Friday, October 13, 2006

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Um, yeah, they got me.

This morning it was loud and bright and I woke up around 5. Then I went back to sleep and dreamed:

That I was watching the Red Sox and Athletics (I guess) play a baseball game. And for some reason the Athletics pitcher was pitching to Tim Wakefield. I guess he hadn't been doing a very good job. So Ken Macha comes out and just starts lighting into the guy, really giving him what for. Shaming the hell out of the guy. In fact, he is so disgusted by his pitcher that Macha decides he is going to come into the game and pitch. So he dismisses the guy on the mound, who promptly takes his shirt off in shame. And the announcers are all nutty because apparently Macha does this from time to time.

So Macha settles in to pitch to Wake, but instead of pitching, he is so angry with his staff's performance that he just whips out a gun. Like he is going to shoot Tim Wakefield. But before he can, Corky Miller dives in front of Wake as if to take a bullet for him.

And then I woke up.

And then the Red Sox lost to Kanas City.

I don't even know anymore.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Yeah, It Does



[sits down at the bar and sulks] Man. I tried so hard yesterday. My body was saying suck but my mind was saying power through, and I won the argument. And look what happened.



[slides shot of whiskey over to Johnson] Son, I made my life outta readin' people's faces. And the thing is, those jokers are gonna ruin your fun 9 times outta 10, so you might as well start drinking.



I, I can't drink, Mr. Wakefield, sir.



Call me Gambler.



I can't drink, Gambler.



Why not? You a tee-to-tler? Or one of the Mormons?



No, Gambler, sir, I have diabetes.



I guess we'll just have to sing the pain away then.



[Clears throat, unleashes tearfully beautiful soprano] We both lie silent and still in the dead of the night.



Although we both lie closer together, we feel miles apart inside.



Was it something I said or something I did? Did my words not come out right?



Though I tried not to hurt you. Though I tried... I guess that's why they say...



Every rose has its thorn. Just like every night has its dawn.



Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song.



Every rose has its thorn.



Yeah, it does.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

An Open Letter to All Pitchers

Dear pitchers,

I surrender.

I promise to never, ever actively love, like, enjoy, root for, or applaud you, nor will I vocalize your attractiveness to others. Clearly, it is not working. Clearly, instead of having love that transforms people into All-Stars, my love transforms people into Matt Clement wannabes.

To Jason Johnson, I will not so much as tell you to power through.

To Craig Hansen, I will stop defending you to all my friends. I will not even politely suggets that you take a good long look at John Lackey because that is your downside in ten years, appearance wise.

To Chris Capuano, I apologize for making my friends vote for you in the final vote All-Star thing. I have taken your picture off my desktop at work. I will not look up when your starts are. I will not ask my mother where the article from the paper she was supposed to send me is.

To that guy on the Orioles who looks like he should live in the 1950s and be wearing a letterman sweater and the quarterback of the football team and named Dean, I hope your elbow grows back. It was fun while it lasted.

To Tim Wakefield, I will not so much as giggle when you wink in the Bernie & Phyl's commercial.

To Jon Lester, I will not give you a come to Jesus talk about how the sixth inning is your friend any longer.

To Jonathan Papelbon, I will continue to refer to you by full name, speaking only in low, dulcet tones, and I will continue making the sign of the "P" on my chest when I am done.

On this day in the hottest month ever on the hottest day ever, I promise that I will stop liking pitchers.

Signed,

The Nut

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

This is a copout post.

I only have one thing to say about the Angels' impending visit!


Sunday, July 09, 2006

Kryptonite



Tiny Varitek Child #1: Daddy, I want a pony.

Tek: Now honey, you know that you're not old enough to take of a pony right now.

Tiny Varitek Child #1: *throws chin high fast ball*

Tek: *looks at child sitting happily on pony, confused*


Tiny Varitek Child #2: Daddy, I want this guy to sing at my birthday.

Tek: Absolutely not. That is not for children.

Tiny Varitek Child #2: Hmmph! *throws chin high fastball*

Tek: *covers the eyes of children and wife as singing occurs*


The baby: Daa! Yeep Papeeee!!!!

Tek: Oh, yes you are the funniest baby in the world. Silly, babies can't get David Ortiz tattoos! Hee hee!

The baby: *throws chin high fastball*

Tek: *blinks rapidly as he inspects his tattooed and blinged out baby*


Tek: *wanders into kitchen* Honey, I had the weirdest day today. Honestly, I'm not even sure if I'm dreaming or awake.

Mrs. Tek: Jason, I thought I asked you to mow the lawn.

Tek: I will, I promise. But it's really hot out today and I'd like to watch my new Civil War documentary DVD this afternoon while I have some time off.

Mrs. Tek: *narrows eyes, throws chin high fastball*

Tek: *suddenly finds himself on riding lowmower* Dammit.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Some Facts.

Fact #1: My brother, aged 16, pitched 5 innings of either no-hit or 1-hit ball in a game this weekend this weekend at a highly competitive level.

Fact #2: My brother is a catcher.

Fact #3: His appendix had ruptured -- not just been inflamed, but had actually exploded -- the prior Thursday.

Fact #4: He was still more effective than the Red Sox pitching staff.