Coincidence?

Hardly.

One is made of steel.
The other made of clay.

One is a prospector on the endless hunt for Bumbles.
The other, a prospector on the endless quest for a hanging fastball over the plate.

But the resemblence is uncanny.

Kevin Youkilis and Yukon Cornelius ...one in the same?

You make the call.


The Youka

The Yukon

It's on Like Donkey Kong ...

Til the break of dawn.

And cause Eck said so ...

I am calling this RIGHT now.

T.O.D:
5 May, 2009
5:47pm PST

It's about to get ugly up in that joint.

Joba The Fat just threw at Jason Bay INTENTIONALLY and pegged him in the back.

This just in: Josh Beckett is going to kick YOUR ASSES!!!I saw the look on Beck's face on the tight shot of him in the dugout after it happened. And it warn't purty. Mental note: Someone on NY is dead meat. Curtains.

Even Bay who is the most passive of players stared daggers at Joba as he made his way down the first base line.

The Circle of Violence continues.

It's waiting for us in Anaheim next week with the Angels after Beckett threw at Abreu's fat head. It's left over like a warm Lean Cuisine in the microwave. You know it's there. You started it. And now someone's going to have finish it. Best not let it go to waste.

Retaliation in baseball. "The Code"
Hit me and I hit you back. And that's not just lyrics in a Digital Underground tune.

Is it mature? No.
Is it necessary? Probably not.
Is it justified? Hardly.
Is it entertaining? Hell yes.

I suggest if you encounter this situation at a game, you take your kids up to the stands for an extry hot dog and some sodi. Food diversion. It beats the heck out of explaining to your kids why violence with a spherical ball exceeding speeds faster than your BMW used as a weapon on someone's head is OK. Like I said, it's about to get ugly up in this mug.

By night's end, hopefully someone's gonna get plunked on the Yankees end, or someone will charge the mound, a bench clearing brawl will ensue and Girardi will get ejected from the game. Again. I'm banking on all of it.

What is the valuable lesson we are teaching our kids with retaliation and The Code in America's favorite pastime? Violence begets violence. Hate begets hate. A 95 MPH inside fastball to the shoulder begets a 98 MPH fastball to the head and you had better duck.

And if someone throws at our boy intentionally, we're gonna drill one of your guys some day. Some time. Some where. It's just a matter of when. It may come today, or tomorrow ...it may be a few weeks from now. But it's coming. And then suddenly, the Yanks will remember why.

Because the day Joba hit Jay Bay in the back.

Wait for it ...

"It ain't Over til it's Over." ~Yogi Berra

Or is it?

Back somewhere in the 2007 playoffs when the Red Sox were scrappin’ pine and stitches for the ALCS against the Indians and on the verge of elimination in Game 5, I believe I found courage and inspiration in the following quote to my friend Ally: “One pitch, one inning, one game at a time.”

We went on to win the ALCS. And then the rest is as they say, World Series history.

But tonight, I’m struggling to find comfort in my words spoken just a few years back. I think those words are mostly complete horseshit. Why? Because currently, we suck monkey balls.

The season is off to a sluggish start and that’s putting it quite mildly. I’m not one to mince words, but because they’re my boys and because I believe, I’m gonna cut them a break.

We’re playing Oakland. And it’s like we’re the new A’s. They’ve become us and we them … and the comedy ensues. We’re not so much Moneyball anymore as we are Funnyball. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually ashamed of my boys. Youkilis didn’t tag up on a fly and in returning to first base, stopped on the bag for 2.3 seconds safely and then proceeded to fall over only to be tagged out. J.D. missed a ball and as he slid on his corn-fed belly to catch it, watched it skip right past him. There have been terribly missed balls in the outfield. Not just grossly misjudged but embarrassing foibles of the third kind. My Golden Boy, Jacoby, who once bled from the head catching a ball while simultaneously crashing into a chain link fence has started missing balls in Anaheim and continues to bobble them in Oaktown. The boy NEVER misses. Turns out NEVER is shorter than I thought it was. Jake has also grounded out like 40 times and that brings me to the subject of our feeble bats. We once boasted of a formidable offense. Now the only thing we can brag about is our spiffy road unis that stay so fresh and so clean.

Dicey went 43 pitches in the first. IN THE FIRST, people. And later Remy announces that the report from the Red Sox med team was that he was suffering from arm fatigue. Well, is it any wonder? FORTY THREE PITCHES in one inning. Inconceivable.

At this point, my Playa Vista softball team would give The Sox a run for their money. I think my batting average and OBP are higher than Pedie’s.

The only thing keeping us in tonight’s game after the Dice K Debacle is our middle relief pitchers—Justin Masterson, Manny Del Carmen, and Ramon Ramirez who were able to stifle the A’s offense. We're at 12 innings and Javy Lopez is about to give this one up ...

Still, I have to go early to the medicine cabinet to get my own middle reliever – Mylanta.

I know it’s a only week and a half into the season. Yeah, I get that. I know we have 154 games left to make it right again. But this doesn’t sit well with me. Next thing we know, the months creep up and finds us below .500 unable to crawl out of the bottom of the barrel normally reserved for Baltimore or Detroit. At which point you’ll find me jumping off a very TALL building. Or more specifically, off of the Custom House Clock Tower near Faneuil Hall.

Yes, the season may still be a bit premature, but my worrying and panic attacks are not.

Because as the great Yogi Berra once said … “It gets late early out there.”

"The Over-paid Pitcher, Heavy D"

Holy Testosterone, Batman

Jacoby Ellsbury and the Gun Show



Effing Bobby Abreu. I would have thrown at his head too, if I were Beckett.Granted the little troll had called time, and Becks probably could have stopped in the middle of his wind-up. And Becks PROBABLY SHOULDN'T have aimed at his head on accounta “The Code” and all, but come on... HE HAD IT COMING.

So yeah, Beck’s an emotional pitcher and there’s bad blood because Abreu is an ex- Yank and blah, blah, blah …

Becks can basically pound the little midgety fat ass into an even smaller miniature replica of his midgety fat ass Abreu self.

As I watched both benches and bull pens clear, and witnessed Jacoby, Drew and Bay descend on the infield to back-up Beckett on the mound, I had almost secretly hoped the melee would have turned into an out-and-out UFC, skull crushing, body slamming slug fest--resulting in Josh choking out Bobby at home plate. But then I started to wonder, pound-for-pound, how our team would actually measure up if it got to scrappin’ today.

I don’t claim to know my boys’ stances on fighting. But somehow I think we could hold our own if and when it comes to the tussle. I do however know from the A-Rod incident that Varitek will shove his glove in your face. Which seems very un-Christian like for a boy who prays before every game, but hey, no judgment--that’s nonna my bidness. That’s between him and God. But I’m pretty sure Jake and Drew could go toe-to-toe with anyone they’re up against. Jake’s got guns o’ steel (if you got a gander of the magazine spread he did a few years back--see photo image above) and Drew is just corn-fed and robust. Enough said. They’re like a soup that eats like a meal. I’d worry more about Pee Wee. He’s got MVP gumption and mad heart but he’s all of five feet six—maybe seven if he’s got lifts in his cleats. I’d bet my left arm that Youk can throw down. Most def. MiLo wouldn’t have a chance in hell. If you want to take him out, you just gotta sweep the leg, Johnny. Take his hip out and run. Jeddie and Green, depending on who’s playing short that day… Jeddie’s tall but slight. Even I could snap him in two. And Nick Green. If I were Tito, I’d steer this kid clear of any fisticuffs and/or shenanigans —that boy has a million dollar smile. Like a white picket fence, his teeth. If this whole “Red Sox Thing” doesn’t pan out for Nickie, he can always do Listerine endorsements. I’d protect that investment, but that’s just me. The Bon- he’ll eat you for lunch-au jus. He's a machine. I’d put all my money on him. Our Japanese pitchers, not so much. I have a suspicion their “code” in the Jap League is very different from American baseball. Round eye likes to fight. My people are more the pacifists. Or what I like to call the Passive Fest. Jason Bay is someone to watch for. He’s the quiet, unassuming type. Silent but deadly. And Rocco Baldelli? The name says it all. If you can’t scrap with a name like that, then you should just go home and sip on some chamomile tea in your finest china and then go hide under your bed. Cause we ain’t got time for you. Big Fatty—I’m thinking he could take someone out in one fell punch. But then he’s a teddy bear and our keeper o’ the peace. I’d have a better chance of dining with the president than seeing Papi inflict bodily harm on his fellow man.

And then there’s our fearless skipper, Tito. The only ass kicking Francona will engage in is a scorching game of cribbage.

I guess the moral of this story is my boys will most likely put the beat down on you if it comes to blows. And when we’re playing the Yanks or the Angels, you can rest assure that at some point, it WILL… cause we’re Boston. Buncha chowdaheads. Put that in your baked beans and shove it.

I See Red People

Red Sox Opening Day at Fenway.

Because what do I always say? The Red Sox run on magic and pixie dust.

The last team we played in the 08 season was the Rays. They ended our run for the ALCS pennant and The Series in Tampa. So fitting that the season opener found us once again facing our Florida nemesis—the Tampa Bay Rays. Sans the Devil. Unless you count BJ Upton. But he’s on the disabled list …

Anywho, watching it on HD isn’t nearly the same as being there in that historical stadium on Yawkey Way, I’m sure. But I could still feel the energy and electricity of the Fenway faithful through the TV.

The DLP set it off proper-like in the bottom of the first by jacking one over the Green Monstah in true Pedroia fashion. Now who says he can’t hit the inside fast ball, eh, Play Station?

And we had flawless defense with Beckett taking the mound for seven and owning TB’s lineup with 10 Ks. Four of which belonged to Carlos Pena.

The boys (Youkilis, Lowell, Bay) gave Becks good run support and Tek’s new-fangled and re-tinkered swing proved to be beneficial when he crushed a solo homer just down the RF line around the Pesky Pole putting the Sox up 5-1 in the bottom six.

My ulcers took most of the day off … until somewhere around the 8th when things got a lil’ squirrely. Oki walked one and by the time Tito brought Justin in, he had inherited two runners who went on to score. But we got out of that inning without further damage and The Bon took the 9th to close the Rays out for the 5-3 W.

All in all, it was a good start for the 09 season. Especially since Tex and CC tanked for the Yank’s season opener with a humiliating 10-5 loss to Baltimore.

It’s still too early in the season to be calling anything … for any team. So my bottle of Mylanta stays in the medicine cabinet. For the time being, at least.

My boys look strong. Solid. Our bench- deep. Our bull ben- stout. If we can stay consistent and healthy, there's no reason we shouldn't extend our regulah season well into Red Soxtober.

Looking forward to the series this weekend at the Angels House of Crap.

Yep. We got the Rays today.
One down. One Hundred sixty-one to go …

Inside the Box

Math and I are not friends. Not even mere acquaintances. In fact, I hate numbers altogether.

I single-handedly shatter the stereotype of Asians being proficient in mathematics. To smithereens. Shards and slivers. My math SATs scores probably equal the size that I take my jeans in. Twenty-five, if you must know … I just lost seven pounds.

I took Algebra THREE times in high school. I don’t balance my own checkbook. If I’m fifty cents off- give or take, in either direction, it’s good enough for me. I loathe Sudoku. I think Count Dracula (on Sesame Street) is a top notch A-hole. I hate it all. Whole numbers. Fractions. Real. Rational. Integers. Complex numbers—they’re all complex to me.

But put those numbers in organized columns of statistics in a baseball box score and it’s like translating my native tongue. I am fluent in the language of baseball.

Do you speak baseball? Because it’s truly a game of numbers. And inches. Innings. And outs.

They all add up to tell a story. Every single game. Just ask Bill James or Henry Chadwick.

Allow me to be your interpreter.

One hundred sixty-two games in a season. Eighty one of these on the road.

Two teams.

Nine innings. Nine players on the field. Three outs per inning. Four called balls for a base on balls. Or three strikes and you’re out. But one clean hit and you're on.

Ninety feet each between four bases.

A pitcher. A batter. Two minds. One war.

A 95 MPH fast ball can sail 90 feet, 6 inches from the pitcher’s mound through a “conceptual three-dimensional right angle pentagonal prism” of a strike zone over 17 inches of home plate. (That takes precision. Skill)

Now, these--these are numbers that mean something to me. Not to mention batting averages, ERAs, RBI, and all the rest of the yummy defensive and offensive statistical ingredients to make a delicious ‘Moneyball’ and sabermetrics sammich. Mmmm. Tasty.

Because you add up all these random numbers and you’ve got yourself a ball game, folks. And if you have the right equation and maybe if you’re good enough, you just might have the opportunity to play seven games* (if necessary) to win that ONE magnificent title. The World Series.

And even then, it sometimes still doesn’t add up. Just ask the A’s. And the Dodgers. The Indians… you see where I'm going with this?

And you wonder why Cubs fans have been agonizing over The Title for better part of 101 years?

You do the math …

Alice in Hungerland

I’m Day Three on ‘The Cleanse’ and I’m feeling fine.
But I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s still a long road to Day Ten.

I haven’t suffered any adverse effects that ‘the manual’ warns about.
Except maybe the nagging hunger part. Not eating for three days does that to a person.

But I’m pretty pleased with myself for having gone three days on just the lemons, molasses and water concoction and not having had one stitch of food.

I keep wondering when I’m going to hit ‘The Wall.’
My boss Dave asked me again yesterday if I’d like to move to San Jose to take the north territory. He’s got to travel up there this weekend because they just let go of the PAR that was hired around the same time I was. I declined. For the moment at least. All I could picture was driving up the I5, passing one of the many cattle farms during my ravenous hunger strike and taking a cow down in a pasture. How I do love my steaks rare.

I suppose yesterday I hit a few road blocks to be anticipated on a fast. Between a few appointments with my boss, Pam, we stopped at a Ralphs in Encino. I was at the height of my hunger pangs because I had left my tumbler of The Juice at her condo. And according to the churning in my tummy that was eating itself, it was lunch time. All I needed was a bottle of water and a box of tea. Of course, since the layout of the market was unfamiliar, I had to pass the ungodly Easter display taunting me with mountains of pastel candy and my beloved marshy Peeps. *Teardrop*

All I kept saying to myself was, “Someday you’ll be able to eat food again…”
But somehow, I couldn’t comfort me. Waiting for Day Ten is like waiting for Christmas. Or like pre-2004 Boston fans to win the Series. It’s murderous.

As I navigated the snack aisle, this bag of Cheetos tried to tempt me. No, really, I swear, the food started talking to me. Then across the aisle from the Cheetos, this box of Cheez-its was trying to peer pressure me, “Psssst. Hey you… you know you want it. Everyone’s doing it.” All I could think was, how do they get all that cheesy goodness into those little squares?

I had to get out of there. The cookies suddenly had arms grabbing at me like vines and I could hear the ice cream pints over in the frozen food section mocking me. I got out of that joint as soon as I could unscathed.
That was a close one.

The most difficult thing is to carry on with my social activities like business as usual. Which is mostly meeting my friends for breaffast, lunch or supper and watching them eat. I went to visit Bean at the bar and had to physically position my bar stool away from the sight-line of the complimentary Happy Hour chips and salsa. And the other patrons were ordering the most pleasing smelling food EVER. I had to leave after two hours for fear of caving.

Yes. Day Three. I think may be just entering the Body Odor phase of the cleanse. Or I just need my morning shower. It’s only 7a.

But I’m going strong and I’m pushing through my hunger issues.

What’s the first thing I’m doing when I reach Day Ten?

THIS: