Say you're the Anaheim Angels. You've just dropped your first two playoff games of the season at home -- your 10th and 11th straight postseason Ls of the last decade -- and now you have to make a cross-country trip with maximum jet lag to a lyrical little bandbox of a ballpark where all 35,000-plus will be screaming bloody murder at you for nine solid, regardless of score, with pauses only for swigs of beer. This also happens to be the site of all your recent playoff series losses - and you must now win three here, against the team that's handed you defeat in every postseason meeting you've had since the 1980's.
And oh, by the way! One more thing!
This will be Boston's starting pitcher for the evening.
Step into his office, fellas, and don't be shy.
I don't know about you, fellow Sox fans, but the idea of Josh as our No. 3 starter is one I've warmed to considerably since it seemed due to worrisome injury. Hearing the reports coming out of his side sessions, it's now starting to seem like strategy.
Sunday. 7:17 pm. The Halos enter Beckett's house. Time to stock up on beef jerky and beer, bust out the boxset for replays of Game 5, and, if you're me, blast this playlist of Beckett songs*:
*Don't ask me how half of these things became Beckett songs. They just are.
At the rate I'm going, by this time tomorrow, I'll be head-butting complete strangers while hollering incoherently about Commander Kickass? You may have heard of him? Of the Fuck Yeah Brigade?