quick, somebody give me an update on jon lester.Following the course of a baseball team for 162 games over 182 days is a little bit like an experiment in seeing if it's possible to self-induce schizophrenia (or an experiment in inducing alcoholism, but that's another story). This weekend was one of those great series: three wins, two offensive trips to the woodshed, one tight gem of a game with plenty of pitching heroics. We were at the game on Saturday, and thanks to Cspan we had fan-fucking-tastic seats right on the third baseline, the weather was gorgeous, I convinced some grandfatherly dude to help me circumvent the two beer limit, Papelbon was prowling around like a new god, things couldn't possibly get any better, right?
And then it's Monday night, and I'm back in my living room hissing obscenities at the television, and the Yankees are only eight games back and Schill's getting a precautionary MRI. Some notes about Monday night:
1. Curt Schilling's attempt to bunt in the third inning = comedy gold. The PM compared it to a gay man trying to feel up a woman. His hit in the fourth was equally hilarious, because it looked a lot more like he was trying to swing a golf club than a baseball bat.
2. I'm legitimately sad that Coco's second coming was overshadowed by the sucking power of that loss. It really drove home, though, how fucking good would this team be if Coco, Lugo and Nancy Drew were turning in even borderline average performances. Can you imagine if they could all raise their batting average to a collective .250? The Sox would be on target to win, like, 276 games at that point.
3. Look, I love Mike Timlin, I love him a lot more than I ever thought it would be possible for me to love a homophobic Republican bow hunter. But his impression of a Major League Baseball Pitcher must be stopped. The worst part is that mixed in with the anger I feel when he gives up two runs and puts the game completely out of reach, there's a pained embarrassment, kind of like that episode of the Sopranos when Junior, the former mob boss, was in the nursing home and having chronic incontinence issues. That's how I feel when Mike Timlin sucks, and I want it to stop. Katie and I were discussing this earlier today, and we think he should be designated Matt Clement's personal life coach. (Because speaking of things that suck, Matt Clement still isn't being pursued as a reasonable trade for a bucket of balls/earning his keep at a coffee errand boy/dead.) As Katie said: "Well, yeah, it would work, since I'm pretty sure that Timlin's method for getting him in shape would involve camo gear, archery, and the phrase "if you think baseballs are scary…"