Forget the Sox missing out on sweeping the Yankees by one run, Giambi and his PED enhanced body hitting the game tying Home Run AND the game winning single, and the 50,000 + convicts sitting in the stands at the Toilet today.
Even bigger is The Commander heading to Birmingham, AL to visit Dr James Andrews, baseballs version of Jack Kevorkian; apparently the guy can fix ligaments, tendons, and bursa sacs better than anyone, but just hearing the guys name gives me a case of the hives. 'Cause him, ballplayers, and elbow pain doesn't usually end well.
When I heard on the way home Beckett was headed his way my first thought was "Tommy John Surgery" which was immediately followed by George Carlin's "7 Words you can't say on Television" which was backed up by my fist hitting the steering wheel.
Losing Beckett at this point in the season would be tantamount to dropping your gun in the middle of a bank robbery surrounded by the L.A. Swat Team. In other words? Not good.
I've been praying for the last hour that Beckett walks into his office, utters a stream of expletives not seen since Richard Pryor was Live on the Sunset Strip, and shuffles back to Boston with lightning in his arm and piss and vinegar in his veins. This is my heart talking; my head keeps telling me what I've always known; I'm a freaking moron.
Until I hear otherwise, I'm sticking my head in the sand and pretending everything is OK and it's just a Wii injury. Because thinking about trying to get past the Rays or maintain the Wild Card lead without the 2008 version of Nolan Ryan just makes my head hurt.
4.5 games out of first in the AL East and a 2 game lead in the Wild Card race as I head to bed. It could be worse.
Just ask Joe Girardi and the Yankees.
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