It's the rainy season, when Redsock legends burst onto ESPN like those mind-controlling space pods in that Star Trek episode, the ones that nearly took over the Enterprise, and which allowed Leonard Nimoy to do the only mush scene in his entire, eyebrow-raised run.
Right now, the Redsocks are tumbling like socks in a drier, and Josh Beckett has hurt - cue the Curt Schilling video, backdropped by theme from "Chariots of Fire" - his ankle. Did you catch that, PeteAbe? A REDSOCK PITCHER'S ANKLE HURTS. Get out the Heinz therapy! I can think of 57 varieties of treatment.
Josh, of course, is returning from a dreadful injury: The obese, Satan-bearded dork fell in the bullpen while trying to take off his shirt. (Where were the coaches? Don't they hire 15-year-old foreign-born manservants to de-shirt the talent?) Thus, the story-line now congealing in the Gammonite mindset in Bristol, Conn: Two outs, bottom of ninth, gramma in stands, Josh limping to the mound, bloody sock, cue the Schilling video, tally ho and onward to the WASPy frat-house glory of New England!
Phuckem. Phuckem, phuckem, phuckem.
Listen: I'd happily lose four next week to the Tampa Damon Rays, if it screws Boston. But to do so, we must first sweep Seattle. Three wins in Seattle! Then we can phone in our Scranton lineup against the Rays, and let Boston reach for its magical squeeze bottle of Heinz two weeks early, in September instead of October.
Think about it: If the mighty Redsocks collapse - remember: last spring, they were the Greatest Team of All-Time - we could inspire a wintertime Steinbrennerian psycho rage. They could fire managers, scapegoat minorities, sign three Dice Ks and go utterly, Tim-McCarver-on-acid mad. It would sustain us through the winter, like Spock in love, with or without a ring.
Folks, it's time for Operation: Death Rays. It's our turn for the bloody sock.
But it starts by sweeping Seattle.
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