This is the story of my four days in October….

On the afternoon of October 21st, 2004 I felt like a burden had been lifted, never again would I be speechless within a group of people when the conversation turned to baseball. But it wasn’t until I got to work, that I realized the magnitude of what had occurred over the previous four days, it had truly galvanized a nation, and not just red sox nation.
Answering phones in the Boston Globe sports department that day, was quite literally off the hook. I had to turn phones off, because I couldn’t keep up as people from all over the country called, simply to congratulate me on my victory, and objectivity be damned I obliged and thanked every caller.
It was also the first time I had the chance to look back at the craziness that had unfolded over the last four days.

The story of those four fateful nights of October for me, truly begins on a heart wrenching evening exactly 365 nights before as a first pitch knuckleball from Tim Wakefield landed in the Yankee Stadium bleachers.
I never saw the home run, I was on the phone in the other room during a commercial break, and I remember the other end going silent, and the sudden shriek from my Yankee fan roommate as he ran out into the hallway and onto the streets of Boston where he stayed for a few hours as I locked him out. The full living room had disbanded almost instantly leaving myself, and the third roommate Matt, a Red Sox fan and close friend since junior high school questioning our existence.

There was no offseason that year, every day the newspaper was full of speculation of who might be coming or going with the 2004 Sox. After a solid month of grieving and watching the Pats I was excited to read everything I could on the acquisitions of Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke, and the impeding move to bring Alex Rodriguez to Boston.
Of course the last move didn’t happen, and when he was acquired by the Yankees it was another unfair stomach punch in a month where no baseball is even played. This only added to the feeling that no matter what the Sox would never win.
When the season started in April I was there to boo A-Rod, and repeat derisive steroids chants to Gary Sheffield and Jason Giambi, if I knew then what I know now, I could have had some fun with A-Fraud too.
After starting out 6-1 against the Yanks, the Sox stumbled for three months before charging hard to get into the playoffs. They had a couple chances to overtake the Yankees, but in the end they couldn’t get the job done when it mattered most, so we thought.

After dispatching the Angels in three games, with a champagne celebration of our own after David Ortiz’s first walk off hit of the postseason, the Sox and Yanks were set for Armageddon II.
Game 1 did not go remotely as planned. Curt Schilling, the man who thought destiny and aura were dancers in a nightclub, proved to be much more hurt than any of us realized as the Yanks battered him around. The Sox got back to within a run, but as had been the story of our lives as Sox fans, it wasn’t enough.
With Pedro Martinez going in game two there was some optimism among us, especially against Jon Lieber. But Lieber proved to be as unhittable as Mussina was for six innings the night before. Pedro matched him pitch for pitch but as has often been the case he made the one big mistake and the Sox were going home down two games.
Optimism was waning, the rational sox fan knew they’d likely have to win twice in the Bronx on consecutive nights, with or without Curt Schilling a scenario that seemed highly unlikely.
Game 3 the Boston Massacre Redux.
There was nothing even remotely redeeming about this evening. The final four innings made me question life, our purpose on this earth, whether or not there was a god, and most importantly why did my parents raise me a Red Sox fan. You can convert religions, but in New England there is only one baseball team we all worship, and unlike Christianity, there was no promise of a heavenly afterlife for a Red Sox fan, only a lifetime of Puritanical suffering, and at this point I think hell would have been a better place.
As the score ran up, sadness had given way to bitterness and utter vitriol, and with it, some questionable decision making on my part.
I watched the final outs at a bar on Boylston street with a close friend, and as we sat down at the table we found a cell phone. I opened the modern (for 2004) looking flip phone, I immediately saw the Yankee logo wallpaper. Absolutely zero chance was I giving this back.
After a couple of taunting phone calls to people, and the possibility we might have called that person’s office (people don’t put “Work” into your cell) and quit in a blaze of glory, we played a little wiffleball on my front lawn with the phone.
A few demons were exorcised….and with it came some key signs a Baseball Apocalypse was coming.

Sunday, Game 4…The First sign
For anybody who claims they kept the faith and never stopped believing, they’re either a pink hat who had no understanding of the baggage true fans carried like a cross to bear, or they’re the yahoos who call WEEI with trade suggestions like JD Drew and Ryan Kalish for Adrian Gonzalez, and “we’ll just move Youk to right, cause he’s versatile.”
There was only one true way a Sox fan could have kept the faith. Fully expecting doom, but quietly thinking “Pedro goes tomorrow, Schilling might be able to give us 5 and no way does he suck like that again in the postseason, and then anything can happen in a game 7.”
However there was still the little matter of actually winning game 4. I admit I couldn’t watch pitch for pitch, it was still to frustrating.
There was a new addition to the apartment on that Sunday, a Styrofoam Red Sox cooler that had been brought home by Matt after the previous night’s festivities. We left it in the corner of the kitchen, where it would stay for the next eight nights like a baseball menorah without the candles.
With football on and some actual homework to do I was sufficiently distracted from watching the final eulogy on the 04 season. I checked the score, but the Yankee fan roommate’s yelling from his room was a good indicator of what was going on.
As the 11 p.m. hour approached I headed off to bed, fully anticipating going to sleep angry.
The Sox trailed 4-3 in the 9th, and I watched sports final with Bob Lobel talking another Patriots win with Fenway in the background.
But I couldn’t avoid watching the final trainwreck, that was Mariano Rivera putting the finishing touches on the most embarrassing four days of my life. I didn’t care about the series at that point, I just didn’t want to get swept.
With my better half (at the time) laying next to me I watched Millar walk and I’m getting sucked in because I know Dave Roberts is available to run.
After what seemed like an eternity, largely because Rivera makes molasses look like Usain Bolt, Roberts took off for second…SAFE!!!
This was the first sign of the baseball apocalypse.
I get a grouchy growl from my other half. Now I’m really talking myself into it, after all Bill Mueller “owns” Rivera. Moments later Mueller slaps one up the middle Roberts rounds third and ties the game! Now I’ve jumped out of bed celebrating, and I am quickly banished to the living room for being too loud (in my own room at my apartment, true love indeed).
The tie game had summoned Matt out of his room and we decided we had to watch how this season “ended.”
I took a seat on the green couch, Matt on the red…this would be “our spots” for the next 8 nights.
As we moved to the 11th we now started speaking aloud what all fans had at least thought privately.
“You know Pedro’s going tomorrow, he always pitches well at home.”
When Ortiz came to bat in the12th we knew this had to be our inning, otherwise it was over, the bullpen was empty of anyone we’d want pitching a meaningful inning.
Fortunately Paul Quantrill made a mistake, and Ortiz turned on it and found the bullpen.
“We’ll see you later tonight” Joe Buck quipped, as Matt and I jumped off the couch at 1:21 a.m. embracing in a brief and awkward Rocky/Apollo man-hug. “We didn’t get swept wooooo!”
Then we quickly broke for our rooms, and said, “same spot in 12 hours or so.”

Game 5
In what seemed like only a few hours later Matt and I were back in our strategic spots on the respective couches, and after the Yanks took the lead on Pedro in the middle innings, I forced my other half to move to the easy chair, or go in the other room, because clearly the couch was only good luck for me.
The Sox got an early lead on Mussina, so at least the pressure of the perfect game was off. The Yanks grinded away on Pedro until Jeter came through with the big hit, down the right field line. This time we’re done, same old Pedro, against the Yankees.
Even Ortiz’s leadoff homer felt like a classic Mo Vaughn, too little too late blast. But then it seemed like an instant replay, Millar walked, Roberts ran for him and he moved to third on a single from Trot Nixon, before scoring on Varitek’s sac fly. But the Sox couldn’t get the go ahead run.
What followed was what seemed like an eternity, an interminable period of slow paced agonizing, twist the knife extra inning baseball prominently featuring guys in our bullpen who we’d never want pitching in meaningful situations.
For game 5 there still wasn’t any belief in winning the series, it was still too big a mountain to climb, but the hope was to prevent the Yankees from celebrating on our field.
In the 9th the Yankees looked like they’d take the lead, and probably should have, but Tony Clark’s double bounced into the right field stands, not allowing Ruben Sierra to score and ultimately leaving runners stranded.
This was the second sign…
The game dragged on into its fifth hour like a tennis match at Wimbledon. The sox left Doug Mientikwich at third in the 10th, and two more runners in the 11th.
In the 14th the Yanks had a runner at third with Tim Wakefield fluttering knuckleballs to Jason Varitek, who hadn’t caught him all year, and allowed three passed balls before the runner reached third.
I think that inning took two years off my life, Varitek caught every ball, and Wakefield got out of it.
In retrospect this was the third sign…
Going into this inning was really the first time I remember thinking ahead to games in the Bronx, and the “What if” I mean surely Schilling couldn’t suck like he did in game 1 right?
Johnny Damon, who was virtually hitless on the series reached on a walk, and got into scoring position. A walk to Ramirez brought Ortiz to the plate again with a chance to be a hero.
In an epic at bat that is listed as 10 pitches in the boxscore but I swear took 35 or 40, Ortiz fought off pitch after pitch before fisting a single to center to score Damon.
Ortiz’s incredible extraordinarily clutch efforts on consecutive nights, <strong>proved to be the fourth sign….
There wasn’t much celebration this time around, just total relief, and exhaustion after nearly six hours of baseball. There would be no Yankees celebrating on our field and with Schilling going tomorrow night the words of the great philosopher Lloyd Christmas began to come to mind “So you’re saying there’s a chance!”

Game 6
By the time Tuesday night rolled around, I had started to think about the possibilities, but wouldn’t speak of them out loud. After all to do that was to risk the open humiliation when the baseball universe turned back on its proper axis and the Yankees would advance.
Normally I hold my breath during every pitch expecting the worse, but this time I was holding it between every pitch too, I really have no idea how I even breathed at all. It was because of how Schilling’s ankle would hold up, it literally felt like it could snap on any given pitch.
And he closed out the first by sprinting over to cover the bag it felt like he might be able to gut this out.
But there was still the matter of hitting the latest incarnation of Cy Young, one Jon Lieber, who had dominated the Sox in game 2.
But the fourth inning the Sox broke through with more uncharacteristic baseball in the Bronx, a two out rally and an umpire’s call going our way.
Millar doubled and Varitek followed with an RBI single bringing the previously 0-October Mark Bellhorn to the plate breathing new life into the dream thanks to a three run homer to left. It was a ball that barely sailed over the fence, but it fell back into play, and was originally ruled a double. But for the first time probably in baseball history the umpires convened and reversed the call giving Bellhorn the homer,
and with it the fifth sign…
Schilling threw seven ridiculous innings, before giving way to Bronson Arroyo, not exactly the ideal setup man, but the bullpen being shot that’s who was available. Trailing 4-1 the Yanks weren’t going to go away. Miguel Cairo doubled, and Jeter singled him home, and it felt like 2003 all over again.
By this point I am pacing from the living room couch in the front of the apartment, all the way out to my back deck, and my pulse is racing to a level never seen before, or since.
With a tenuous two run lead, up came A-Rod, who in the minds of Sox fans was a dangerous October hitter, thanks to a solid performance in games 1-4, but he was invisible in game 5 and heretofore in game 6.
But Rodriguez weakly grounded up the first base line, Arroyo fielded it, and reached out to tag A-Rod, but the highest paid player in the history of the sport resorted to a pathetic attempt to avoid an out. He slapped the ball out of Arroyo’s glove. The ball bounded down the right field line, Jeter raced around and scored, fist pumping with that arrogant smirk as he crossed the plate and A-Rod stood at second base with Yankee stadium exploding in a roar that could only be described as the sound of arrogant entitlement come to life.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what happened next, I was so angry, frustrated, and emotionally spent I stormed out of the room and out to the back deck muttering the whole way, and nearly kicking the enchanted Red Sox cooler and a thousand Styrofoam pieces.
“I can’t believe they sucked me in again, it’s never gonna happen.”
And for it to be A-Rod made it so much worse he should have been ours. As I stood outside I heard a loud roar in the neighborhood, a little confused I went back inside and asked Matt what happened, he told me they ruled A-Rod out, and sent Jeter back to first base…
the sixth sign.
I was thoroughly confused but completely elated and began to sit down in my seat again.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Matt said. “while you were outside, they reversed the call, that’s good luck, you gotta go back out there and stay there til it’s over.”
I didn’t even argue, he was right, in fact I ran back outside so I wouldn’t curse us for a single pitch. I sat on our outdoor couch and listened to the neighborhood. If I heard a muffled roar, I knew it was a Yankee success, and the loud roar indicated Sox success. The first loud roar I heard signaled the end of the 8th, and I tried to find a radio during the commercial break for the 9th. I didn’t find one til the middle of the 9th, as well as a sweatshirt and shoes, since it was cold.
I listened to the 9th, as Keith Foulke battled with Tony Clark for what seemed like an eternity before getting the strikeout, and with it came a roar as loud as I had ever heard in Mission Hill, and that included the Super Bowl win earlier that year.
To that point the best words I had ever heard in my life, “Game 7 Later Tonight!”

Salvation
I tried to accomplish work that day, I really did. But I didn’t get much done, I did cover a high school soccer game for the Globe, so technically I have a byline in the most widely read newspaper day of the last century, but all day long I couldn’t stop thinking about the game.
“It couldn’t really happen right? I mean Derek Lowe has been awful this season, but then again a sinkerballer on short rest is sometimes more effective”
I went back and forth all day, but in the end, I refused to let myself think of the possibility of a win, I prepared myself for a loss with “well at least they got to a game 7, no team had ever done that before and didn’t embarrass us as a city and a region.”
My dad came over after the soccer game and we cooked up some steaks, and introduced him to the enchanted Styrofoam Redsox cooler, which at this point hadn’t moved in three days and was sitting in the kitchen like a holy grail. We took it so seriously, that when Yankee roommate tried to grab it and trash it, my dad of all people threatened in a rather grisly way to kill him should it move an inch…and so it stayed unharmed.
As the game approached even closer Matt said what we all felt, “I have butterflies in my stomach, it’s like I’m actually playing.”
Yankee fan roommate couldn’t face us, and stayed in his usual perch in his bedroom after his safety and good health was previously threatened. But he could not avoid the wrath of Dad, who was needling him constantly from the doorway.
We had more friends over, and at the very least it was going to be a party, and we’d either celebrate with copious amounts of alcohol, or drink away our sorrows.
Ortiz jumped on top of a fastball and drilled it into the bleachers for a two run homer in the first, but I was still skeptical, I remembered the year before, when we led throughout only to have my hopes and dreams snatched from under me.
I was still pacing from the living room to the back deck, in the bottom of the first, but all of that was allayed when Johnny Damon launched a Javy Vasquez offering into the bleachers for a grand slam and a 6-0 lead in the top of the second.
I can honestly say to that point I had never been so happy in my life. I raced down the hallway to Yankee Fan’s doorway where my Dad was standing and leaped into his arms, briefly forgetting I wasn’t a gangly 10 year old, but in fact a 200 pound adult.
The partying commenced, and for the first time I allowed myself to think about the ramifications of the win, even more so when Damon homered again for an 8-0 lead. But when Pedro came in I thought it might collapse. But the “who’s your Daddy” chants were just totally amusing this time around.
We continued to party, and the late innings felt like a coronation, and because it wasn’t a sudden victory in a close game, we were able to enjoy the moment and at the same time reflect on every crushing memory, and every jubilant victory, and know that it was all worth it to be a Red Sox fan.
The seventh sign, was really the entire seventh gamegame, but can be summed up best in the resurrection of Damon who was virtually hitless in the series, but came through to help David finally slay Goliath.
When the last out was recorded we poured out into the streets where we stayed into the wee hours of the morning. When I finally returned I couldn’t go to bed, I had to watch the local news and Sportscenter, and CNN and the weather channel (!?!). I made it to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up just in time to slur my way through a speech about Fenway Park in my debate class, still beaming about the greatest night of my life.

Author’s Note/Epilogue:
I am no longer in the journalism industry, in fact I am a coach. I have experienced my own version of those four games at the college world series, and while I didn’t win a national title, I went through the same ups and downs, and a racing pulse and rising blood pressure, on a roller coaster ride that was incredible to be a part of.
But with that said, truly nothing compares exactly to those four days in October 2004 when the baseball gods stepped in and unleashed an apocalypse on the baseball universe. I can honestly say still to this day, seeing and experiencing every pitch will never be replicated, and there will never be another moment in my life as a fan that brings as much satisfaction and joy.
While coaching, there was no burden of generations past, no ghosts, or demons, and no fear of embarassment in defeat, it was just pitch to pitch, and game to game, and that experience helped me realize how those ballplayers were able to accomplish the unthinkable.
I’ve always struggled to find full acceptance and belief in organized religion, and its honestly because after all the years of blind faith, prayer, and repentance, I experienced salvation. My tortured soul was freed that year to live a gleeful burden free existence for the remainder of my lifetime and that of my parent’s, grandparents, and children.
And absolutely none of that is hyperbole, and like a Baptist, or a Catholic or a Muslim, trying to explain their beliefs to nonbelievers, only a lifelong Red Sox fan can truly understand and agree.

Tossing batting practice…while wondering if the season ending neck injury Ellis Hobbs suffered is a chronic thing resulting from years of whiplash courtesy of repeatedly getting beat by good, bad and marginal receivers…

If it is, then score one for the Bill Belichick and the medical staff for getting rid of him when they did and getting something for nothing.

Good win on Sunday for the Pats, even if the Dolphins offense is as exciting as it was successful. Usually in a game involving that much between the tackle running, and little downfield passing there's a spirit squad and a 50-50 raffle at halftime involved.

For all the grief that Belichick takes for being so vague and flippant with the injury report, I think Tony Sparano should be equally chastised for not properly reporting to the world last week that Joey Porter was questionable (head case) or doubtful (no heart). At the very least I hope this week he’s listed as probable (castration) after his refusal to speak with the media after the game Sunday.

Apparently Porter only got half the message from Jimmy Johnson, the part about walking the walk must have got cut off on his NFL Films highlights. Or perhaps Johnson should clarify that walking the walk doesn’t mean slip out the back door quietly.

I endorse Larry Johnson possibly coming to the Patriots for the remainder of the season. I think we could go a long way toward educating him about tolerance in our liberal blue state abode. Unless he only runs for two yards a carry, then ship his ignorant ass out to some Baptist bible thumping outpost where the illiterate yahoos will identify with him as a kindred spirit.
In Bill I trust.

I absolutely despise everything about the Colts, and since moving to the south anytime I come across someone who claims to love Peyton Manning, I immediately end the conversation and move on to someone else. However Belichick’s track record is to almost never lose to a team twice in one season, so quite frankly I’m ok with the Patriots losing this week. (opinion subject to change at about 8:21 Sunday night).

Because of the fact that a half a rain forest, and an infinite amount of internet space is being wasted in previews of Sunday’s game I’m going to promise you a breakdown in less than 90 words that can sum up the whole game.
I am interested to see just how fast the defense really is against a proven offense. The secondary has looked great swarming to the ball and doling out hits like the old Lombardi Trophy Patriots but now its time to see what it looks like against a real AFC contender.
I still think this defense will be better eight weeks from now but this is a good barometer game.
And the offense needs to step it up in the red zone and quit settling for three points.
See, you don’t need to waste lots of words and time talking about this one just go out and play the game.

College basketball season started this week, and while I’m the second biggest college basketball junkie I know (the phenomenal Sully’s Blog at the Globe takes the top spot because honestly its been a while since I tivoed a Cal/Murray State game and watched it three days later) its still hard to get excited just yet, another week and I’ll start to have mock brackets ready to go.
Though no matter what time of year, and what level its good to see Isiah Thomas get his ass kicked even if it did come at the hands of North Carolina.

The Celtics have looked a little older of late. I guess playing eight games in 12 days with a roster and offensive philosophy one would expect to find in an Over 30 YMCA league its to be expected. The three point barrage continues, and apparently the media in Boston chose to only notice it when the shots didn’t go in and they lost a game. However it was good to see in the NJ game Saturday night the C’s recognized the shots weren’t falling and they attacked the basket a little bit, and good ball movement created open lanes for cutters to get easy buckets down the stretch.

My nonexistent current basketball career sort of mimics that of Rasheed Wallace. I have the ability to go in the post (yet I almost always decide not too), generally choosing to wander out beyond the arc repeatedly clapping my hands or whooping to announce I’m open and jacking threes at any opportunity. Defensively, I stand around not really covering anyone, but I can still rebound. And I steadfastly refuse to participate in a fastbreak, or move at any speed great than a brisk jog.
If I were 6-10 with anger management issues, I’d probably be in the League.

I’m as big a KG fan as anyone else, and his work in the community is tremendous, but someone needs to explain to him that he can’t build a homeless shelter for kids just by throwing up bricks from 17 feet away.
He’s starting to reach the level of “Strap” in Hoosiers. “Don’t shoot unless you’re wide open under the basket.”
Doc’s too nice to say this, but I can think of a coach who could explain KG’s role on offense much the same way he once told a precocious freshman from RI, for the sake of anonymity we’ll call him R. Shibley, “Hey (expletive deleted)! Your job is reverse the ball, set screens and only shoot if the shot clock is under 5 and you can’t kick it out of bounds to prevent a fast break the other way.”

You know you've lived in the country for a while when the sounds of sirens at 1am on a Saturday startle you.
I lived in downtown Boston and Roxbury for six years there was a time when the gunshot or firecracker game didn't even faze me, and now I’ve been reduced to one of those country folk wondering what happened to garner all that noise.

And with that I make a triumphant return to the Bean this weekend for the next few weeks, in hopes of seeing some people, celebrating Thanksgiving, pretending its not my birthday, and sabotaging a wedding before it can ruin a life.
Expect lots of bitching about the cold weather in the next post

Tossing batting practice while wondering if either of these teams will have enough pitching left to beat Taiwan in the International championship game…

Alright, I’ve had enough, whatever baseball stadium architect out there who thought designing ballparks with dimensions taken from Williamsport needs to be put out of business. Maybe Art Vandelay is alive and well.
The Hideki Matsui home run off Pedro Martinez in game 2 was such a joke even Bucky Dent was embarrassed to call it a home run. The “blast” from ARod in game 3 was so bad John Sterling couldn’t bring himself to call it an A-Bomb, it was more like a road flare.
Both these ballparks are so small all of a sudden Fenway looks cavernous. The only difference between this series and the Home Run Derby is the hitters don’t get to bring their own pitchers. (Though I’m pretty sure most Yankees would choose either Joe Blanton or Brad Lidge)

Even the NCAA softball committee finally voted to push all the fences back 10 or 20 feet, because of the mockery all the homers were making of the game. This revelation might make ASA hall of fame stadium eligible to host an MLB team should one move to Oklahoma City. (and yes you can spare me the obvious chicks dig the long ball joke as related to softball)

Petey pitched tremendous in game 2, but that was kinda the standard Pedro in the Bronx performance. Look like you’re in command, blow away the good hitters, but the Yanks grind him so much he gives up a cheapie like the Matsui homer, and then in the 7th they get a couple runners on, add one insurance run and then its onto Rivera for the save.
I read that book a lot in college, probably the only book I read in college, because it had pictures and sound.

I’m really hoping that Pedro goes out to the mound with a bloody, or ketchup stained sock for Game 6. He’s always been the master of the mind game and it would be hilarious. However, in the end the mystery that is Andy Pettite’s effectiveness still has yet to be solved, and I don’t see it happening anytime soon.

Useless stat of the day: Pettite is 0-2 in his last two game six World Series starts including the bludgeoning he took at the hands of Arizona, which Yankee fans will defend to their deaths he was tipping his pitches so it doesn’t count. The “True Yankees” Pettite, Rivera, Jeter, and Posada would be defended by Yankee fans if they were on trial at The Hague for war crimes.

I’m happy that the series goes back to NY, it’s good for the long suffering fans there to see a world title clinched on their home field. Do you realize that there are young kids in the Bronx who are eligible to suit up for the Rolando Paulino Little League All-Stars who have never seen a world championship in their lifetimes?

We here in Boston have the $70 million grand slam, thanks to JD Drew’s homer in the 07 LCS, I guess the Yankees now have the $52 million stolen bases courtesy of Johnny Damon.
At least Drew did his in the first year of his contract, Damon probably just earned himself a new deal in the Bronx just based on that. He’s still a moron intellectually, and a deceitful lying cheat (at least according to Sox fans and his ex wife).
I hope he can’t find gainful employment in retirement as a used car spokesman in Bergen County because there are about two dozen other Yankee legends already in line for the job.

It seems rather appropriate that the score in the 2nd quarter of the Lions/Rams game was 3-2. A three run homer by Albert Pujols couldn’t stand up, as predictably with two bad teams the bullpens imploded.

Speaking of affronts to football, how bad was the first half of that Jets/Dolphins game, Everett high school’s offense looked more creative than either of these two teams, and I’m not sure they’ve thrown a pass in this decade.
I think the good folks in Canton can put a stop to the Rex Ryan bust they had started after week 2.

I hope Tom Brady shatters every record that Brett Favre sets, with the exception of one. I sincerely hope Tommy never gets the chance to beat all 32 teams, and I’m pretty sure the sight of him in gang green (or whatever that god awful AFL Titans color is) would probably reduce me to tears.

I feel like Brad Childress is actually on his little salesmen headset asking people if they are satisfied with their long distance carriers.

Not too much about the Celtics this week, they are kicking ass and not even bothering to take names. Offensively they look real good with a lot of ball movement and finding easy shots all over the floor.

If I were to nitpick, I’d have two gripes. One, while Ray Allen is obviously a tremendous shooter, he’s been jacking them up at a rate that would make Eddie House or Kevin McHale blush. He’s a great passer, and I’d like to see him do a little more of it and not just shoot every time he thinks he’s got a little bit of space inside the hashmark. He’s a free agent at the end of the year, and hopefully he’s not gunning (literally) for a new contract, fortunately I don’t think he’s that type of guy and I’m sure we can get Jim Calhoun to take a trip up I-84 to beat that out of him if he is (like I said it was a nitpick).

Secondly, I’m a little concerned about the amount of three’s they are hoisting. As a former shooter myself, I find it incredibly fun to watch. However I’d equate it to football its way more fun watching Brady throw it all over the place than those Laurence Maroney tip-toe two-yard losses. But you have to show offensive balance in the…
wait for it…
NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE (I’m watching MNF as this is written)
and in the NBA you can’t live and die by the three, I just hope this doesn’t become an Achilles heel that eventually derails the C’s like it did the undefeated regular season team that shall not rehashed because opponents figure out how to stop it.

On the positive side, this team defends in the halfcourt like a group of overzealous branch Davidians, it wouldn’t surprise me to see Kevin Garnett light the basket on fire and go down with the rim rather than allow dribble penetration and an easy bucket.

Tossing Batting practice while wondering what inning those “who’s your daddy” chants will officially become tiresome in the World Series…

Welcome back basketball, I missed you. Normally basketball is a sign of cold weather looming, but not anymore, now that I live in the South. (I could also get used to watching the World Series at an outdoor patio at night in late October)

I am excited for the Celtics being the biggest a-holes in the league, that should be entertaining. I’ve convinced myself that Rasheed Wallace is just misunderstood.

I’m also setting the over/under on technicals for the season on the C’s at 161. I will take the over.

I’d also make the prediction that the Celtics are whistled for more technical fouls as a team than Lebron James is whistled for personal fouls. James was among the least whistled player a year ago which I think should preclude you for being on the all-defensive team.

Anderson Varajao is what Bill Laimbeer would look like with tattoos and long hair.

The last two weeks for the Patriots is kinda like when Alabama plays Chattanooga in the middle of the SEC schedule just for a break. You can only play who’s on the schedule in the NFL but the fact the Pats went almost six quarters without allowing a point, while scoring 80 unanswered was hilarious.

I’m real glad there were no roughing the passer flags thrown against the Bucs, this way here we Pats fans were spared the obvious “God Save the Queen” jokes.

Mark McGwire, is going to be the Cardinals new hitting coach, I guess the Cardinals are going to forgo playing a National League schedule next year and go play that slow pitch softball home run tour of MLB ballparks.
I don’t get this one, I just don’t think of great hitter when I think of McGwire, I mean steroid jokes aside he hit .300 once, and averaged close to a strikeout per game for his career.

Chone Figgins, is quite possibly the worst postseason hitter ever. Every single year the Angles are in the playoffs, and every year he’s listed as being the difference maker, well this October he was a robust 3-35.
Speaking of overrated, at least if I have to suffer through the Yanks winning I hope the myth that Mike Socisia is the best manager in baseball can finally be dispelled. He managed that series like he still suffered the lingering effects of acute radiation poisoning from the Springfield nuclear power plant.
He manages aggressively, and I have no problem with that, but the media treats him like he’s reinventing the sport by bunting, and using the hit and run, when in reality his teams run into outs, have no patience at the plate, and fold in big moments.

Welcome back shitty Brett Favre, and just a shade early this season, last year he waited til Thanksgiving to suck, but with him coming out and seeing his shadow at Heinz field does that mean we only have six more weeks of Vikings playoff talk?

Hey Mangini, are you sure you don’t want to take some toxic waste off the hands of the good folks from the state of New Jersey? The Braylon Edwards deal was a sham even Al Davis cringed at.
The NY Metro area hasn’t seen such a one sided deal go in their favor since the Dutch bought Manhattan for $25 worth of beads. Hats off to the Jets though, they played Mangenius like an unwitting Indian chief being extolled the virtues of Oklahoma as its new luxurious home.

Oh, I get it a 35 year old shortstop coming off a couple injury plagued sub-par seasons rededicates himself in the offseason and has a career year, and it was just the new trainer and workout regiment huh?

I remember when I saw that article the first time, in 2001 and it marveled at how hard Victor Conte had trained Barry Bonds for the rigors of a 162 game season.

Congratulations to Scott Kazmir for winning the Joe Nathan award given to the pitcher who looks so bad on the brightest stage against the Yankees that the only logical explanation is a boat load of gambling debts to some guy named Vinnie “The ambiguous body part” from Brooklyn.

Someday someone somewhere will explain to me how Andy Pettite is good. He throws one pitch a cutter, that couldn’t break a pane of glass, and a curveball in the dirt, yet every postseason he looks like the reincarnation of Warren Spahn.
I guess the newest “shipment” comes in around late September for him every year.

Lastly, a happy anniversary to all the Sox fans reading this. Five years ago tonight our lives changed profoundly for the better. Everyone from Mark Bellhorn, to Keith Foulke deserves our undying gratitude for lifting a weight off the shoulders of all of us.
October 27th, 2004 will always live among the happiest moments of my life.

One thing I will never forget is working the day shift at the Globe the next day. Now usually an afternoon shift allowed me to do some homework, shoot the breeze with people, show up late and leave early. But on this day the phone rang off the hook all day long like it was Friday night during high school football season. Calls came in from around the country, almost none of whome were redsox fans before last week, congratulating me on "my historic win" and telling me how hard they rooted for us, and seeing us win made them so happy. At first I tried to explain, how I all I did was crack open a bottle of champagne after the game nearly dousing a Boston cop before intelligence prevailed, but it was too much so I just let the accolades and congraulations pour in. It was truly amazing, even more so now that the rest of America hates us.

Not tossing batting practice today, instead we’re moving the chains in a special college football themed post live from the land of plaid fedoras and Forest Gump….Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

One of my goals in moving to the South has been to make sure I take the opportunity to experience as many things I possibly can that I otherwise wouldn’t do back home. That’s how I wound up at the final round of the Masters in April, and it’s what brought me to the Mecca of College Football in the south this weekend, the home of the Crimson Tide.

I was an Alabama fan as a kid, the first season I remember watching college football was the last time they won the title and I rooted for that team all year. I was thrilled when Jay Barker got drafted by the Pats, until it was determined he truly did suck. Having lived in Georgia for almost a year I’ve grown to be rather anti-Bulldog. The fans here are fanatical but they hold a higher opinion of themselves and their program than they should since they haven’t won much. As a result I enjoy going the other way and rooting for Alabama, besides Nick Saban is a friend of Football Jesus, and any friend of Bill Belichick is a friend of mine.
So today I’m on a mission to scout future Patriots looking for the next Randall Gay or Jarvis Green.

One of my friends that I play ball with down here is an Alabama alum, one of the original “Never Graduate” types, who majored in football for seven years before being asked to leave with a degree. Lots of people go to college for seven years, but in Alabama they aren’t called doctors or lawyers.
When the opportunity arose for us to go to Saturday’s game we figured we’d be stupid not too.
As far as opposing backgrounds go it doesn’t get much more different than my Redneck Sherpa and me.
He grew up in a small town in rural Alabama, indoctrinated in Crimson upon birth, with an affinity Nascar and all things that encompass southern living.
I of course am none of that. But regardless it makes for a good time when we get together.

I am greeted by Joe Willie at about 10 in the morning clad in a red number 12 Tide jersey and a Bear Bryant Fedora, for someone working on no sleep he is remarkably fired up.
The number 12 is sacred in Alabama apparently, they are the 12 time national champions, and it’s generally the quarterback’s number including Bama legend, Joe Willie Namath.

We departed Atlanta shortly thereafter figuring on a three hour trip, a scant 32 minutes later after a beer run, I’ve cracked open my first adult beverage of the day. This is going to be one interesting day.
Shortly after 11 we’ve crossed into Alabama “Feel your IQ drop 50 points?” I am asked. Instead, I went the other way and immediately felt smarter than I had an eighth of a mile ago.

Twenty minutes later we drive by Talladega Motor Speedway, and while I’m not that impressed it made for 10 minutes of Ricky Bobby jokes. Joe Willie is paying homage to the Nascar cathedral and all its aura that to me is just a damned field with a massive amount of portajohns that seems a little out of place.

On the other side of Birmingham we make a brief stop in a place called Hueytown, it’s apparently home to the Alabama Gang, which I’m thinking is the southern version of the bloods or crips, but in fact it was a Nascar Pit Crew. (I don’t really have a joke here, I think the fact a bunch of glorified Speedee Mechanics are memorialized on a plaque as you enter the town sort of speaks for itself)

Thirty miles from Tuscaloosa and Joe Willie has been taunting folks with South Carolina license plates, this is not as funny as it was two and a half hours ago.
However, an SUV drives by with personalized Alabama plates, that says CYAJPW. A slap in the face to the quarterback of the previous three years John Parker Wilson.
Only in this state will people taunt college kids for their perceived shortcomings. Apparently bringing the program back to prominence and an SEC title game and a Sugar Bowl was not enough for John Parker Wilson to not be.
These people have leaped past the threshold of passionate and gone right into outright overzealous fanaticism.
I’d hate to see what they think of the current signal caller, who looks a tad bit overwhelmed at times to put it mildly.



We get to campus, and of course the first thing I go to see is the softball field. (leave your petty cheap shots in the comments)

Like most colleges if you donate enough money they’ll name a building after you, but if you’re the defensive coordinator of a national championship team, you get an entire main road on campus named in your honor.

I’ve been here 10 minutes an already got into an argument over what’s a better accomplishment, a national championship or a super bowl.

The campus itself looks exactly like Harvard if you put it in a southern town with enough space to continuously expand until they reach the Mississippi border. Lots of red brick buildings everywhere.

We get to a quiet bar to watch some of the Florida and USC games. I order my beer and get the evil eye from the bartender like I’m Reggie Hammond in the redneck bar in 48 hours. This is not the friendly atmosphere of Cheers.

It’s rather cold today about 48 degrees with a very stiff wind, but while I’m a little chilly in shorts and a sweatshirt most of the fans are dressed like for a January (or maybe even October from what I saw on tv today) game in Foxboro.

It’s game time so we head to the stadium, it’s an absolute Monument to the game. A short walk down Bear Bryant Ave and we’re into the stadium right on the field. Looking up and seeing the entire stadium from field level is a little overwhelming. I’ve never seen that many people in my life in one place, and it’s pretty damn cool.



The first Forest Gump joke is made just before kickoff, “and after five years of football I got myself a college degree.”

The Tide runs back an interception for a touchdown before I’ve even got to my seats 50 rows from the field on the 20 yard line. (If you’re going to do a once in a lifetime game, spend the extra money for a good ticket, it’s way worth it).

After Alabama QB Greg McElroy does his best Tony Easy impression the natives are getting restless about the Tide’s listless passing attack. “We aint had a quarterback in 40 years quit throwin the dang ball,” is uttered from my section.
With Mark Ingram in the backfield that seems like an astute observation.

Alabama finally picks up a first down. Most stadiums have some sort of chant the entire crowd does, and Bryant-Denny Stadium is no different, however when you hear 92,000 southern accents shout Roll Tide! In unison its pretty damn funny and cool.

Speaking of damn, I get a couple of dirty looks for yelling “Jesus Christ” and then later on “goddamn it” after a couple failed third down conversions.
By the way there are three churches that are directly across the street from the stadium on different street corners.



You know you've gotten old when college bands are playing songs of your childhood; In this case we get basket case by green day before a field goal attempt by South Carolina.
On the whole Alabama gets high marks from me because it has four or five different songs in its rotation, so while they’re catchy they aren’t burned in your brain like that “glory glory to old Georgia” crap.

92,000 people just sang Lynard Skynard in unison, I’m a weeee bit intoxicated, but I do not need my gps to remind me I’m still in Alabama. (Every time I have written or said the word Alabama for the last two days its sounded like Forest when he’s commanding Jenny to come back to Greenbow, AlaBAMA!!!!) Thanks Joe Willie.

It’s halftime, I’m cranky because I can’t get a beer since its an NCAA event, so to the frat kid in the blue blazer who forearmed me in the back five times while trying to walk and text, well I’m sorry I threatened to slit your throat if you bumped me one more time. Wait, no I’m not that felt good, especially since I’m not even remotely a tough guy, but he looked like he’d pissed himself.

The second half starts and the Tide is putting the FOOT in football more punts and field goals on both sides, they should just go to penalty kicks now. It hasn’t even been excellent midfield play.

We get the loudest cheer of the night early in the fourth quarter when its announced that Auburn has lost to Kentucky.

Ingram runs for his only touchdown of the night (I am shocked to learn he rolled up 245 yards rushing, I wasn’t that drunk I don’t think, but if there’s such a thing as a quiet 240 yards of rushing, well until he broke the one that set up the final touchdown he was having said quiet night)

The clock is winding out and the band has started playing the victory song, Rammer Jammer.
If you’ve never heard it go listen, its like a musical victory cigar, rolled into a middle finger. It’s like a football version of the SIEVE chant!
“Hey Gamecocks! We just beat the hell out of you! Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer give em hell Alabama”

Lather, rinse, and repeat the lyrics about five more times. Like I said, it was pretty damn cool.


With the buzz starting to wear off its back to the gas station for more beer while we walk back seemingly to Huntsville where the car is parked. This leads to more drinking and the realization I have only eaten pop tarts and a pretzel today.
We stop at Krystal, a southern burger joint that’s all over the place. While its not chocolate chip pancakes at the South street diner, or even super sized steroid pizza slices from NYP but the Krystal mini burgers were absolutely phenomenal.

It’s about 2am and the day doesn’t really feel like its ended, There’s a gap of about three hours I cant account for, I think I was napping in the car in a motel parking lot (finding a hotel room of any kind on game weekend takes an act of god, plan accordingly). I awaken at about 6am crack open a beer and begin the journey back to Georgia cursing the brightness of the sun.

Overall since I have no personal attachment to a college football team, and I hate the BCS system but as a true sports fan I can appreciate the fanaticism and its easy to get caught up in it. I’m sure if I went to an English Premier League match I’d dive head first into that too. But if you fancy yourself a football fan, and a sports fan in general spending a fall Saturday in SEC college town should be on every fan’s bucket list. I’ve now crossed off football in Tuscaloosa.

ROLL TIDE!?!?!???!?

Tossing batting practice…like a dumb redneck closer who’s mouthed off a few too many times for my own good, before watching it implode in one fell swoop…

Well yesterday sucked on a level that I can’t remember in a long time….I guess I’ll just have to remember October 2004 when I went to game 2 of the World Series, and the Pats beat the Jets, in the words of Chris Farley: “That….was…..AWESOME!!!!”

Here's a better thought...Remember when the Yankees DIDN'T celebrate winning A playoff series?

A day like Sunday definitely sucks twice as much living in a different region. NOBODY feels bad for you, or offers sympathy. I even had a friggen Orioles fan send me a taunting text message.
However, this is Atlanta for you: In a bar with the Sunday Ticket, and the Falcons score a Touchdown Sunday, and only ONE person in the entire bar cheers.
I think the one guy cheering had something to do with BCS margin of victory points.

I know this sounds like sour grapes, but I’ve thought about this for a while (save for that Johnny Damon homer in the Bronx in August off Bard) but the Patriot thing to do with Papelbon right now is trade him this winter/
He’ll certainly get a decent return, and while it wont be the popular move getting value for him before wouldn’t be the worst thing to do.
Why not bring back Wagner as the closer, while also allowing Daniel Bard to be the 8th inning guy/closer if Wags has to pitch on consecutive nights? It’s more like a closer by Duo, as opposed to committee or quorum.

Or maybe Papelbon is just taking the Mariano Rivera career path, totally botch a save situation that costs your team a series only to bounce back as the dominant closer in the game.
If we ever get up 3-0 in a series though I implore you Tito, use someone else.

Is Big Papi going to have to legally change his name to “Ortiz Strikesout” during the winter?

It’s probably still too early to do a postmortem on this year’s sox team, but in the land of instant information I’m going to attempt a brief autopsy from a fan’s perspective.
Having watched this team daily from a long distance all season, I have to say this was the most unlikable Sox team since 2001.
The players definitely had a 25 guys 25 cabs feel to it, only further solidified by the piece in the Globe about alleged team leader Kevin Youkilis last week.
This team never really jelled, despite Victor Martinez’s best efforts, and never really seemed like they liked playing with each other.
Maybe I missed a few things being a thousand miles away all season, but I never found a connection to these guys, it was definitely the laundry that kept me interested all season long.
As I’ve said before, I’d root for Satan if he ever left the Yankees and signed with the Sox.

They never seemed to respond to adversity, something that was a staple of Red Sox teams of this decade, it seems like a disapointing way to end the most wildly sucessful decade in team history.

It was a shame to blow a chance with such good young pitching in its prime, but in the end, this was a flawed team from the start, who struggled to hit competent American League pitching all season long. The Orioles didn’t show up to play in October, and thus the Sox were shown to be what they were, a team who could hit in Fenway, but struggled on the road.

Bill Parcells used to say you are what your record says you are, and I always believed that to be true. Until this year.
The sox probably weren’t a playoff team in most years, but the fact that the Central was brutal, Texas fell off the map in September, and Tampa packed in the season around the trade deadline, all contributed to the Sox entering the postseason by default.
And much like 2005 when a similar occurrence happened the Sox went out listlessly.
It will say they were a 95 win team, but I think if you watched enough games (I think I logged 130ish, hey I was lonely and broke in Deliverance) you'd agree.

If nothing else came of this week I’m glad someone on the sox feels the same way about Youk as I do, I just wish he had gone on the record, so I could by him a beer.

I’d like to be encouraged by the hope that the owners usually go balls to the wall after a bitter disappointment like this, but the free agent market is beyond brutal. So unless there’s a voodoo practicing Cuban looking for religious freedom, or a reliever who spent this summer in the California Penal League, or Willie Mays Hayes out there I don’t know about I’d be very weary of a turnaround year.

I want to analyze the Pats game more, but honestly, I think the words of Ron Burgundy, “that escalated really quickly.”
The combination of alcohol, my buddy the Falcons fan, and the fact the Pats never really looked in danger until the final five minutes left me not watching intensely.

However, I think we can safely say the absence of Fred Taylor hurt. The defense is still good, but not great. And lastly Brady is going to continue to play like Scott Secules every time the Patriots play in the throwback unis.

I don’t care what the fine is, the Patriots should refuse to play in those AFL throwbacks the rest of the year.
I mean sure they look cool, but there is nothing in the history of the franchise worth celebrating that hasn’t happened in the last 10 years, and they play like S*^! everytime they wear them.

In the end, I’ll chalk this one up to the fact we just never play well in Denver, I mean if it weren’t for a purposeful safety and a fluke poor KO return, the Patriots would still be winless in Denver since Nixon was president the first time.

I understand there are a lot of great things about Albert Pujols, but I don’t think the term “high motor” will ever be used to describe him. His hustle down the line makes Manny look like Jacoby Ellsbury when he grounds out. However if Manny moved like that he’d be an affront to the game and every pundit would rail him.

It was good to hear Don Orsillo on a national broadcast, he’s gone from Sox Appeal promos to George Lopez show promos, I’m not sure if that’s a promotion or not. Give him credit he voices each one with an aplomb that makes me think he believes in them.

Mike Lowell has become the white Jim Rice, at least in regards to his ability to hit into double plays. I root for popups and strikeouts when he comes up with a runner on.

Im glad the series is over so I don’t have to endure anymore Bobby Abreu at-bats. Yeah Theo we had no use for a guy who wears out pitching and is seemingly always on base last offseason, great f’in call.

Tossing batting practice…while wondering if HBO could do a Sixth Season of the Wire, focusing on Ray Lewis and his violent gang of miscreant Ravens.

Growing up I’ve been taught that it’s always better to be lucky than good. During this century following the Pats that has never been more apropos from the Tuck Rule that benefitted us, to the damned helmet catch that killed us. Well I’m thankful that luck was on our side Sunday as Michael Clayton dropped that fourth down pass.

Couldn’t have happened to a nice scumbag either. It was Clayton who sent me into fantasy football retirement last year when he fumbled a pass forward two yards, giving him the half point needed to beat me in the playoffs costing my unemployed ass a large sum of money.
Like Billy Beane once said, my job is to get the team to the playoffs after that it’s all f’in luck.

Defensively the Patriots is sounding better every day, but since I was listening to Gil and Gino via my cell phone I can’t give much further analysis on Sunday’s win. Couldn’t even tell you how they looked.

To score 27 points on Avon Barksdale’s defense is definitely encouraging, but I think the loss of Stringer Bell to the Jets leaves them working more on street rep than actual current ability.
With the Patriots holding Baltimore’s new high flying offense to 14 points it kind of makes them a little bit like Marlo Stanfield, the young hungry group ready to take over the streets.

Ok I’ll stop with the vague HBO references, but the Orioles suck too much to make references to the Wire, unless you want to compare their decline to that of the decaying Baltimore School system, so I have to get them all out against the Ravens.
And like Bill Simmons said the other day, if you haven’t ever watched The Wire you should be ashamed of yourself. Listening to the Pats radio duo was a nice touch of feeling at home, but as far as actually getting pertinent information about the game, well Im just glad the little NFL scoreboard on my phone kept down, distance, and yard line accurately for me.

***
I really didn't care whether the Olympics came to Chicago until the IOC just bitch slapped the US and Obama with that sham of a vote.
Newsflash Europe this was the guy you wanted elected and you just gave his detractors more ammo for criticism, you better hope the republican right doesn't elect Sarah Palin or else the 2016 Olympics will just be the US and remaining occupied continents that haven't been nuked as the result of it being the wrong time of month.

Given the way the IOC just openly despises America, it may be time to throw our economic weight around again, even if we have slimmed down lately like an anorexic high school cheerleader.
Let's boycott again only instead of for political purposes we just do it as a reminder that the Olympics only succeeds even remotely on a financial level because they need us, and the money we generate as a country a hell of a lot more than they realize, or we really need them.
I say we do it in 2012 when it’s in London, screw Europe and who wants to spend a month in a gloomy city of tea drinking elitists, sorry Limey but it had to be said.
I will continue to hate the IOC and most everything about Europe until softball is reinstated as an Olympic sport. Just because Europeans lack any sort of ability to catch and throw the rest of the world shouldn't be punished.

Larry Legend was in the house for the WNBA finals in Indiana last week, I won't make a joke out of fear of getting struck by lightning, but it’s good to see championship basketball being played in the Hoosier state again, even if it is women.
(Ducking bolts, swatting away pestilence)

Congratulations to the Yankees for clinching the ALDS last night. With the Twins winning the only thing the Yanks have to worry about is avoiding the dreaded champagne in the eyes injury to any major players during the celebration this weekend.

It turns out I was actually at the last game the Twins beat the Yanks in the Stadium. That was two years ago, but seems so much longer. It was three apartments, two states, and two careers ago in my lifetime, when Johan Santana topped Moose on a sticky Fourth of July while myself, JT and Joe College himself tried to shake a ridiculous hangover courtesy of the previous night’s social activities.

My playoff opening round predictions are as follows, bear in mind I was only 3-6 in predicting Division Champs in April, and the three non champs I predicted finished last, or second to last in their respective divisions, so I can be spectacularly wrong.

Yanks in 4….The hot air in the Metrodome courtesy of Brett Favre is sucked out, in much the same way Favre will suck out his welcome after Thanksgiving. The Twins have done it with smoke and mirrors all year, well the Yankees are the a-hole (or Dwight Schrute) in the audience who points out how the trick is done. Traditionally the hot team usually doesn’t keep it going in the postseason, the 2007 Rockies not withstanding, but they were on a historical hot streak.

St. Louis in 3….The Dodgers just aren’t good, they haven’t really been all year, trust me I saw more Dodger games than any other team besides the Sox. Their pitching is mediocre and their bullpen is close to shot thanks to the Vaudeville Hook Joe Torre.
The Cardinals have a great 1-2, but they are more than ok with relying on Joel Pinerio as their third starter.

Philadelphia in 4…One of my few correct preseason predictions, was that “I’m pretty sure Brad Lidge won’t be perfect again.”
I want to pick against the Phillies, but the fact the NL West sucked all year, only slightly more than the NL East sucked gives the Phillies the nod here. That and they have better pitching, but I am kinda hoping for one last Lidge implosion on a national stage, this way Philly fans are adequately prepared for Donovan McNabb’s inevitable meltdown later this year. Last year’s choke job in the NFC title game sort of caught them all by surprise for some strange reasons.

Angels in 5… As for the Sox, well I just think eventually the curse of Donnie Moore has to be lifted. The fact there is a permanent green light at second base for runners gives the Angels a huge advantage provided they can get runners on. I think the wild card is Kazmir, who has pitched well for Anaheim, and has owned the Sox. Because of him, I think the Angels split at Fenway, so the Sox need at least a split in Anaheim, I see that occurring, but in the end this game five just doesn’t go their way. All year long the Sox have struggled to hit and score runs against good pitching, sadly Baltimore, isn’t on the schedule this month.
If they can’t get into Anaheim’s bullpen this will be a frustrating series, a microcosm of the season as a whole.