The only moments of baseball I've seen in the last week and a half or so consisted of Jonathan Papelbon giving up a game-winning hit to the woeful Baltimore Orioles, then striding off the field, never removing his gaze from the spot in left center field where the ball had landed. He paused to pull his jersey over his face, at the time, it appeared, the better to wipe off sweat, but a still picture of that moment hit OTM with the caption: "After blowing another game, Jonathan Papelbon doesn't want to show his face to Red Sox fans."
It doesn't matter that the Orioles have the worst record in baseball -- virtually any hitter worth a big league minimum would've teed off on the slider Remy called a "cookie". Papelbon continues to struggle with his alternate pitches, and the league is catching up to his fastball.
So that's where we are right now, Red Sox-wise, apparently.
In the meantime, the reason I've missed so many games was a move to a new apartment in Auburndale. I moved Saturday. That afternoon, I filled a spring water bottle from the tap, actually thinking to myself, "What's the worst that could happen?"
Well. Um. Er.
Quite honestly, I'm not really interested in all the gory details of
what happened to the Sox this past weekend. I know the relevant
facts -- they were swept by the Worst Team in Baseball™, there was poor defense, again, some more,
Daisuke got torched -- and that's quite enough for the present.
Losing baseball and having to boil the water are pretty much just nuisances, but it does feel as if Boston is suddenly the target of some kind of otherworldly wrath -- look no further than the other OTM headline that greeted me when I visited the page to grab the previous link. It's hideous enough that I won't repeat it here. Filthier words have never been written. Thankfully, it at least doesn't seem to be the absolute worst case scenario -- prognosis reportedly good.
Here's hoping that's a trend. And that the
turnaround starts with Clay Buchholz tonight.