13 HR's, 43 RBI's, 14 Doubles, 2 Triples, .327 BA, .432OBP, .601 SLG, and the best accent this side of Gomer Pyle in MLB.
JD Drew is playing the game of baseball in a way that would make Roy Hobbs envious. In all seriousness, if JD has a magic bat named "Wonderboy" I wouldn't be a bit surprised.
It's not just the hitting; it's the "holy s**t I can't believe he made that catch" play in RF, where he's almost, for the first time since he got here, made me stop wishing Trot could come back as his backup, a special assistant to the G.M., or "designated guy to stomp Jonny Gomes into a mud puddle the next time we play Tampa".
Even more impressive has been his ability to stay relatively injury free; usually by this point in the season, Drew has found a sprinkler head to trip over, had his back injured in a spirited game of "tackle the man who sounds like Bo Duke" with Manny, or been dive bombed by that crazy hawk that lives on top of one of the light towers at Fenway. So far, so good, and with the way he's playing we're all getting to see why Theo and Co. were salivating over him for so long.
As Angie and Ciera left for church tonight, I enjoyed about 15 minutes of relative calm with the boys before I heard a sentence that will give me chills for the rest of my life. Or until he can top this one, whichever comes first.
Rakes: "Dad. You better tome see dis. Trottie dot poopie ALL over de floor."
Too scared to look, I slowly walked over to the balcony, looked down, and saw Heckle standing over a spot of burnt-orange throw up while Jeckle looked up at me and uttered the following:
Trot: "Me sick, Dad. It dere. Me no sick now, Dad."
Combine that with Rakes doing his best Lloyd from "Dumb and Dumber" in my bathroom and having to change one of Trot's more fun filled diapers and my OCD was in hyper drive.
15 hand washings, 3 vinegar baths, and 1 brief consideration of a move to Antartica later, everything was back to normal.
Or what passes for normal around here, anyway.
Somebody pass the Prozac.
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