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"YOU beat the Red Socks?"

Seriously, as much as it pains me to admit this, I feel like every single time I looked at the score ticker/ box scores/ headlines/ sky/ inside of eyelids/ subway/ dishwasher/ etc...I was reading about another Red Sock victory. All season. They just don't lose. It's so f'n annoying.

I stopped even checking the scores of their games because every time I thought, "Alright, they're bound to eff up once in a while," I'd discover this was not the case. For some reason, it was even more annoying that they weren't going on supernatural 49-game win streaks. That would make them a flash in the pan anomaly that was seconds away from cooling down completely.

But no, just W after W after W....

Yeah, and then there would be the Yankees. It was like the Red Socks were playing with a Game Genie in them, while the Yankees kept having to take their cartridge out of the dusty NES system and blow on it in the hopes this would remedy the flashing reset button and grossly pixelated screen.

Then last night they made it look easy.

My transcription.
First, though, I want to bring up a comment made in the booth in the early part of game that made approximately zero sense to me. I rewound it about 7 times, assuming I must be missing something since Michael Kay didn't really seem too fazed by it. (But when does he ever, really?)

"I wonder if it's kind of like baskerball when every time you touch the ball, it's hit to you. There are just certain players that the fans don't like."


I felt like the channel 9 broadcast booth was trying to give me a taste of my own medicine or something. Like, "yeah, this is for every inane analogy YOU'VE ever made that have nothing to do with baseball and rarely make sense and leave people confused when they just wanted to know what the score of the game was. How's it feel? I SAID, how's that feel? ANSWER ME."

Feels weird.

Anyways. So that was that. Shortly thereafter, and continually thereafter, the Yankees proceeded to "pile it on," run-wise, and otherwise:

A-So hit another 283 ribbies, but the Red Socks, being the Red Socks, plunked him when A-So stood to set MLB history. I really want to think that this was an accident, and that despite what I say about Boston, they're not THAT petty and obnoxious that they'd stand in the way of history just because they're all pissy the lowly Yankees are showing signs of life when this was supposed to be THEIR show at Fenway.

I mean, who the hell does A-So think he is? You're a guest in someone's house, and you have the audacity to play like Roy Hobbs, collecting ribbies like they're pogs? Show some respect, man.

Btw, Ken Singleton's reaction to A-So's ding that A-So slllowwwly watched sail out as soon as it left his bat: a very quiet "This is unbelievable." I loved it. It wasn't your typical crazy "AND I CAN'T BELIEVE IT, HE DID IT AGAIN, THIS IS JUST INCREDIBLE, FOLKS!"

It was more of this, talking to himself kind of thing. Reminded me of this one year on Easter morning a few years ago when my mom says to no one in particular, really just mumbling to herself in this bizarro mixture of intrigue and vague confusion, "Very unusual candy from the Easter bunny..."

That's how Ken Singleton sounded last night. Maybe my mom was coming to a scary realization that the Easter bunny was real or something, and maybe Ken was coming to a scary realization that baseball transcends regular life in ways around which we will never be able to fully wrap our heads.)

I really don't want to think Boston is so miserable that they'd plunk someone just because they are mad he's good. Because that would make Boston insecure. You're not insecure, right, Boston? You're confident about how much the "yankees suck," yeah?

Cano makes a catch in the outfield that originally looked like it was a play that would typically be the type of stuff of which Citifield montages are made. 23 outfielders all converging in on a lazy can of corn, and the irony is that even though it's this light, airy bloop, it incites so much freaking tension when you have to watch the overhead angle of all your fielders running towards it.

You sit there for those looooong seconds, hoping an out is made, but more hoping that you don't have to watch them collide. You think, "they're gonna run into each other! They don't see each other! Someone call the ball! Why are they all running towards it, WHY HASN'T SOMEONE CALLED IT! Please don't get hurt. Please don't embarrass yourselves at Fenway. Please. Make the out. Don't die. Help. PLEASE SOMEONE HELP!"

Then Cano just casually makes an overtheshoulder bucket catch, when I don't even know how the hell he ended up out there, but NBD. Whatev. Just your run of the mill catch that looked EXACTLY like "The Catch" from a different #24. That catch was super famous. Cano's catch was Cano being all, "what, my job is to make outs. Don't make a big deal out of me just doing my job, yo."

A-Rod tried to do his job, as well. Which no one likes to make easy for him. Because everyone hates him. You can tell because everyone boos when he bats. Or, you know, converts oxygen to carbon dioxide. I think the world is being so over-the-top because it's all about publicly establishing yourself firmly in opposition to what A-Rod represents. Or rather, what A-Rod is positioned as representing.

Booing A-Rod is everyone's way of letting all those around them know that, "I am against cheating. I am appalled that he is making so much money. I am a good person because I am passionate about my contempt for bad people. Like A-Rod."

A-Rod, by the by, went 2 for 4, and is now batting .300. Which means that we can all shift into "Well, of course he's batting .300. Who wouldn't be batting .300 when they're cheating?" When he dips back below the Mendoza line, then Verizon Wireless will send out a text alert announcing it's time for us to revert to "God, he sucks. He's overpaid and a terrible ballplayer" mode.

Everyone hit last night except for Wells and Grandy. No matter.

There was a lot going on in this game. And when I say "a lot," I am really being quite literal. Quantity. There was a lot of everything. Most things, anyway. The Red Socks did not have a lot of runs. But I gotta say, for the last 45 minutes of the game, it didn't seem like that was going to be the outcome.

I mean, it was one of those games that just REEKED of rally potential. Of momentum. Of a burgeoning "run manufacturing" (as the kids say) effort that sets the stadium crowd in fire. All the Fenway Faithfuls who are faithfully yelling when the Red Socks are pretty much assuring them of a big comeback, but who are faithfully mute when their team is getting blanked by the little guys. By the Wildcard-chasing Yankees.

And yet, they didn't score more than 3 runs. It was so weird. Like the inverse of the Loaves and the Fishes or something. When Jesus manages to feed the whole town with 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish(es). Except last night it was the opposite.

The Red Socks had a warehouse full of bread and fish, and an entire town was crowding around pretty confident they'd each get to partake in the distribution of the food. And the Socks have to put a sign up on the door after only 3 people have gotten their share, like, "Sorry. Sold out. Sorry for the inconvenience."

The pitching was good, Pettitte is still brilliant, even at 72 years of age. It was especially cool to see the Yanks tee off on Doubront, who I think is pretty damn good. One of the best on the team. And speaking of pitchers, I can't believe our relievers got out of THAT. MANY. JAMS. How? I guess everyone's got a little D-Rob in them, sometimes. (Pause.)

On that note, Ima sign off and get ready for Game 2. Kuroda v Lackey. Lackey has in so many words assured us that he will, in fact, drill A-Rod in the head with a ball, if not a bullet, if not a pressurized fatal shot from a captive blow pistol. He's still making up his mind.

In unrelated news, I fractured my elbow 2 nights ago trying to break a lobster in half with my bear hands. The moral of the story is that no matter how strong you think you are, sometimes an inert, nonthreatening shell can kick your ass.

Interdum vos manducare locusta. Interdum frangit cubito vestris. Frange eos rursus, Yankees.


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