternoon. Bizarre. What the hell is up with the Red Sox bats?

Boston Crazy Driving has a theory.

Jere has an interesting factoid at the end of his post.

Further news via Kristen: Tim Wakefield apparently has a broken rib. I knew it would take a lot to get him out of a game, but that's just ridiculous. This is of course why we adore the guy.

The gift horse gets some dental work

There are two ways to look at tonight's game.

Way #1: John Lester brilliant through eight, Papelbon his usual self. A brilliant pitching performance--a combined one hit and another much-needed win.

Way #2: After that pounding by the A's, two nail-biters in a row against the worst team in the American League. In this second game, one measly run against Brandon Duckworth and the worst bullpen in the American League.

All depends on if you're a glass half-empty or half-full person, I suppose.

Kansas City sends relief to Boston in the form of their baseball team

Mirabelli and Wakefield Go to Work
Originally uploaded by scituatesmith.

Okay, Boston, Massachusetts has been saying to itself today. The construction project that has cost us taxpayers $15 billion and lasted three times as long as it should already is falling down; the traffic around here lately would probably only be slightly worse if a 10-kiloton bomb were dropped in the middle of the city and everyone had to get out all at once; you have to take out a loan to fill up your gas tank; it's 101 degrees outside with 70% humidity; and World War III may be starting in the Middle East.

But, Boston has said to itself--all around my office as people groaned under the stress of it all I could feel this thought from the cubicles with their pictures of David Ortiz and Jason Varitek on the wall--Kansas City's in town for a three-game set starting tonight. At least there's something we can feel good about."

Folks, if you're wondering why Fenway Park reacted to a come-from-behind win against the Kansas City Royals like a postseason win against the Yankees, that's why. This is a seriously stressed out city right now. I personally believe that Dougie's Stud Bomb saved possibly as many as two workplaces from shootings tomorrow, and at least a half dozen road rage deaths (and all credit goes to the anonymous heroes who appeared on the pre-game show tonight behind the Rem Dawg with a banner that read DOUGIE'S GOING DEEP. Anyone who comes forward with any information as to the identity of these people, or a screencap, will have my undying gratitude).

We lost Wake to injury in the fourth, and his health is still uncertain. An absence of any length on the part of another member of our starting rotation is sure to be devastating, and if it were any other day, I might also be grousing here about having to play such a shoddy team so close.

But as it was, for a moment in the bottom of the eighth when David Ortiz clumsily stole second and Manny and Youk stood on the top of the dugout steps pointing and laughing, Boston got to crack a tired smile. It was a desperately needed win for the Nation as well as the team, and a win like that is wonderful, no matter how it happens.

P.S. That Will Ferrell ceremonial first pitch was some funny shit, wasn't it?

Whose house?

All right, enough of this foolishness.

Luckily for us, Curt ate a big bowl of industrial bolts for breakfast yesterday before coming to the park. When he got to the clubhouse, he gave Jason Varitek and Mike Lowell head-butts to the chest like Zidane in the World Cup and shouted over their lifeless bodies, "YOU BETTER GET SOME DAMN RUNS HOME."

In the bullpen, he ritualistically selected and ate a tomato off the plant, whole. Then he killed two bullpen catchers while warming up his fastball. Finally, he came busting out onto the field like a bull at Pamplona, took the mound, and reminded the A's that they are actually a light-hitting baseball team and in first place only because they occupy the weakest division in the American League.

This is why I will never apologize for completely loving Curt Schilling.

It was a pyrrhic victory given that we'd already lost the first two games of the series in ignominious fashion to men with white effin' shoes and elephants on their uniforms. However, when it's the Principle of the Thing, I want #38 with the ball and that "Bell Tower With a Rifle" look in his eye. That drilling of Nick Swisher was a savage, savage thing. That was a Re-Establishing the Alpha Male kind of moment right there--the best part was how it set Milton Bradley off in the dugout. If Milton Bradley's upset, you know some smacking down is going on and he just can't figure out how to get in on it.

Furthermore, I hope Curt's taking young Josh out to the woodshed today and teaching him a thing or two about pitch selection. It's tough love, son. You'll thank him later.

Update: About the only thing worth mentioning about yesterday's game was that there was actually not a fight, despite all the conditions being perfect, namely that it was Family Day, and there always seems to be a fight on Family Day. Not sure why. And so Dennis Eckersley's chilling pre-game warning, "You don't want Julian Tavarez pitching to Milton Bradley in the late innings of a blowout" did not ever have application in real life.

In other words, yesterday's game had no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

Friday at Fenway

I saw part of the game last night, but I cannot tell a lie--I left Julia's house and crashed and missed the extra innings. I still had my cell phone on, though, and I heard two quick beeps for new score updates. Wearily, I checked the phone. TOP 11 OAKLAND 5 BOSTON 3. With a groan, I fell back into bed again. A little while later, I heard one beep and my eyes popped open. I waited. I waited. I waited.

Moments later there was another beep. I waited again, for a long time, before I concluded that was to be the last beep. The last message I get is a message giving the final score. Since only two more messages had come across, I knew the final: 5-4 Guys in White Shoes, and I counted myself lucky, for the moment, not to know exactly why.

Tonight, I bummed around quite a bit, not really feeling like watching the game. I think I should've taken the All-Star break off as others did, because I was feeling a little burned out on baseball.

Then, while I was lying on my bed, reading Feeding the Monster (because yes, that is what I do when I am burned out on baseball, apparently; I read a book about the inner workings of the Red Sox front office), my dad called from Loge Box 150. I had forgotten he was going to the game. I was resolute, though, that I was taking a break.

Yeah, about a half hour later, the game was on.

What can I say?

I came in on the game in the second inning. And there was my Barry. Sigh.

I love me some Barry Zito; he's probably my all-time favorite non-Red-Sox player. Even given his relative shakiness in the years since his 2002 Cy Young, I would probably drown in my own drool if he were ever to become a Red Sox. I try very hard not to think about the possibility of that becoming real (given everyone knows that he's not playing in Oakland next year, and it's still unclear whether Beane intends to trade him or let him become a free agent), because I would be that much more tempted to head to the Tobin Bridge if the Yankees, desperately in need of a lefty starter, snap him up instead.

Anyway, Tonight, Barry appeared with probably the shortest hair he's had in years; I rather like the look on him even if it makes his hat look a smidge too big on his head.

More importantly, though, he came to Fenway with his curveball working. There were two men on already in the persons of Jason Varitek (somehow) and Gabe Kapler when I turned on the television, and Coco Crisp proceeded to put in a truly diligent at-bat against Zito, fouling off that nasty curve at least three times, the last time by just the tip of the bat. But then Zito, revealing his master plan, came with a beautiful changeup and Coco swung and missed so hard he dropped to one knee in the right-hand batter's box.

It's hard for me to know how to feel in such a situation. On the one hand, I can only marvel at Zito, who, even if he hasn't been the most effective pitcher in the league, is certainly the most artistic; on the other, after such a valiant at-bat a K is that much more crushing for Coco, especially with his two comrades waiting patiently for him to drive them in.

I called my dad back with Gonzo at the plate to commiserate over Coco. Through him, I heard what happened in Gonzo's at-bat a few seconds ahead of the TV broadcast. It went like this.

"All right, come on Gonzo, here we go, buddy!"

On TV, Zito was still fiddling with his glove.

"Whoa! Okay then!Strike one. Whoops." My dad laughed.

On TV, the pitch came in moments later. Gonzo's bat didn't hint at leaving his shoulder.

"Poor Gonzo," I laughed into the phone.

"It's all right, he'll get right back in it n--oh boy, strike two."

A little bit later, I said, "Eh, I thought that was inside."

"Really?"

"Yeah, little bit."

"Well, it looked about thigh-high from here, but I can't tell if it's--oh, boy, say goodnight, Gonzo."

In the top of the third, another run scored, and the ball was bobbled by Mark Loretta on an attempt to catch a runner stealing by Varitek and Beckett on a comebacker to the mound, though Beckett got the out.

In the dugout, Kevin Youkilis was doing what looked like Tai Chi but was probably an exercise on something he needs to work on with his swing. He is so intense, though, it kind of makes me laugh sometimes. I wonder if his teammates ever suggest to him that he should get out more.

Youkilis grounded out on a meaty curve from Zito. As usual, when this happened, he walked back to the dugout as if he was going to commit hari kari. When he sat down on the bench, he gestured and spoke to no one in particular as if to explain.

Barry walked Mark Loretta next on a pitch that, though outside, had a delivery that was a thing of beauty. Barry, in his high socks, kicked and leaned and then all of a sudden his whole body seemed to fly open like a bird taking flight and the ball hopped and dipped. This was the best of both worlds in the end--lovely Barry, a victory of sorts for the Sox.

Tangent time: Exciting news on the home front for me--after learning Manny actually has a meniscus tear, my dad, the most unrepentant Manny hater I personally know, emailed me to let me know he was considering that he thought maybe he should consider lightening up on ol' Manuelah (as he calls him). I sent him back a link to Boston Sports Media Watch's compelling persuasive essay about Manny, which pushed him further along the path of forgiveness, I'm happy to report.

Here's another tangent that I feel compelled to go on: I have a baseball on my desk at worse in a little plastic holder. It's a long story as to where I got it from, but suffice to say it's a souvenir baseball. I also have a collection of squeezable balls, some foam, some rubber, some fluid-filled, on my desk; it helps me concentrate to be fiddling with a stress ball sometimes while I work. The other day I decided to try something different and took the baseball out of its case. I don't know when was the last time I held a baseball, and I don't know if this baseball was regulation, and I've certainly never held a game-used ball, but I was surprised at how inflexible its surface was. Between pitchers rubbing up the ball on the mound to the way it seems to smash flat as a pancake when colliding with David Ortiz's bat before springing back into form on its way over the wall, I somehow had the impression that the baseball would have slightly more give. Holding this ball, with its perfect white surface and sharp red stitches on it, was just a tangible demonstration of how little I know about what it's actually like to play baseball. I wonder what a player's relationship with the ball is like; I wonder how they develop their habitual ways of holding it, throwing it, catching it, the kind of finesse it takes to make this hard little thing bend and dip and curve in the air.

Feeding the Monster (which, by the way, is a superbly written and fascinating book so far, and probably among the most important Red Sox journalism ever to come down the pike) makes the argument that "baseball, along with jazz, is one of the great indigenous American art forms..." I have a sense of that artistry after playing with that baseball the other day. Maybe next I'll take it out and throw it around a little, and think about it some more.

That's the thing about being a girl and being a baseball fan. Virtually every little boy in America either voluntarily or involuntarily plays either tee-ball or baseball at one point in his life. For every Major Leaguer, there are thousands of men who rose to some level of accomplishment on a diamond, whether on a dusty sandlot or a high school field or even in the minor leagues. Girls increasingly play Little League as well, but by the time girls reach high school, our vaginas apparently require that we play softball or field hockey at best. The only sport I've ever played in my life was soccer, and that ended for me abruptly at eighth grade. I am a singularly unathletic person, and have never really been inclined to play even a semi-organized intramural or even picnic game of any kind. But I realized that that's a thing that's missing from my understanding of the game as a fan, and something I may want to change at least a little bit.

And finally, another tangent, which are quickly becoming the main topic of this post, I'm afraid: So far the most compelling yet difficult passages of Feeding the Monster to read for me have been the ones that detail conversations between Theo and the rest of the management staff in meetings after the end of the 2005 season. In particular, this excerpt got to me:

"It's a subtle thing," Epstein said that day. "We can't always make ourselves out to be a superpower. For our part, on the baseball operations side, we know that's not an effective strategy in the long haul." [...] "This has to be reinforced on the public level," he said. "We may be reaching a saturation point. We keep asking for more, more, more. But there will be a point where we don't do more [one year] because we need to do things for the long run."

Epstein took pleasure in talking about, and planning for, the days when the team's emerging talent took center stage, but he worried that the transition to the team's up-and-coming stars would be hindered by the too-bright glare of unrealistic expectations. The previous year had been a good reminder of how an overabundance of media could become suffocating.

"Somehow, we still get involved in these weekly soap operas," Epstein told the table. "A lot of it's because the veteran players who have a forum because they always have a mic in their face become blowhards. Certain people have too much influence--the older, louder veteran players. They need to get a little more professional about presenting themselves...That's one element of it becoming an uber-organization. We build the brand so big that it becomes hard to manage." Epstein was trying to remain calm, but he was clearly distressed by much of what he was describing.

Soon, as happens with many conversations involving the Red Sox, this one evolved into a discussion of money...One of the team's financial advisors warned that a single 85-win season could cost the organization as much as $20 to $30 million in lost ticket and advertising revenue. Lucchino raised the haunting legacies of teams like Baltimore, Colorado, Cleveland, and Toronto, all clubs that had enviable runs of high attendance followed by years of mediocre on-field performances and prolonged periods of fan apathy.

"We have the long-term solution to that problem," Epstein repeated. "We can be both a large revenue club...and have a strong farm system. But it's probably not going to be a seamless transition. This year we had a great year. We will probably be worse next year."

An old Red Sox hand who worked in Fenway Park operations spoke up. "We'll just tell [the fans] different, we'll just tell them we'll be better."

Finally, Epstein lost his cool. "No!" he barked. "No!" Struggling to control himself, he said, "We can't just tell them we'll be better. That's the whole point! That's what I'm trying to say!"

Maybe I'm just naive. I know almost as much about running a huge business as I do about actually playing baseball, which is to say, close to nothing at all. I am probably not the fan--and anyone reading this is probably not the fan--that the unnamed official in that meeting was talking about, that those on the opposite side of the discussion from Theo were worried about. Clearly, winning has put butts in the seats. So it might just be an unrealistic thing for me to wish that they would understand a little more about where their core fan base is coming from, which Seth Mnookin describes thusly:

[Since] the Impossible Dream season, the Sox [have had] a fan base that would forge an almost religious connection with the team, awarding them a loyalty whose intensity and durability would prove astonishing.

With Theo back with the team (something for which I am still grateful every single day, Matt Clement and Byung-Hyun Kim be damned), clearly his point of view has won out to at least some extent within the organization. And there have been some feel-good stretches to the season, to be sure, but the last three games, including this one, which was quickly 4-0 Oakland as the innings wore on, have sent the pendulum we've been riding this season back into doubt.

Now, it could be that the Red Sox themselves aren't sure how the season will work out--that they're all just waiting, too, to see the way the team settles into one groove or another. It could be they haven't told us anything because there isn't anything to tell us.

But as we go back and forth between winning and losing streaks that have been equally bewildering this year, I guess I just wish that if the Red Sox organization does have an ulterior motive or plan for the season--i.e., if there is to be no free-agent cavalry before the trading deadline, or if the FO is operating as if there will be another postseason trip this year--they would indicate that somehow. Obviously it would be stupid for Lucchino to call a press conference and say "We're gonna lose this year, thanks for coming anyway!" And they obviously don't have a crystal ball. But it would be nice if they would be a little more candid about whether or not they will operate the team from one standpoint or another. Is 2006 a season in which the Red Sox will take what they can get, but they're not going to be wheeling and dealing? Or are they entertaining another trip to the playoffs this year as a serious goal for which they are prepared to make moves?

The thing that saddens me so much about all this is the fact that, due to a number of forces and for a number of totally justifiable reasons, many of which have nothing to do with either the FO themselves or the fan base themselves, that level of candor between Red Sox brass and their core fan base seems like it probably won't ever happen (at least, of course, to those of us without SoSH memberships, and perhaps I overestimate their access to inside information as well).

We'll know by the trading deadline, I suppose, which way they've been playing it. But for now, yanked back and forth between hopeful stretches of winning and troubling stretches of difficult close-but-no-cigar losses, we're left to figure it out for ourselves. That is probably the biggest theme of 2006 so far: Where Are We Headed? What's Really Going On? As a fan, my perspective is that if I could just know what the game plan is, regardless of whether or not it's what actually dictates the result, I could afford to be much more philosophical about a game like the one tonight.

Fans like me--and I like to think we're still in the majority--are in it from the story. We have demonstrated our patience. We have demonstrated that we can grasp the idea of player and team development. We have demonstrated, especially since the World Series, that we can get our minds around the idea of a narrative for the team that spans seasons, rather than simply harping on a deadline every year in October.

It saddens me, too, that an ownership group that has demonstrated through its PR so far that it understands what its fan base wants far more than any previous management could still find itself unable to make this last leap of understanding: at least as far as the core fan base goes, there's demonstrably very little indeed, if anything at all, that could make us "quit" the Red Sox. The Red Sox are a product, yes, and a product that needs to be marketed carefully---but they are also a religion and a drug and a cultural touchstone in this city, and I'd like to think that warrants a bit more trust from those who hold the reins than the panicked notion that they can just "tell us different" and everything will be okay.

In other words, we've shown so much faith in them; I wish they felt they could have that faith in us.

But what do I know.

Notes on the All-Star Game

I'm not even gonna bitch about the pitching selections anymore except to say this: Kenny Rogers vs. Brad Penny isn't an All-Star first inning. That's a toilet-bowl interleague game nobody watches.

***

Totally weird to see Nomar in a Dodgers uniform. Somehow even more excruciating to see Arroyo work a scoreless inning in the top of the fifth. I still maintain that the National League has made Arroyo look better than he is, but then he has to go and get away with pitching to the American League. However, it was for just three outs and were it not for a ridiculous catch at shortstop, he might have been screwed.

AL fans, here's our ready-made excuse per MLB.com: Twelve players -- about one-third of the NL roster -- are former American Leaguers. This includes starters Edgar Renteria, Carlos Beltran and Alfonso Soriano.

***

My favorite inning by far was the bottom of the fifth, not only because my West-Coast boyfriend Barry Zito pitched but because David Ortiz actually saved A-Rod's ass with a nice pick at first.

Let me write that again: David Ortiz saved A-Rod's ass with a nice pick at first.

***

I hate that Gatorade commercial with the little-kid voices and bodies on the adult-athlete heads. It freaks me out and it has both Derek Jeter and Peyton Manning in it.

***

Scott Kazmir. I covet hiiiiiiiim.

Did you see his grin coming off the field? It looked like he tried very hard to hold it in and look stoic and dignified, but then he caught sight of a teammate and it just burst across his face.

The mere thought of both him and Jonathan in a Red Sox uniform is enough to make my brain implode.

Want. Want. I lust after Scott Kazmir in a purely baseball sense. (Because in the hormonal sense I generally like guys who look older than, you know, 14.)

***

Okay, I lied. I wish to register another complaint about the pitching selections in this game. I have to say that what's completely screwed up this year's rosters beyond all possible recognition is the mandate that every team should have a representative. That's bullshit. No way should Derrick Turnbow be in the freakin' All Star game. No WAY. If you're the Milwaukee Brewers and you suck, too bad. Get better. Get better players. The All-Star Game should be the best players in the league, period. Not goddamn Derrick Turnbow and his goddamn .500 W-L record and his goddamn 4.74 ERA.

Sure, sure, Derrick Turnbow has 23 saves on the season and a pretty good WHIP. But here's his most recent scouting report on CBS Sportsline:

The trials and tribulations of closer Derrick Turnbow continued Wednesday night. He didn't blow a save, but he did surrender a 10th-inning homer to Adam Dunn that gave Cincinnati a 4-3 lead. Geoff Jenkins got Turnbow off the hook for a loss in the bottom of the 10th when he socked his first homer since May 20. But the fact remains that Turnbow can't get going. In his last three games, Turnbow has two blown saves and what would have been a loss if not for Jenkins' game-tying homer. The day after throwing 30 pitches and suffering his sixth blown save, Turnbow was declared unavailable for duty Tuesday when the Brewers pulled out a 5-2 victory over the Reds. Instead, he worked on ironing out kinks in his delivery with pitching coach Mike Maddux.

Fantasy Analysis

Turnbow has been relegated to being a one-pitch pitcher, unable to get anything but his fastball (sometimes including) over the plate for a strike consistently. Consider reserving him in deeper leagues until he rights himself.

That sound like an All-Star to you? How completely pathetic is it that Turnbow was named to the first pitching roster for the NL and Francisco Liriano had to wait for Jose Contreras to bow out before he could pitch for the AL?

Would I want to have seen a team full of Yankees in their dynasty era? Course not. But the mercy picks are pure bullshit. Bullshit, I say.

***

I'm sure the people behind Jeannie Zelasko's big shiny blue behind really appreciate that she's standing in front of them to interview David Wright's father.

Although how adorable was Wright's dad's revelation that young David once got in a food fight in school and "got one day's in-school suspension"?

How much would you want to kill him if that were your dad?

***

I like what they did with the mowing patterns in the outfield.

***

BJ RYAN HAS A NECK LIKE A SEQUOIA.

But he at least deserves to be here.

***

FOX just played Papi's walkoff from their last Sox Saturday game (yeah, I'm too lazy to look up the date) as part of a Pepsi promo. That was nice of them. But now they're going to have to talk for at least 30 minutes about Derek Jeter's calm eyes just to make up for it, I bet.

Also, there's something creepy and unappealing about FOX's enthusiasm over the Ortiz blast. At least when Trup and Castig or RemDawg and Orsillo get excited about a play that's good for the Red Sox you have a sense they're genuine. The FOX excitement is palpably one of "This is GREAT for our RATINGS!!"

***

I hate to laugh at anything, commercial or otherwise, that exploits and degrades little people. It just makes me uncomfortable. But I have to say the Burger King commercial where the dwarf foreman does that little two-finger point to his eyes and then to the dwarf subordinate's eyes and then back to his own eyes cracks me up. I can't help it. I guess funny is funny, even if it's in the midst of cringeworthy "De plane! De plane!" references.

***

Top of the ninth, two on, two out, 0-2 to Michael Young, and a mighty triple to right field. This is actually an...exciting game? With like lead changes and stuff? Wow.

Double wow: Mariano Rivera is warming in the AL bullpen. Steinbrenner's gotta be choking on his Cream of Wheat. That's just what the MFY need--some more pitches on that aging arm.

***

Aww, the look on that Pittsburgh batboy's face after Michael Young passed by, mobbed by his AL teammates? Aww.

***

You know, if I am to find myself rooting in this bizarro world for any Yankee, I would prefer it be Mariano Rivera. I don't know if this a jinx on him or not. I mean, remember when a bunch of Boston fans rooted for the Yanks in 2001 because of 9/11 and everything. That didn't appear to help them any.

It's weird, because Rivera's face and mannerisms are almost as familiar to me as my own guys'. There's a weird queasy sense of comfort in cheering him on.

Okay, I'm quitting this train of thought before a lynch mob shows up at my house.

***

Okay, I will say this. That first swing-and-miss to Carlos Lee reminded me of Jonathan. I only hope Jonathan can still be doing that when he's, like, 450 years old like Rivera is.

So rooting for a Yankee served its purpose. The AL is victorious and I feel pretty smug about it, especially since the NL got so close and then blew it. Ha ha, they totally suck.

Whoa. It was a nice game and everything, but it appears to be making me channel a Yankees fan. Time for bed.

"Roberto was a hero in every sense of the word"

I was touched by the ceremony honoring Roberto Clemente between the fourth and fifth innings of tonight's game. If you don't know much about Roberto Clemente (and I'm not saying I know all that much myself) a great place to start learning more is this book excerpt from SI. (If you're not a subscriber, try bugmenot.) Or hit up a subscriber. Or find a back issue. Whatever. It's a worthwhile article.

The book it was excerpted from is here.