venezuela? don't they kill people with their pools there?
So, uh, this Johan Santana thing sure is … interesting.
On the one hand: Johan Santana.
On the other hand: Do we really want the Sox to trade away a large portion of the young, cost-controlled nucleus that made the championship caliber 2007 team so magical?
On the third hand: Yeah, but do you want the Yankees to get him instead? And let's not forget, it's JOHAN SANTANA.
On the fourth hand: Okay, but if shipping half the farm up to Minnesota is detrimental for the Red Sox, isn't it fair to assume it'll be bad for the Yankees, too?
On the fifth hand: Maybe you didn't hear me the first two times: JOHAN FREAKIN' SANTANA!!!1!!!!1!
And those are just the arguments I have with myself about it in my own head. This morning I told one of my co-workers that I kind of hoped he ended up with the Mets, so the Sox don't give up anything to get him, but nobody we have to face in the regular season gets him either. Plus, can you imagine what Johan Santana would do in the National League? Katie and I hypothesized this afternoon that they would eventually have to rename the league in his honor, because he'd be like a warlord. After he beat teams, he'd acquire their most valuable assets for his army. That'd be sweet.
Later on in the conversation, Katie said she was worried that, even if the Sox were able to make a deal, they wouldn’t be able to meet his salary requirements. Then I reminded her that Matt Clement's salary just came off the books and she was like a kid who just remembered that Santa Claus exists. Matt Clement's expiring contract = the gift that keeps on giving. Then we wondered what Matt Clement is doing now, anyway. I read he might sign with the Pirates, but Katie thinks he's probably driving a route on the 66 bus. Or, uh, same difference?
picture a banner. on a boat. papelbon's holding the banner. in his underpants.
Kelly: I'm really surprised the Mike Lowell deal got done.
Katie: I'm not. I was completely confident it was going to get done the whole time.
Kelly: Really? Why didn't you tell me that?
Katie: Um. Because you wouldn't have believed me, and you always expect the worst, and you only believe information is true if it's completely negative in every way?
Anyway, loyal members of the fellowship formerly known as NDRaPRSFftEMRSoML, congratulations to us all. I'm sure that all of our constant fretting, threatening to pay for the proposed fourth year with our own nickels, and frantic re-freshing of the Extra Bases blog made all the difference. But now it's very important that we all join a new club:
It stands for: Normally Hyperbolic, Critical and Pessimistic Red Sox Fans Who Promise Not to Boo if Mike Lowell Hits .218 in 2010.
Dear Josh Beckett,
Here is my Cy Young award. Perhaps with more run support, I too would have won 20 games. Perhaps if your bullpen had been terrible, you too would have pitched more innings. Who really knows?
But what I know for sure is that, either way, I still would have fallen apart in the post-season, because you are a terrifying force of nature. I suspect that this award will go nicely with the collection of Bud Light cans you like to shoot in your back yard between hunting seasons.
Thank you for not actually removing my manhood,
Don't worry about it—I think we both know that individual achievements mean nothing, right? Winning that award would just mean more press conferences, stupid questions, and retarded metaphors.
Thanks for your little trophy, though—I've sent it to my catcher, Jason Varitek, since he's really the reason I did so well this season. It's shiny, so his kids'll probably like it.
Let me know if you ever want to get drunk, shoot something, and talk about executing pitches.
probably too busy thinking up new ways to make rookies cry, anyway
Somewhere on a ranch in Texas, an unprintable, f-bomb laden sound bite about not giving a fucking shit about any fucking individual fucking accomplishments is being acidically worded.
(While there is a strong argument to be made, of course, that CC Sabathia compiled superior statistics during the regular season and the baseball writers made the correct decision, make no mistake, I will taste the blood of the two writers who left Beckett off the ballot entirely TONIGHT.)
(And, on the subject that dare not speak its name, it's looking more and more likely that I will see Mike Lowell on a B train to Fenway Park someday and not have the slightest clue why I want to spontaneously weep.)
don't think i didn't see you running up the score, brett favre
I want to settle down into a semi-comatose postseason nap, you know, a really good one, like the kind you take after you've feasted on a World Series Championship, but I can't start snoozing in front of the TV until I know whether or not the Sox are going to re-sign Mike Lowell. Can't we just rip the bandaid off already? At this point I'd rather watch a continuous loop of footage of Tek batting with the bases loaded than try to follow the non-new news cycle of the Mike Lowell negotiations. I mean, if the Red Sox don't re-sign Mike Lowell, I promise that I will move on and eventually be cool about it. Even though I'll probably have to have his time with Boston erased from my memory Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind style.
On the bright side, Dustin Pedroia will win Rookie of the Year in a couple hours or I will know the reason why. Just be careful, Dusty, and hoist your award with your not-currently-broken hand.
A couple football-related notes:
1. Bedridden, still unable to shake the cold I picked up during all those playoff late nights, and with the Patriots cruelly on a bye week, I decided to watch the Cowboys/Giants game. Picking which side to root for was an interesting prisoner's dilemma: could I bring myself to root for the franchise that taught me what hate means when I was a child or could I root for a Manning face? Ultimately, I decided to root for an asteroid.
Anyway, I flipped on the television around 4 o'clock and that's when I heard it. The nonsense analogies. The undeserved ball-washing. The misinformation. The voice that makes my ears hemorrhage. JOE BUCK. I was like a Vietnam vet having a PTSD flashback. It wasn't pretty. I think just hearing Joe Buck's voice actually set my recovery back two or three days, which confirms what I already suspected: Joe Buck gave me this cold.
2. Later, Katie and I watched various parts of the Colts/Chargers game together over the phone. Late in the fourth quarter:
Katie: What sucks is that when the Colts come back to win this game, everyone's going to forget that Peyton was awful and threw five interceptions.
Kelly: Not me. I won't forget. We're going to celebrate this day every year as Peyton Manning Five Interception Day. Whatever day of November this is will forever be known as --
Katie: It's November 11th. It's Veteran's Day.
Kelly: Perfect. It's even already a holiday.
But, of course, that's not how it ended, was it? HAPPY PEYTON MANNING SIX INTERCEPTION DAY (OBSERVED) EVERYBODY!
hopefully this means there will be off-season jazzercise
Curt Schilling is a card-carrying member of NDRaPRSFftEMRSoML.
Speaking of which, Katie and I have to admit (one of us more reluctantly than the other, she'd probably want me to add) that we've paid our own membership dues to NCWaPRSFWaSHwtRSoCS (Normally Cynical, Weary and Pragmatic Red Sox Fans Who are Surprisingly Happy with the Re-Signing of Curt Schilling). Let the record show that at least 13% of Curt Schilling's hair represents taking a hometown deal.
i know we're primarily a baseball blog, but this should save me from getting arrested for shouting from the rooftops
The Tom Brady/Randy Moss relationship is more satisfying than all my previous romantic relationships combined.
(I mean. At this point I love Randy Moss more than my last three ex-girlfriends, so.)
then why was it all so good?
1. I mentioned before that I was now openly rooting for C.C. Sabathia to win the Cy Young aware so that he would sheepishly mail it to Josh Beckett along with his manhood, but now that Josh Beckett is a 2007 World Series Champion, I am openly and actively rooting for C.C. Sabathia to win the Cy Young award, if only because some poor reporter would be sent to locate Beckett on his ranch in Texas and ask him whether or not he thinks he got shafted, and Beckett would interrupt himself from Beckett Boot Camp [TM] (picture Jon Lester and Clay Buccholtz in the background of the interview, being made to run laps with Dustin Pedroia and Manny Ramirez strapped to their backs), and say, "I don't get paid to win those fucking popularity contests," in a tone of voice that would peel paint. And then he'd thoughtfully rub the finger that's reserved for his second World Series ring (hopefully it's the middle one) while the reporter pissed himself.
2. In my mind, there will always be nine players from the 2004 roster who went on to appear in the 2007 World Series: Jason Varitek, Doug Mirabelli, Mike Timlin, Curt Schilling, Tim Wakefield, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, Kevin Youkilis and House, MD. (YOU'RE RISKING A PATIENT'S LIFE!)
3. The ulcer I had named after the Red Sox team batting average with RISP is being filled nicely with anxiousness about Sunday's Pats/Colts game. It doesn't help that I hate Tony Dungy more than anyone in sports, even narrowly more than Lance Armstrong (Yeah, I hate Tony Dungy and Lance Armstrong, and I actively boycott the Red Cross. I'm a lot of fun at cocktail parties).
4. A couple nights ago, I found seven innings worth of an aborted liveblog of a 7-4 loss to Seattle on August 3. Reading over three pages of incoherent ranting about bad base running, runners stranded in scoring position, Manny grounding into too many double plays, runners stranded in scoring position, Lester getting into too many bases loaded/nobody out jams, runners stranded in scoring position, the 428th reappearance of Bad Zombie Mike Timlin, runners stranded in scoring position oh my god, etcetera, all I can do is laugh. On the day that game was played, they had the best record in baseball and a seven-game lead over the Yankees. And three months later, they won the World Series. But, that's what makes it all so magical and misery-making: nobody knows how it's going to end. And now this season has ended in the best way possible and I almost wish I could watch Manny ground into another double play or something right now.
5. After the QVC appearance, I can't wait to see where Papelbon will be coaxed into doing the Irish jig next. The White House? Cooperstown, circa 2025?