Okay, maybe more like one of those weeks. Months? It's still too early to say one of those years, yet, but that's a thought starting to cross many minds.
Right now, the Red Sox can't win for losing, as my father would say. And that fact was on striking display in today's game, a "Murphy's Law" game if ever there was one.
Before the game there was some excitement -- possibly more than was warranted, but look, we'll take what we can get -- about the Red Sox debut of Aaron Cook, the injury-prone former Rockies hurler who'd signed a conditional minor league deal with Boston this year. He was called up as he was getting ready to take his opt-out clause May 1, and today appeared in place of Josh Beckett, who was sidelined with a lat strain.
Cook, a sinkerballer who works quickly, breezed through his first inning and two-thirds, before giving up two hits in quick succession. With runners at the corners, Jarrod Saltalamacchia was charged with a passed ball that went right through the wickets, drawing Cook forward toward the plate. Cook dropped to his knees and slid a la Bruce Springsteen toward the dish as Chris Davis sprinted home, also sliding. As they collided, Davis's spike caught Cook's knee, tearing an ugly gash.
Then, in a move that must've had at least a few heads turning toward Beckett and his "soreness" in the dugout, Cook got the gash stitched or taped or Silly-Puttied up, or something similarly badass, and returned to the mound to finish the inning.
It was a valiant and appreciable effort, but this was not to be any kind of storybook tale of heroism. In the next inning, Cook was torched to a crisp, surrendering four more runs before he was finally, mercifully pulled in favor of Clayton Mortensen, who promptly gave up a three-run homer over the Monster to make the score 8-zip, birds.
One of those runs was charged to Cook, bringing his total to 6. He'd thrown just 48 pitches.
That'll learn us to show excitement about fresh pitching help. Or anything, really, in this snake-bitten season.
And the suck, it is spreading. The product on the field has been frustrating, but fans and other observers have been far from winning form so far this season, too.
For me, the prime example of this is all the bickering of late over "Sweet Caroline."
I feel like I'm kicking the proverbial hornet's nest, here, but I can't resist putting in my $0.02 after Wednesday night found me at Fenway for the first time this season, and I witnessed a spectacle among fans every bit as embarrassing and ugly as anything we've seen on the field this year.
I'll admit, I'm a little sick of "Sweet Caroline." I don't stand up and sing when it comes on at the park anymore, regardless of whether the Red Sox are winning. But I have in the past, and if other people want to continue singing it, it really doesn't make much difference to me, since it happens between innings and therefore doesn't interrupt the game (unlike the Wave, which is another topic for another time).
It clearly made a difference, though, to a young man a few rows in front of me and to my left at the ballpark the other night, who stood up and started screaming a profanity-laced rant at a group of girls who were singing the song. He reminded them in no uncertain terms of how the only Red Sox run on the night so far had scored, on a sacrifice fly from Marlon Byrd, in a voice loud enough for me to hear several sections away.
When the bottom of the eighth ended on a strikeout from Will Middlebrooks, he made a point of standing up, turning around, and sneering in their faces, as if they were personally responsible, "SWEEEEEET CAROLIIIIINE! BAH BAH BAH!!! Congratu-f**kin'-lations!"
From some of the shrill commentary I've seen fly by on my Twitter timeline this year, there are some in this town who would've given that guy a high-five (and I really can't help but frame this kid's behavior against the backdrop of all the scorn and derision that's been floating around between fans and commentators in general). But I fail to see how the bigger jerk in that situation was anyone who'd just been singing a song.
Maybe that's just me.