Sad. But Happy.

I gotta apologize for the short post today: as much as I'd like to ramble on about the latest idiotic statement I made to Angie, I can't tonight. Baby Trot has had a 104 degree fever for the last 2 days, and he and I are home alone for the evening. A handful in good days, he is especially ornery when he's sick.

So, I'm sad he's sick and feels so bad.

But I'm happy too: because the first game of the year is on tonight. Yeah, it's only Spring Training, and yeah, it don't count. I could care less: Schill will be on the hill, and there will be real, actual baseball.

At 7 o'clock tonight, Trot and me will assume the Sox watching position.

I can't wait.

Welcome Home

The eagle has landed: Manny arrived at Spring Training today, and from their smiles, Wily Mo Pena and Papi are glad to see him. I know I am.

Let's Play Ball!

My Boys

I got to spend a lot of time with my two roughnecks this weekend. Angie and Ciera went shopping for about 4 hours yesterday(how you can shop for 4 hours is beyond me, but that's OK) and me and the heirs to the throne spent the afternoon together. On Sunday, I taught Rakes children's church class, then Angie and Ciera left again for a few hours. Just like clockwork, Rakes and Trot woke up within 2 minutes of each other from their naps.

To be brothers, so far, they are as different as Manny and Jason Varitek. Rakes is loud, wild, funny, and as goofy as a mental patient. Trot is quiet, stocky, cautious, and tough as a box of rusty nails. And as I watch them play and grow, I think to myself, "My God, what have you gotten yourself into?" My daughter Ciera is my little princess, the one who is polite, obedient, and Daddy's little girl. These 2 he-men are aliens to me: balls to the wall hooligans just looking for trouble.

Then I remember: I was probably like that once upon a time. My Mom tells me I used to run around with the vacuum cleaner hose playing "Emergency". I hear I also liked to stick a drumstick down my shorts to play "Tarzan", though I adamantly deny this ever happened. My sister's tell tales of doom about what Matt and I did to them, but I figure they are all old and don't remember the facts all that clear! Just kidding ladies: I don't want a total boycott of the blog or anything to happen!

I think about my children, and the crazy world we live in now. Stephen King said it best: We all are living on Osama Mean Time now, and raising children in that world is scary beyond words. Be polite, respect your elders, love your God and your country, and be a Red Sox fan for life. That's what I'm trying to pass on to my girl and boys. It ain't easy, and thinking about how messed up the world will be in 5, 10, or 15 years from now is something I push to the back recesses of my feeble little mind.

At the end of the day, no matter how tired, or exhausted, or wore out I am, the bottom line is I love my kids. Ciera is my princess, and the 2 little hooligan's are my boys. I hope I can be a good Dad to all of them. I hope they will grow up and marry well. I hope they all will be life long Sox fans.

Most of all, I hope they know their Dad loves them very much. That I am proud of them. And that no matter what they do, or what they say, at the end of the day, they will know that their Dad has their back.

I hope.

Having a catch

Winter took the day off today, and I was finally able to take the munchkins outside to play. Rakes belly flopped onto Ciera's skateboard in the road, over adjusted just a tad, and did quite the face plant on the pavement. Meanwhile, Ciera is somehow riding her bike, skateboarding, and roller blading seemingly at the same time, while Angie and I chased the newly walking Trot every which way but loose.

Still, it was nice to just get outdoors for the first time in months it seems. Of course, we ended the playtime the way we usually do: we had a catch. Ciera has loved doing this since she was 3, which is Rakes age now, and I alternate throwing to each one. I don't know how such a simple thing is so much fun, it just is. When it's just Ciera and I, she tells me what she did that day, or which rotten little boy chased her around the playground (I keep all boys names she mentions in a secret book in case I need it in a few years), or what she saw on TV that day. Somehow, just throwing a ball back and forth makes me feel even closer to her.

Rakes and I are going to spend a lot of evenings playing catch, I can already tell. He loves for me to "play baseball" with him, which is basically batting practice. For a 3 year old, he's pretty good at it: his focus is our biggest problem! A plane goes by, or he sees a butterfly, and it's ADD time. I can't wait until he turns 5 and we can sign him up for T-Ball, but I am going to have to break him of his "Big Papi pimping" every time he gets ahold of one!

Winter gave us a peek at spring today, the Sox are in Florida getting ready for 2007, and the first Spring Training game is Wednesday night, with Schill on the hill. Before long, the season's gonna start, my blood pressure will go up, and we'll be outside every evening having a catch.

It don't get much better than that.

You ain't no Dirt Dog. At least not yet.

Replacing a favorite son can't be easy. Ask Edgar Renteria how it feels to play SS for Boston the year after Nomar is traded. (I know: The OC finished out 2004, but he was so happy to get out of Montreal that his personality won over people. Plus I think the bad vibe toward Nomar was fresh in 04. Reality sunk in that he was GONE in 05). Ask Bobby Murcer what it felt like to follow The Mick (that's for you bub) as the Yankee CF full time. Go up to the catcher who takes Tek's place one of these days and see how it feels to follow a local icon.

Trot Nixon was a fan favorite, a guy who seemed like he got how truly blessed he is to play a kid's game for a living. JD seems aloof and a little pompous. Nixon would run through a wall to get to a ball, while Drew has a reputation for being soft. Trot is a dirt dog, while Drew is looked at as being injury prone. If you think about it though, Trot has been injured for most of the last three seasons, while Drew had a pretty dadgum good year out in LA last season.

Ciera, my daughter, was pretty upset when I told her Trot went to Cleveland. She's 8, so she does not get why Trot, Petey, Nomar, etc.. are no longer in Boston. Rakes is OK if he can see Papi or Manny or "Cut Schwing" (Schill), and thankfully by the time Baby Trot knows whats going on, Big Trot will be retired or back in Boston. Shoot, it's hard for me to not get attached to guys, and I'm 36 years old, so I can imagine what is running through Ciera's head.

As for Drew, I'm going into this with a clean slate. Fact is JD Drew is the RF for the Boston Red Sox. Whatever he has done or said in the past is just that: in the past. I hope he hits .310, with 30 HR's and 125 RBI's. I would love nothing more than for him to win the Gold Glove, run through the bullpen fence, and charge the mound at Mike Mussina in Yankee Stadium next year. On the front of his jersey it says Red Sox, so I'll yell my lungs out for him.

Just remember JD: the guy you are replacing set the bar pretty high. You ain't officially a dirt dog.

Yet.

Spring has sprung.

Coco Crisp has hair now. So does The Papelbot, but his looks like he should be singing lead for Flock of Seagulls. Kevin Youkilis looks like a thinner version of David Wells, and the Red Sox, apparently, signed some guy from Japan. I know this because all of a sudden, there are 1,000 Japanese reporters wandering around camp trying to take pictures of Matsuzaka going to the bathroom.

Spring Training is the weirdest time: all of us fans are excited about baseball being back, and the players, for the most part, just want to get their work in so they can make their tee times. It's kind of like Christmas time at school for Ciera: she's at school, but she's not really working. She watches a lot of videos, does basic work, but not too much serious stuff gets done. Don't get me wrong, guys are getting their timing down, building up arm strength, getting into that final level of fitness they need to for the season. For the most part though, 90% of the guys are ready to go. Wily Mo hit a moon shot and broke his bat in BP today for Pete's sake: I think he's close to ready.

Schilling has learned some Japanese, and is proudly speaking it to anyone who will listen. I compared Rakes to Millar a while back: he's got a little Schilling in him too. Smart, opinionated, loud, and almost NEVER stops talking. Tek was fist bumping Dice K and Papi and JD Drew are due soon. Meanwhile, on the Manny front, his spokesperson, Crazy Julian says Manny is taking care of his sick mother and will arrive March 1st. Poor lady, she always seems to get afflicted with some type of sickness right when camp opens. Weird.

First game: a week from tomorrow vs. the Twins.

Let's get it on.

Things are looking up

After a long winter of ear infections,and a three year old who seems to be copying the daily life of Dennis the Menace, things are looking up. My daughter is 8 going on 18, and my wife, who despite having the patience of Job dealing with all the things that happen daily to a stay at home Mom, is just one of my stupid comments away from using my head as a pinata. Even so, the sun is shining.

I've been self employed for the last 14 years and have to make quarterly payments of my estimated taxes. My accountant called yesterday, and for the first time EVER, I'm getting a refund. Not just a federal refund, but a state as well. The fact that I made less, have a higher mortgage, and get mugged by my health insurance company every month is not going to take away my joy at this unexpected windfall.

I spent 2 hours watching NESN videos on Spring Training last night, and finally made it to bed around 1 this morning. Am I certifiable? Yes. I blabbered on and on to Angie this morning about what Tito and Theo said in their 20 minute press conference, even though they are more tight lipped than the Bush administration about anything important, and basically said nothing in that 20 minutes. Did not care. It was baseball.

Down in FL, pitchers are throwing, guys are running, and Schill is talking 90 miles a minute to anyone who will listen. Any day now, Manny will come skipping into camp, grinning and pointing, and the man hugs will commence. Inside, I'm doing a happy jig.

Because baseball, finally, is here.

Get back. Get back to where you once belonged?

I read an article on Randy Johnson today, talking about now that the Unit is back in Arizona, everything is OK with him again. Forget the fact he's 43 years old and coming off back surgery. That creaky arm and suddenly hittable slider? Don't worry about it. He's grouchier than the Grinch and makes Albert Belle look like the President of the Glee Club, but it's all good: he's going home.

Down in the heart of Texas, another aging player seems to think he's Ponce de Leo'n and has found the fountain of youth: Sammy Sosa is going back home to the team who drafted him, the Texas Rangers. Sammy's bat speed resembled Morgan Freeman driving Miss Daisy in 2005. Do the Rangers actually believe that after a year away from big league pitching that all of a sudden it's gonna turn into 1998 again? Of course Tom Hicks is the man who gave Slappy that $250 million dollar deal, signed Chan Ho Park of all people to a huge deal, and still thinks you can win championships with big bats and mediocre, at best, pitching. So there you go.

Then there is the Rocket. Roger recently stated that the odds of him playing this year were 80/20, the big number representing the odds against it. Somehow, I doubt it. His agent says the three teams in the mix are the Astros, Yankees, and of course, Red Sox. To say Clemens exit from Boston was not pleasant is the equivalent of saying Slappy is a self absorbed, I want everyone to love me, prima donna. It just doesn't do it justice. Good news is all the major players from that time are gone: Dan Duqette, The Yawkey Trust, and while Dan Shaughnessy is still somehow employed, even that won't prevent Clemens from coming back. At least I think it won't. Bringing his career full circle, back to where he started and being The Sundance Kid to Schilling's Butch Cassidy has got a certain dramatic feel to it that Roger has got to love.

Can he really go back though? Can any of us? I wish I could go back and break up with my "first love" who went on a mission trip of all things and messed around with some long hair, then came back and broke up with me. Or I could go back to when I was 13 and my buddy and I put a hole in the wall of the church foyer pretending to championship wrestle. OR, I wish I could take back every stupid thing I've ever said to Angie. Point is, I can't. And while Roger, Sammy, and the Unit can go back in one sense, they can't REALLY go back.

I hope Randy realizes that while Brandon Webb is a very good pitcher, he ain't Schilling and it's not 2001 again. Surely Sammy knows that 60+ bombs and cheers for running out to the outfield are WAY back in his rear view mirror. Somehow, I don't see Michael Young and Mark Texiera letting Sosa blast his salsa music in the clubhouse happen either. Roger, well, he may be the exception to the rule. If he came back to Boston, instead of New York, he'd return a hero. The past? Forgotten by most. Rogaaah would be home.

My gut tells me Clemens re-signs with Houston. My head tells me he takes George's millions and gets the band back together with Andy Petitte. My heart? It says Roger comes back to Boston for one last run at glory. A true Texan, I gotta believe The Rocket wants to go out in a blaze of glory, trading fastballs and quotes to the media with Schilling all the way to the end. The only negative I see in this? Josh Beckett might spontaneously com bust if Schilling AND Clemens were both yapping in his ear every night.

Will it happen? I doubt it. Think about this though: Schilling, Beckett, Papelbon, Matsuzake, Wake, AND Clemens to choose from come October?

Admit it: it got your heart pumping, right?

Better Days

Fighting some evil stomach bug for the last 36/48 hours or so, I've tried to make my mind think happy thoughts, hoping to forget the fact my stomach sounds like a volcano about to blow. It's worked most of the time, especially when I find a picture like the one I posted here.

It's got a little bit of everything: Manny flipping his bat away, pimping a massive moon shot, Fenway Park on the verge of erupting, and the only thing Posada and the rest of the Yankees can do about it is watch as it leaves the field. I know a lot of people don't like it when Manny or Papi stand and admire their work, but my view is if you don't want them pimping it, don't give 'em anything to hit: if you do, hey, it's all on you.

So, as I sit here sick as a dog, with it freezing outside, and the season still 6 weeks or so away, I'll keep thinking my happy thoughts. Taking my kids outside to play catch, or taking Ciera fishing. Teaching Trot how to throw a ball for the first time, and watching Rakes do his best Papi bat flip as he hits his wiffleball around. Sitting up until 11:30 every night, watching the boys win another one. Seeing Manny do his thing, or watch Papi walk off with another 9th inning bomb.

Here's to Better Days.

Play Ball

Beckett, you're my BOY! (Saying it just the way Will Farrell did in Old School to the old guy). Baseball is finally back, as Beckett, along with Jonathan Papelbon, and if you look real close, at the far right of the picture, Jon Lester all are in Florida for Spring Training. It's great to see these young guys showing up 4 days before they have to, showing how much they are ready to strap it on and get after it. Lester, in particular: if you don't know, he was diagnosed with Lymphoma during the season last year, and had to stop playing to get treatment. From all accounts, he is in good health and ready to go. Whether he makes the team out of camp is irrelevant: the fact he is THERE is the story. Even Matsuzaka showed up today around noon, playing a little long toss in the outfield.

It seems like it's been forever since the Sox played: the end of the season was bizarre, to say the least. After a 3 1/2 hour rain delay, Devern Hansack, a Double A call up throws a no hitter through 5 innings, then with the rain coming down again, they call the game. Talk about going out with a whimper, not a bang. Weird ending to a weird year: First place until the 5 game series known forever to me as "The Yankee Massacre". It was right at this point the boys resembled more of a M.A.S.H. unit than a ball club, with a rash of injuries so big and so bizarre, you could almost image Big Stein holding a Red Sox doll in his lap and driving pins into it.

Now, I feel like my kids do on Christmas morning, or the way Ciera feels on the first day of school. I feel like Red on his way to finally meet up with Andy in Mexico in Shawshank: I almost cannot contain my sheer giddiness that the season is right around the corner. I've got a lot I want to do this season: I'm gonna try to score at least 3 games a week, teach Rakes how to throw a knuckle ball, and keep working with Ciera on her catching. I have to get my chair ready for the last 4 innings of each game for when I sit on the edge, rocking back and forth like Dustin Hoffman in "Rain man", muttering to myself. Gonna take the kids, wife, brother-in-law Scott, and whoever else wants to come down to Greenville, S.C. to see Gabe and the Greenville Drive this summer. And of course, Mattie and I take our annual trip to Camden Yards to catch a few games in September.

My buddy Shawn is a Yankee fan, who even though he would never admit it, KNOWS Papi deserved the MVP instead of Slappy McBluelips. He's a good guy, even though his baseball team is a legion of Satan, and he and I can actually talk about the game and our teams without arguing. (Although after the GREATEST CHOKE IN SPORTS HISTORY in 2004, he would not answer his phone for 5 days. Hard to argue with yourself.). He told me the other day that the Red Sox actually had him worried about this year. To get a Yankee fan to even half way admit the Sox are on his radar is a major accomplishment, so I feel good! I have a good feeling about this year.

Sunday, February 18th is the day. The day everyone is expected in camp. I, for one, can't wait. My wife, however, is not so excited. She realizes that in about 45 days, she loses the main tv for roughly 6 months. I told her it was all right, she was married to me, and that should be reward enough on it's own! Her response? The universal symbol for "We're number 1!" Although it's normally done with the index finger, not the middle one.

Play Ball!

The days are long. It's the years that are short

I heard the title of this post today, and if you think about it, it really is true. How every winter, it seems like the days just drag until Spring Training, then it takes forever to get to opening day, then the year just flies by: well, that's all true, but I'm actually talking about my kids!

We were married 5 years before Ciera came along. I'm glad we waited as long as we did. We got to know each other and become friends before the responsibility of raising children. We got to travel some, sleep in on Saturdays, and just got to keep falling in love. All our friends kept saying how we'd better get started because it could take 6 months or a year to get pregnant. Well, 28 days after we first started, Angie was pregnant. Tells me the night before we fly to Cancun for our 5th anniversary!

Once Ciera got here, life just seemed to move into 5th gear. I blink, and she is 3 years old. We had said we wanted to have 3 children, about 3 years apart, so we get pregnant again. You ever hear that Van Zandt brothers song that has this line in it? "If you want to hear God laugh, tell him YOUR plans". He had a different one in mind for us: we lost 2 babies in the span of 6 months, and we weren't sure then if we would be able to have anymore.

Flash forward to November of 2003, and Rakes comes along. About halfway through the pregnancy with him, the Doctor tells us there is a good chance Rakes has downs syndrome. We've got that on our minds the day he's born, and he then proceeds to come out with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck! If you know Rakes, or read this blog, you know he doesn't have Downs: boy is a live wire without insulation who travels everywhere he goes full throttle. He walks, talks, runs, and thinks at warp speed. Just goes to show you that Doctors don't know everything.

Lastly, there is Baby Trot. He'll be 1 year old the end of March, and it seems like yesterday we brought him home. It seems like it was yesterday for ALL of them: I have no clue where the last 8 years have gone. It seems like the day will never end, and as soon as you shut your eyes at night, it's daytime. Step back though, and look back at the years past: gone in a blink. One of these days it'll just be Angie and I again. Just like we started.

Treasure the time you have with your kids. If you don't have any, then treasure time with your spouse, or boyfriend/girlfriend, or just your family. Take your wife out on a date, or sit out on the porch swing and look at the stars while you hold her hand. Enjoy watching the Sox games with your kids or buddies, take the time to have a catch with your daughter or son. Jump up off your couch and scream at another Big Papi walkoff, even if you are gonna wake the whole house.

Live your life.

Because although the days seem like they will never end, it's how quick the years go by that will get you.

Favorites

*Picture courtesy of sittingstill.net*


Blew a gasket today: not in my car, but in my brain. It was the perfect storm of my allergies playing havoc with me, potty training a 3 year old boy, the 10 month old cutting his top teeth, and the latest all time classic from Hillary Duff coming out of my daughters bedroom that started the ball rolling. After changing the 3 year olds clothes for the 6th time in 4 hours, I went off like Mt. Saint Helen's. After apologizing to my boy, I realized that I can sometimes look like I favor my daughter over him, because very rarely do I have to raise my voice to her. She has her moments, but for the most part Rakes is my "strong willed" child. By the way, "strong willed" is just a nice way to say "stubborn as a mule". I love all three of my children the same, and made a promise to myself today to try to show that with how I treat them individually.



The Boston Globe is doing a survey on who people's favorite Red Sox are at each position. Now, I don't have any favorites when it comes to my kids, but I do with the Sox. So, instead of voting at the Globe website, I thought I'd list them here.

Catcher: It came down to Fisk or Varitek, and as good as Fisk was, I gotta go with Tek. Gold glove, Silver Slugger, catcher on the WS champ, and last, but not least, the guy who shoved his glove in Slappy's face.


First Base: Bill Buckner was my choice. He was a great player for so many years and gets remembered for being the goat in 86 vs. the Mets. Number one, he shoulda been pulled for a defensive replacement, and number two, even if he caught that ball, he never would have beat Mookie to first. Almost went for Millar here for sheer comedy alone, but decided his habit of hitting into more rally killing DP's at the worst time possible could not be overlooked.


Second base: Remdawg. Almost went with Bellhorn here, just because the guy was CLUTCH in 04, especially in the playoffs. When he hit that 3 run bomb in Yankee stadium and on his way to first gave the Manny point to the dugout: classic. Jerry Remy is a Red Sox institution though, and he and Don Orsillo broadcasting the Sox games are comedy of the highest order.


Shortstop: Nomar hands down. Rico Petrocelli was before my time, and you can't really compare Rick Burleson to Nomie. For awhile there, everyone thought Nomar would end up being better than Jeter or A Rod, but injuries and attitude brought him down. Traded to the Cubs at the trading deadline in 04, he now plays 1B for the Dodgers and had a good year last year. Nomar was one of the best in the game before the injuries though, and had he not gotten hurt, most likely would still be in Boston.


Third Base: Boggs, Hobson, Mueller? I went with The Professional, Billy Mueller. He played tough, hard third base while he was here, hit the walk off HR off Rivera in the earlier mentioned Tek/Slappy fight game, and was on the WS champs. I know, I know, Boggs is in the HOF and was one of the greatest hitters of his time. The image of him riding around on a horse, wearing pinstripes, and crying for joy in Yankee Stadium is burned in my mind, however, so Boggs can go screw.


Left Field: Since Teddy Ballgame was before my time, I gotta go with Manny. Remember, I said favorite player, not the BEST player. With Manny you get one of the greatest hitters ever for power, average, run production, on base pctg, etc.. as well as one of the all time characters EVER. Manny makes me laugh at least 5 times a game, and seems like a 10 year old in a mans body. Sorta like Tom Hanks in "Big".


Center Field: Freddie Lynn. One of the first players I can remember just making me go WOW as a kid, and I still can't figure out why he never turned into a Hall of Famer. This would have been Damon had he not sold his soul for 30 pieces of Silver to the Yankees. And 5 years from now, it may be him. Because at the end of the day, people will barely remember Damon played for the Yankees: he'll be remembered as the long haired bearded leader of the band of idiots who won it all.


Right Field: I named my son after him, so there should be no doubt. Christopher Trotman Nixon, we are gonna miss you. I hope you do great in Cleveland, and get back to Boston where you belong real soon.


Relief Pitcher: Rich Garces. Anytime a massively overweight guy with a huge gut, stick arms, short legs, and no rear end gives HIMSELF the nickname "El Guapo", which means "The handsome one" it's all right by me. That whole idea, by the way, comes from Bill Simmons so I can't take credit for it. But it's true.


Starting Pitcher: Roger, Petey, or Schill. I think Roger quit on the team his last 2 years, and then went on to win 4 Cy Youngs so as much as I still like Roger, I say no. Pedro was the best in the game for a remarkable 3 years in the late 90's-early 2000's, and before blowing his arm out pitching for the Mets last year, was still one of the best in the game. Plus, he was an absolute riot on days he was not pitching with the stuff he did in the dugout. But I gotta go with Schill as my favorite, which if you've read this blog, you already know how I feel about Curt.


Just like my kids, I love all the guys. Unlike my kids, I love a few of them a little bit more.


Ciera, Rakes, and Trot. Your Dad loves you all very much.

Fight Club

Had a fight (the talking kind, not the hitting kind) with the missus last night. As usual, we were both tired, exhausted, and working on not enough sleep. That happens when you have 3 kids, 2 under the age of three, and most nights we navigate around being mentally and physically whipped. Like most of our "fights", it started with me acting like moron at something innocent she said, which caused her to snap(it was justified snapping).

Anyway, typical of me, she tried to end it while I had to keep going, causing her to look at one point like Nolan Ryan did after his little dust up with Robin Ventura back in the day. If you don't remember this one, Ryan had plunked Ventura, who proceeded to charge the mound like Santa Anna at the Alamo. 40+ year old Ryan drops his glove, puts Ventura, some 20 years his Jr., in a headlock, and proceeds to give this punk about 7 or 8 punches to the head. Ventura never landed a shot, and after it was over there stood Ryan, red faced and trying to catch his breath. Angie looked JUST like that. Well, only WAY hotter than Ryan, but you get the point.

Everytime we have one of these little brouhahas, I try to compare it to a baseball fight. Yep, I'm fully aware I have a sickness, but it's all right. I've accepted it, you should too. Most of our arguments end up like most fights in baseball: a lot of standing around, pointing at each other and shouting the occasional random insult. We have never reached the Fisk vs. Munson battles like the one pictured at the top. Occasionally we get to the "I'm gonna charge the mound and try to tackle him, all the while hoping the catcher is gonna knock me down, we'll roll around a little, and then I'll act like I'm REALLY trying to break away from this 78 year old pitching coach holding me back" type fight.

Once, and only once, did we reach the "Pedro throws Zimmer to the ground and ignites WWIII " level. As usual, it was me being a moron, her TRYING to stop the thing, and me bound and determined I was gonna have my say. I'm not gonna reveal the reason for the fight: gotta keep SOME things private. Let's just say the end result was I slept on the couch for 2 straight nights. Like I said, those are as rare as Haley's Comet, and for the most part, we resolve things pretty quick.

A wise man once told us "Never go to bed angry" and in 14 years of marriage, both of us have tried to follow that advice. Even when she/I am NOT the cause of the argument, invariably we will apologize and kiss and make up. OK, most of the time it's my fault, and I know when I'm being a doofus, so I'll break the ice and give in. I love my wife, and am aware of the fact that I married up. WAY up.

I love my wife. And I know she loves me. Life is NOT like it is in the movies, and people argue and say stupid things. OK, I say stupid things and she puts up with me. We may argue and fuss, but I know she has my back. I'm just glad my wife is on MY side.

'Cause she ain't Posada. Or Munson.

She is Fisk.

Or better yet, she is Tek.

Only a WHOLE lot prettier.

A few Random thoughts

I'm experiencing what "real" writers call writers block, so just a few random questions and comments tonight.

Like, why is the man in this picture going to play RF for Cleveland this year, when the guy we signed for $70 million has been his virtual clone the last 3 years?

Why does your wife get mad when she uses a new recipe for dinner and ask you if you like it, but you say "It's not my favorite"?

When your 3 year old utters these words: "Do I still have my diaper on?" Get his Mom. STAT.

When the house is so quiet you hear crickets chirping, find said 3 year old ASAP. Be prepared for anything.

When your 10 month old is learning to walk, DO NOT make any sudden movements: if you do, very LOUD crying will soon follow.

Why do they call where you park your car a driveway, and where you drive your car a parkway?

If you ask you 8 year old daughter how her day went, be prepared for the verbal equivalent of "War and Peace".

Finally, Don't ever reveal to your family members you have a blog. They COMPLETELY take over!

Cowboy Up Rakes

Today, while trying to figure out which Red Sox player each of kids remind me of (Super Bowl Sunday: there is only so many variations of "Will Peyton Manning FINALLY win the big game" I can take for 7 hours), I thought I had Rakes pegged as being like Manny. Kind of goofy, with shared characteristics of laughing, loss of focus, and love of pudding. But tonight, after the opening kick off return for a touchdown, he pulled a Kevin Millar on me that made me change my mind.

Millar, for anyone who doesn't know, played 1B for the Sox from 2003-2005. He also led the team in man hugs, changing his hair style the most, and the most different ways a man can groom his facial hair. That's him in the picture, man-hugging a clearly "uncomfortable with this type of affection" Jason Varitek. Note the swim goggles on Millars forehead: this was the game in 2005 where the Sox clinched the wild -card, and Millar is clearly thinking ahead to the champagne and beer fight upcoming in the clubhouse.

Anyway, after the Bears scored and they were showing the Bear players on the sideline celebrating, RB Cedric Benson, dreadlocks in full glory, went by on the screen. Rakes turns to me, serious as can be, and says: "Dad, me just daw Manny at de dootball dame", causing Ciera and me to instantly bust out laughing. That's when it hit me: Rakes is Millar. Millar used to say and do some of the goofiest, funniest stuff that kept the rest of the idiots loose and laughing. Stuff about Pedro and Manny's hair, or crack jokes to Papi whenever he took infield at first. My favorite one was "You better use that glove for self defense purposes only". Sure he could exasperate you with his stumbling around at first, or his habit of hitting into a DP in a clutch situation. Yeah, the nonstop talking would wear you out after a while. But then he would have a game where he hit 3 bombs vs. the Yankees, or would lace a double off the Monster. Or draw the walk in Game 4, putting Dave Roberts in to make "The Steal". Finally, look at any picture taken of any combination of Millar, Manny, and Papi. I challenge you to find one where at least one of them, most of the time all of them, are not roaring with laughter.

Rakes is JUST like that: he can say something like he did tonight that will put you in tears from laughing. Or at our Halloween carnival last year when he stood up on the picnic table, with that megaphone of a voice, and yells out "Look at dat witch Dad. Dat a dary witch". Hilarious when you remember he can't say W yet, so he substitutes B instead. We'll be playing baseball with his little plastic bat and ball, and when he gets a hold of one, he freezes, pimps a little, the flips his bat over his shoulder. When I ask him why, he says "Dat de bay Big Papi do it Dad". Makes me smile every time. Yeah, he can exasperate the very will to live out of you after you have told him for the 1 millionth time to stop jumping on his brother. Or when he dumps ALL the toys out in the toy room just for kicks. Getting his sister to run away, squealing in horror at something he does: High comedy for Rakes.

But he'll turn right around and give his Mom a hug for no reason. Or his little brother. His sister will be playing with him, and he'll be so excited she is, he'll holler "dmon dis, let's go" so many times even she will start to laugh. We have several pictures where Rakes has that same mischievous look that Millar has in the one here it's scary.

I still haven't figured out the other 2 yet. Right now, Trot is , well Trot Nixon. Tough as nails, perpetually banged up, and always diving or falling. In the big Trot's case, his is always by choice. Baby Trot, not so much. Ciera is Schill: opinionated, confident, smart, and good hearted. I'm still trying to decide for sure though.

Rakes? Millar, without a doubt.

Cowboy up Son.

Father Curt

Dan Shaughnessy is a egotistical, self-absorbed, rabble rousing, pot stirring idiot. This guy writes a book 20 years ago blaming all the Red Sox struggles over the years on the fact they traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees. Forget the fact Ruth was a womanizing drunk who gave both the manager and owner constant grief. Forget the fact that Ruth wanted out. Forget the fact that Ruth, only a good player at the time, not the great one he would become, was known more for his pitching than his bat. Nah- the Red Sox sucked and never won the World Series was because of a CURSE.

And what does Mr. Serious Journalist do after the 2004 championship year? He writes another book telling us this time the curse, still real mind you, was reversed. If you ever read his column, most of the time he writes about the Red Sox, it's always something negative. He criticizes management, or ownership, or the player. After the 2005 season, he wrote a column on the fractured relationship between G.M. Theo Epstien and club President Larry Lucchino, causing Epstein to resign as G.M., only to change his mind after owner John Henry put a band-aid on the fighting. Obviously people like Shaughnessy because he still has his job, and is a featured writer for the top paper in New England. And Red Sox fans, especially ones who live in Boston, don't ever seem like they are happy unless they are in misery. So I understand the guys appeal, I just don't happen to like it.

This time he has really cranked my chain. He's going after Curt Schilling for seeking a contract extension for 2008. Schilling has asked for his contract to be extended for 1 year, at his 2007 price of $13 million per year. Sure, the fact that Curt is saying if it's not done by April 1 and he won't negotiate during the season bothers me. I don't like the timing of it, but if that's the way he feels, that's the way he feels. Speaking his mind has never been a problem for Schilling his whole career, and that's a big reason why Schilling is a either you love him or you hate him kind of guy. Guess which way I feel.

See, for me, what Schilling did in 2004 gets him a free pass for life with me. Not only did he swagger into town like John Wayne at high noon, he embraced playing in Boston like no athlete in recent memory. Unlike other players, Schilling GETS it. He talks to the writers, the fans, the radio and tv people. Passionate, loyal, and yeah, cocky is how you can describe Schilling. To be a great athlete, you have to be all three and more. Tough and team first are others. And after winning 21 games in '04, Schilling starts Game 1 of the ALDS versus the Angels that year and gets the win. In the 7th inning of that game he came off the mound to field a ground ball and came up limping. Turns out to be a dislocated ankle tendon.

Flash forward to Game 1 of the ALCS vs. the Yankees. Schilling looks nothing like the flame throwing, spittin', cussin' ace he's been all year. The Yankees are up 6-0 before the 3rd inning is over, Schillings out of the game, and every Red Sox fan feels like fate just kicked them square in the marbles. Down 3 games to none, everybody living in a civilized country knows what happens: they go on to win it all. They don't do that without what Schilling did in game 5 of that series or game 2 of the World Series. With stitches, Super glue, and rubber bands holding that tendon in place, with blood seeping out through his sock, Schilling manned up and gave the team 7 and 6 innings respectively. Through intense pain and damage to his body, he sacked up and mowed 'em down, knowing he was putting his next season, even career, in jeopardy.

He missed the early part of 2005, struggled as the closer for a time, then sorta bounced back to finish up OK. Last year, he won 16 games, went 6 innings or more each start, and along with Josh Beckett was one of the only 2 pitchers the team could count on all year. At nearly 40 years old, a time when most pitchers his age are in the bullpen or retired.

So yeah, I have no problem with Schilling getting paid for one more year. At 40 he is still better than 90% of pitchers playing today. I'm sure he saw all the monopoly money being tossed around this off season and realized he could get paid. It's not that Schilling is a bad guy either: he is very active in finding a cure for Lou Gherig disease, as well as several other charities. He's a loyal husband and father, which if you've read this blog, is a characteristic and example I try to live by.

Give him one more year. Pay him not for what he'll do in '07, for what he did in '04.

Happy Day's are here again. Almost.

Stupid computer problems have kept me from posting since Tuesday. I get a update from Microsoft to download on Wednesday, so like a idiot, I download it. It was some new toolbar that for some reason would not let me sign on to post, so I un-download it. (Yes, I realize that is probably not the correct term, but since it's a small miracle I can actually navigate this blog, just let it go.)

Anyway, I'm happy to say that with my brother in law Keith's help, I'm up and running again so my family members have a new post with which to insult me in the comment section. So have at it guys!

February 16th is the day pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training for the Red Sox. I feel like Red in Shawshank Redemption when he gets paroled and is on his way to Mexico to meet up with Andy: I'm so excited I almost can't contain myself. When the season ended in October, with the Sox in 3rd place, I felt kind of lost and sad. As the winter goes on, the sadness sort of goes away, replaced by a little emptiness. Now, with Spring Training so close, I'm excited and anxious to get it going again. I feel like Ciera and Rakes on Christmas morning, or Trot when he sees his bottle when he's hungry, like I want to jump out of my skin. I'll clarify that in saying I'm not squealing at the top of my lungs, crying, or drooling. OK, I AM drooling just a little, but that's OK.

2007 is gonna be exciting for me. On paper, the Sox look like an elite team again. With Matsuzaka and the Papelbot joining Schill, Beckett, and Wake in the rotation the staff looks as strong as any ones. And with JD Drew, if he can stay healthy, hitting 5th and giving Manny some protection, the lineup should be banging out runs at the 04-05 pace.

Baby Trot is starting to walk, and imagining the trouble he and Rakes will get in is, in it's own way, exciting. They are growing up and are gonna have a lot of fun together over the course of the year. Ciera will turn 9 and start 4th grade this year. And in December, me and my best friend will be married 15 years. How she has not smothered me with a pillow while I sleep is one of life's great mysteries, but somehow she has put up with me all this time.

I've got a feeling that 2007 is gonna be a good year. For the Sox and for me.