Monday, October 8, 2018

If this were a fight, they would have stopped it long ago.


5 comments:

BernBabyBern said...

Austin Frickin Romine on the mound.

Ugh.

13bit said...

Romaine is pitching. Please hand me a pineapple. The gods are laughing.

Rufus T. Firefly said...

This was worse than Wells in 2003

Anonymous said...

I'M CRUSHED (AND DISGUSTED) LIKE THE REST OF YOU GUYS.

SEVY JUST DIDN'T HAVE IT TONIGHT, AND BOONE TOOK TOO LONG TO REALIZE IT. LANCE LYNN WAS A HUGE MISTAKE.

WE GOT AWAY WITH A COUPLE INNINGS FROM LYNN THE FIRST GAME, BUT WITH A TEAM LIKE THE RED SOX, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO GET AWAY WITH HIM AGAIN (ESPECIALLY WITH THE BASES LOADED AND NO OUTS).....DISASTER.

BEFORE THE GAME I LOOKED AT OUR LINEUP, REALIZING EOVALDI WAS PITCHING, AND IT REALLY STOOD OUT.

WHAT IS THE MISSING INGREDIENT FOR OUR LINEUP?

WE HAVE ALMOST NO LEFTY HITTERS. WE ARE TOO RIGHTY LADEN.

NOT 1 LEFTY UNTIL DIDI IN THE 5 SLOT, THEN NOT ANOTHER ONE UNTIL GARDY IN THE 9 HOLE.

WE HAVE NO BALANCE IN OUR LINEUP.

WHY ELSE CAN WE NOT TOUCH A GUY LIKE NATHAN EOVALDI WHEN OTHER TEAMS SEEM TO BE ABLE TO HIT HIM?

PRAY WE GET TO THE RIGHT-HANDER PORCELLO TOMORROW.

CC SCARES ME, ESPECIALLY KNOWING THEIR BEST 2 HITTERS ARE RIGHTY, BUT I MUST ADMIT HE HAS BEEN REAL GOOD IN THESE BIG PLAYOFF GAMES, ESPECIALLY AFTER WE LOSE.

IT KILLS ME HOW, AT LEAST TO ME, IT SEEMS LIKE BOSTON WANTS IT MORE.

.....AND IT HURTS TO REALIZE THEY CAN BEAT US IN MORE WAYS THAN WE CAN BEAT THEM.

WE HAVE TO BASH HOMERS TO WIN.

THEY GO FROM 1ST TO 3RD ON A BASE HIT....WE DON'T.

THEY CAN STEAL A BASE....WE DON'T.

THEY HIT IN THE CLUTCH...WE DON'T.

THEY HUSTLE MORE.....WE DON'T.

TONIGHT, I HEARD THE ANNOUNCER SAY 5 DIFFERENT RED SOX HITTERS GOT A BASE HIT WITH A RUNNER IN SCORING POSITION.

AFTER I HEARD THAT, MY HEART DROPPED REALIZING THAT 90% OF OUR SEASON CONSISTS OF NOBODY ON OUR TEAM EVEN MAKING CONTACT TO DRIVE A RUN HOME WITH A RISP. SO MANY TIMES I HAVE YELLED OUT, "CAN WE GET JUST 1 CLUTCH HIT? JUST ONE?"...

....AND IT DOESN'T COME.

I JUST KEEP GOING BACK TO THE FIRST GAME OF THIS SERIES WHEN WE HAD THE BASES LOADED AND NO OUTS, AND OUR CLEANUP HITTER STRUCK OUT. I KNEW THAT COST US THE GAME. IT VERY WELL MAY HAVE COST US THE SERIES.

SO, I GUESS OUR GREAT GM HAS TO GO BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD.

HERE IS A HINT, COOP.

CONTACT HITTERS.

NOT A LINEUP FULL OF GUYS WHO STRIKE OUT 150-210 TIMES.






Austria's Only Baseball Fan said...

Home field advantage! Home field advantage! How can that work when there is no heart in the home? In the office or on the field? For the millionth time, Suzyn was right: “You can’t predict baseball.”

It was Suzyn, wasn’t it? I am a bit groggy after a long, long day in alt Wien, hobbling around on crutches from doctor to doctor, awaiting an operation in November (I purposely scheduled it for November so I wouldn’t miss out the victorious pile-up of our favorite lugs with ICS on top, like a plump maraschino cherry on a salad of beautiful, well-thought-out winning plays when the Yanks destroyed the Dodgers in Game Seven of the Wild Series; I am an idiot. Deserves an encore: I am an idiot!).

Anyway, I was sayin’… so I am all doped up on opioids (which I didn’t want to take until nothing else worked) and made the mistake of turning the TV off when all that was on was your president presenting his latest debutante to his fawning fans. Christ, I hope, for the fate of this planet the Notorious RBG outlives him by many, many years! So I managed to fall asleep (with the TV AND my Yankee cap back on) and I actually slept from the first pitch until the bottom of the ninth. One glace at the scoreboard and I saw the entire bushel of pineapples flash before my eyes: how many times has this happened?

Horace’s lovely survey of life without baseball in sunny Portugal but lots of food and drink didn’t help matters. Our pigs are not on a spit; they are in the front office sty, slathering their filth on us every day.

And it’s no longer a drippy ice cream sandwich. Life is a shit sandwich and ya gotta take a bite every day. But we are gluttons. How long ago did one of you wise men predict this? May? Not a long journey from the top of the heap to laughing stock trying to crawl out of the gutter.

And now I am awake at 07:00 am, looking at the box score and our identity is writ large and plain, starting with a total of five hits from four dudes and no run till the seventh. I shan’t mention the endless stream of bridal bouquets we tossed away.

I think that’s it for me. For real, this time. How many of us said that during the gradual slide from a hot summer to a dreary autumn where each game is an entire season? Tomorrow night my Italian friend Davide is dancing his first what’s-his-name in “Giselle” – the male lead – at Wiener Staatsballett (every seat has been sold, including the ones clearly marked as having an obstructed view; the house was built in 1869 for opera, not ballet), so I expect a long night of celebrating, onstage and off. I will get gloriously sloshed, put my crutches to the side for a little while, and try and erase this whole damned train wreck from memory abetted by Negronis, up, with a twist.

Why, in trying to sum-up this season, do I am feel like Ray Milland in “The Lost Weekend” with baseball replacing hooch? “Do you ever lie in your bed looking at the window? A little daylight’s coming through and you start to wonder. Is it getting lighter? Is it getting darker? Is it dawn or is it dusk? That's a terrifying problem, Nat. Because, if its dawn, you’re dead! The bars are closed. The liquor stores aren’t open until nine o'clock and you can't last until nine o'clock!”

We’re all waiting for that nine o’clock that will never dawn until some major changes are made.

Ciao, tutti!