Reality bites.

In my head I know it's over. Knew it was over in July when it seemed like the Red Sox were suffering from some biblical plague of injuries and bad luck. Too many guys were lost for the season and too many blips from the pitching staff and it was a testament to the heart of this team and the leadership of Terry Francona they stayed alive as long as they did.

Whatever happens, I'm proud of the way they fought and I'm proud to call the Red Sox my team. So as the season slips toward October and the reality that the boys won't be playing in the post season slowly sinks into my thick skull, I can comfort myself with memories of '04 and to a lesser extent '07 and know that next year, or the year after, or the year after that they have every chance in the world of doing it all over again.

I'll watch the youngsters get a chance to shine and revel in the fact that The Large Father can still tear the cover off the ball. I got to see a career resurgence of Adrian Beltre, not to mention his OCD regarding his head. Clay grew up right before my eyes, Lester continued on his journey to being one of the best left handers in the game, and Daniel Nava and Darnell McDonald, no matter what they do from here on out, will live forever in Red Sox lore.

So, no matter what the naysayers come up with, I'll be watching to the bitter end. Hoping, dreaming, cheering, and cussing a blue streak all at the same time. 'Cause in a few short weeks it'll all be gone, at least for the winter. Sure they'll be signings and trades and the winter meetings and Spring Training but the bottom line is it's 6 months between the World Series and Pitchers and Catchers reporting and I've got Trot and Rakes and the fact it's too cold to play outside and I'm all outa Prozac at the moment so forgive me for freaking out just a little.

Throw in I'm a Redskins fan and THIS is what I see every time I think about the upcoming NFL season?

I wonder if they need a slightly graying furniture salesman in Maui for the next 6 months?

My Day Off

It started with Ang, Rakes, and Ciera sounding like a herd of elephants as they went out the door, came back in the door, then went back out the door followed closely by Trot and his morning request of a piece of cheese and would I PLEASE TURN ON BOBOB.

He and I ran errands, got gas, went to the grocery store, ate lunch with Rakes and then came home where I read him a story and put him down for a nap.

Where he promptly wet the bed, soaking himself, the comforter, sheets, AND plastic sheet on the bottom.

After Ciera and Rakes got home we went to the library, where he immediately climbed to the top of those detector things at the door that make sure you aren't Bogarting a book home. I'm pretty sure the librarian lady had a mini stroke.

Then it was dinner and off to soccer practice where Trot threw grass, tried to grab the coaches whistle 278 times, pinched some little girls cheeks and trash talked this poor 3 year old who couldn't stop crying for some reason.

13 years ago I had quiet, money in the bank, no charges on my credit cards, and weighed 150 pounds.

And God help me, but I wouldn't change a thing.

I think I've gone insane.

He just can't win for losing.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O and www.sittingstill.net*

There are numerous reasons the Red Sox lost last night starting with Clay throwing over to first approximately 597 times trying to hold Carlos Pena, who he apparently thinks is the reincarnation of Lou Brock, then throwing one over Lowell's head that I don't think Manute Bol could have caught.

Throw in Buchholz giving up the HR to Upton, Atchinson giving up his HR, guys left on base all over the diamond, and just plain bad luck. And yes, in hindsight, JD probably should have let that foul ball drop instead of traversing the Rays bull pen and dodging more hazards than you see in Frogger to make a spectacular catch but letting Pena tag home.

I just don't think you can fault a guy for doing what he's been taught to do since he was 5 years old; go get the ball. Throw in having to judge where the thing was going to come down while looking at the bottom of a UFO WHILE you decide whether to let the ball drop or catch it?

I just don't see it.

I'm hoping tonight is the night Lackey shows us all what they brought him here to do; shut the door, stop the bleeding, and send the Sox to Baltimore on a high note.

Let it Be

In times of great distress and angst for the Red Sox, when they are seemingly down and out with Youk, Pedroia and Ellsbury out for the year and Tek on the DL and Lowell gimping his way to first, I look to Millar.

Yeah, we may be 4 1/2 games back, and yeah, the odds are stacked against us, it ain't like they haven't been here before.

In 2004, they were down 0-3 to the Yankees and it was Millar who kept yelling "Don't let us win tonight!". 8 games later they were world champs.

And the video I posted is yet another sign to Look to Millar; down 3-1 to Cleveland in the ALCS in 2007, another 8 games later and they were world champs.

I'm in the process of writing Theo a letter begging him to hire Millar as an inspirational speaker for the next 6 weeks.

If nothing else, dude has a proven track record.

It wasn't over when the German's bombed Pearl Harbor.

And at least in THIS house, it isn't over until Kevin Millar say's it's over.

Back to School

First day of the 2010/2011 school year was yesterday and Rakes dressed accordingly.

New Chucks, new WWE lunchbox, and new Sox t-shirt.

Talking with him about his day at school is usually about as easy as extracting information from one of the Gambino family but yesterday he was pretty excited to share something about his day.

Me: "How was school, buddy?"

Rakes: "Good, Dad. Dad; can I tell you something?"

Me: "Sure, bud."

Rakes: "Dad, in Mr. Agner's class? He doesn't have any Green cards, yellow cards, or red cards!" (Last year, they sent home a card each day with one of the three colors; red meant you got in big trouble, yellow meant you got in a little trouble, and green meant you were good all day. Let's just say his book bag resembled Christmas most of the time. A LOT of Green and Red.)

Me: "Really? So how do we know if you got in trouble that day?"

Rakes: "Dad. I don't think we can GET in trouble in Mr. Agner's class!"

First grade is gonna be interesting.

To say the least.

And I wouldn't change a thing if you paid me.

When The Three Amigos set off on our epic road trip, the roles for each of us was clearly defined. Rich was the comic relief and well, it WAS his car we were driving. I was the elder statesman and go to guy should we ever run afoul of local law enforcement or anyone JB or Rich torked off enough to come after us with a crow bar in hopes I could diffuse the situation.

JB? The Guide. The man who knew where we were supposed to go, how we were supposed to get there, and he had it down to the minute on when we would arrive at our next destination.

Some sort of warning bell should have gone off when my two erstwhile traveling companions spent roughly 4 hours stuck in traffic in D.C. on their way to my house, but that could be shrugged off as bad luck due to the geniuses in D.C. deciding to move a crane across 8 lanes of traffic RIGHT when they arrived in our Nation's Capital.

What REALLY should have gotten our attention was when we were trying to find his own Dad's house, a place he'd been to many times before, and he was trying to get me to turn on a road that, in fact, did not even exist. Which raised numerous questions in myself and Rich's mind about the navigational skills of Josh, who we had by then started to call Magellan, much to his cranky dismay. In fact, any attempt by us to wonder about his directional ability was usually met with "The directions aren't the problem! It's the DRIVING that is the problem!". Mind you, this was usually hollered at Volume: ELEVEN from his position in the GTI.

These "directions" were the equivalent of the Nuclear Football the President carries around with him, much talked about but never seen. I could almost swear he had them in a three ring binder with a sticker of Rasheed Wallace in a Piston's uniform on the cover but it's been 2 months and I've got Rakes and Trot to deal with on a daily basis so I could be wrong.

But once I show you the photographic evidence Rich somehow unearthed recently you'll realize why I felt like Benjamin Gates to his Riley from "National Treasure".

No, that isn't parchment paper, although it wouldn't have surprised me if it was. And that dark stain probably isn't some valiant patriot's blood shed to protect an item of national security but more likely the result of a spilled dip cup but that IS his hand writing and those WERE the directions we were blindly following into the breach.

It's a freaking miracle we even found the state of Florida.

And I had more fun on this trip since I can remember.

To quote the Should have won an Oscar movie Young Guns?

Pals.

The Caveman Cometh?

He swore he'd never go to New York.

Then he did.

He did naked pull ups in the locker room, then went out did his thing.

He played at 150 rpms, throwing his body around like it didn't matter. If you don't believe me, just ask Damian Jackson.

Coining the term "The Idiots", he led that rag tag bunch of hell raisers to a miracle comeback over the Yankees and into history in 2004.

Then he was gone. To the Evil Empire of all places. And just like most of us thought, he thrived there, turning a clubhouse that resembled the boardroom of IBM into, well, a clubhouse. He even helped them win a World Series last year, but just like it was after 2005 in Boston? They weren't willing to pay him what he thought he was worth and he headed off to Motown.

Today, the Red Sox claimed him off waivers. Why? Who knows; maybe to block the Rays who need an outfielder, or maybe to block the Yankees who could want him back. Or they could just be thinking they are still in this thing, and with Cameron and Ellsbury gone for the year they would make one last shot at making the post season dance.

I realize his numbers are down. I know that on paper Nava and McDonald have better stats and come a whole lot cheaper. But if you've read this blog for any period of time you know I view stats and common sense and logic like I view Oprah.

I don't even turn on the channel.

My head tells me he'll reject the trade and my heart tells me he'll accept it, but honestly? I have no idea if he'll end up back in Boston.

But if you're wondering what the players on the team think about him coming back, I'll let The Captain set you straight.

"I remember his 10-, 15-pitch at-bats, fouling off nasty pitches, and the grand slam in Game 7 [of the 2004 ALCS against the Yankees]," said Red Sox captain Jason Varitek. "He plays the game the right way. He pushes energy. He's an exciting player. I never wanted to see him leave here."

Just look at what the Good Book say's about Prodigal Sons.

While they're at it, bring Trot out of retirement.

At this point, what do they have to lose?

You Just Never Really Know.

*Photo taken by the always awesome Kelly O @www.sittingstill.net*

15-5.

2.26 ERA.

Stopper.

2 years ago, if you'd told me Clay Buchholz would be the stopper I'd have told you to take the acid back to the dealer and demand a refund. Now? He's gotta be in the conversation for best pitcher in the American League and in the running for the Cy Young.

I'm selfish, so I love the guy for one reason only. He's the only pitcher on the staff that I DON'T go into the game wondering when I'm gonna have to start mainlining TUMS at some point during his start.

In yet another sign that God has decided to revisit the Book of Exodus, the Mariners come to town tomorrow along with two days of predicted epic rain.

Somebody keeps trying to tell this team that this ain't the year.

God love 'em for not listening.

Today? Was a Good Day.

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

It's been bugging me for about 2 years now but I finally realized who Jed Lowrie reminds me of.
Jon Cryer, or more specifically his character "Alan" from "Two and a Half Men".


And as much as it gives me the willies to see him playing First Base in Extra Innings, as long as he keeps hitting walk off HR's into the opposing bullpen he can stay at Charlie Sheen's house until the cows come home. After watching last night's 16-2 debacle, taking the kids to the pool for 3 hours right after work, and having a frustrating day of retail sales as you will find this side of Black Friday, watching the Sox stroll into Saturday night with a win is in the Top Five things that happened to me this week.

Number 1 is this.

Rakes had his first soccer practice today, and the assistant coach, and I quote, "Sounds like Mr. John"!

(He's from England.)

Trot has his first ever practice Monday.

I've notified the National Guard.

Just in case.

16-2.

*Image taken at Fenway Park around the 5th inning tonight*

I got nothing else.

Onward and upward tomorrow, fellas.

Every Picture Tells A Story

Except this one doesn't tell the complete version.

Ang was qualified for a cell phone upgrade, and even though we got BOTH phones at the same time, I wasn't. Seeing how MY phone required me to hold my mouth in a certain position and be facing NNE whenever I had to use it (Cyn, Kelly, JB, Amy, and others can verify this) we decided she'd get a Blackberry, I'd get HER old phone, and everything would be everything.

Which is fine in theory. In practice? I had to leave work early, drive home and get my phone plus pick up Trot since Ang had a migraine, and head to the local Sprint store to get the data transferred.

We weren't there 2 minutes and he grabbed his crotch and uttered "I gotta pee, Dad." Since Sprint apparently doesn't offer public restrooms we had to run down the sidewalk to the Christian Bookstore. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the store, the guy behind the counter undoubtedly saw my look of panic and Trot holding onto his marbles looking exactly like LL Cool J from some video in the 90's and just pointed to the rear of the store.

Afterword we headed back to the Sprint store where he yanked every display phone to it's very limit and I wore a bare spot out in the carpet while the really nice tech guy transferred my data to the newer phone.

THEN we drove to Lowe's to pick up air filters, went back home where I made the kids dinner, followed by giving the boys baths with one eye and trying to keep up with the game I watched Hideki Matsui take Beckett yard followed shortly after with the wheels completely falling off a 1-1 game.

Throw in Trot squeezing almost an entire tube of toothpaste out onto the sink and by the time the Angels mercifully put the Sox out of their misery I was fairly certain I was one more question away from a cardiac infarction.

So even though a picture tells a story, sometimes it doesn't tell the WHOLE story.

Or something.

Ciera's Birthday. Part Dos.

Expanding on last nights post about Ciera's birthday, my friend Tom Miles, who I've never met due to the fact he lives in England (I hope to rectify this sometime in the near future, since he has a daughter and I'd like to sit down for a few hours and commiserate on raising daughters) gave me this great bit of advice today.

"Two things, she's not a teenager yet. There is no two-teen.

And, I don't think there's any way to explain the relationship between a father and his firstborn only daughter. That sudden throbbing bellowing im...perative in your head which says "PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT!!!"

As for prospective suitors, I think international law says that you're allowed to kill the first one that breaks her heart and put his head on a spike in your front garden. To deter the others. Sure I read that somewhere."

I'm filing this away for future use.

Many thanks, Miles.

She's growing up and I'm growing old.

12 years ago tomorrow I fell in love for the second time in my life. Head over heels, heart stopping, anxiety inducing full on in love.

'Cause tomorrow afternoon at 12:58 p.m. marks the 12th year since the day my daughter came into this world and completely stole my heart away.

It's hard to believe she's a teenager now; seems like just yesterday I was rocking her to sleep and reading her stories and just sitting for hours with her curled up in my arms.

She still holds my hand in public and lets me say prayers with her at night and she's always the first one to run to the door to give me a hug and a kiss when I get home every night.

I DO realize it won't stay that way, more than likely. She'll get more independent and more into her friends, and God Help me, one day soon some young punk is going to come pick her up for a date and I'm gonna have to use every ounce of restraint I have in me not to kick him in the marbles and send him on his way.

I realize now what my Dad used to tell me about my sisters, that no matter how old they get or how old YOU get they will always and forever be your little girl. I couldn't be prouder of mine; in fact, I think she's the smartest, prettiest and sweetest 12 year old I've ever seen.

Happy Birthday, Sissy.

Love you more than you'll ever know.

Return of The Laser Show

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

Tomorrow night, Dustin Pedroia returns to his rightful place as second baseman of the Boston Red Sox.

I've got 5 to 1 odds the first reporter that asks him if the Sox have a prayer of making the playoffs gets a profanity laced tirade and a fist sammich as his answer.

Anybody else ready for The Laser Show?

Just spent the last 2 hours or so watching this.

The people who came up with the "Lethal Weapon" franchise need to send all the royalty checks to Redford and Newman's family.

Maybe the best buddy movie EVER.

Off day tomorrow, and then back home at Fenway after a 5-5 road trip. Not what I had in mind when it started, but like Mick once said.

You can't always get what you want. Sometimes, you get what you need.

Throw in Pedie coming back Tuesday night and I'm ready to party like it's 1999.

Yippee Kai Yay.

It's not often I get worked up over anything that doesn't involve the Red Sox, my family, or Jack Bauer.

But I have to admit, even though I'm sure it's full of every action movie cliche this side of Rambo, I cannot wait to see this movie.

And yes. I REALLY am 40 years old.

Believe it or not.

Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?

*Following is from the current issue of Sports Illustrated*

"With the Aug. 31 waiver deadline approaching, Boston needs to be a seller. Catcher Victor Martinez is a free agent at the end of the year, and third baseman Adrian Beltre, holding a player option, is likely to become one. Both could help contenders desperate for offense. The development of Daniel Bard has also made All-Star closer Jonathan Papelbon expendable."

Now, I don't know Joe Sheehan, the guy that wrote that. I'm sure he's a really nice guy who loves his family and pets his dog and waves hello to the little old lady who lives next door every morning. Being that he writes about it, I'm guessing he also loves the game of baseball.

But unless you've been living under a rock for the past 6 plus seasons you know that ONE thing this club doesn't do is quit. Ever since that bloody sock made it's appearance, this club doesn't fold up, give in, or ever utter "No Mas".

Down 0-3 to New York? No problem. Lose Pedie? We've got Bill Hall. Youk gone for the year? We'll put Mikey Lowell and his 98 year old hip over there and gut it out.

They are 4 games back of the wild card, have Papi and Drew and Beckett and Lester and more pride than anyone can imagine. I'd like to ask Joe Sheehan to go ask anyone in that clubhouse if they are ready to give up.

I'm fairly certain he'd get an atomic wedgie as his answer.

My name's Ted.

And until Terry Francona tells me otherwise?

The World Series is ours to lose.

Thankfully, he's on OUR side.

*Image courtesy of my friend Kelly @www.sittingstill.net*

I was going to post something about Pap blowing a 3 run lead in the 9th inning today but decided against it for two reasons. 1? It's over, it happened, and the Sox still took 2 outa 3 from a division rival so I'm not gonna complain. 2? Every time I think about it it feels like Trot just did one of his patented "I'm gonna hit Dad in the jimmy and not tell him it's coming" moves so I decided to go in a little different direction.

He's broken the ribs of not one, but TWO teammates in a matter of weeks, sports a cannon for a right arm, has this really weird aversion to having his head touched, and hit a home run while down on ONE knee.

To quote Jr? He's an ox, and that is meant in the most complimentary way possible.

Here, courtesy of WEEI.com, is an ode to Adrian Beltre.

• Adrian Beltre has never hit into a fielder’s choice. The choice is up to him.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre hasn’t made 15 errors. The official scorers have.
• 
  
• The reason Adrian Beltre throws flat-footed is to slow down the rotation of the earth.
• 
  
• NASA solved its early problems by having Adrian Beltre throw the capsules into space.
• 
  
• 
  
• Carl Everett thinks that Adrian Beltre is made up, just like the dinosaurs and outer space.
• 
  
• The ball that hit Adrian Beltre in the groin last season was put in protective custody, just in case.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre doesn’t like anybody touching his head because he’s afraid he’ll break their hands.
• 
  
• Even Chuck Norris is afraid to touch Adrian Beltre’s head.
• 
  
• Even Adrian Beltre’s helmet is afraid to touch his head.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre developed a new diagnostic tool for the medical staff: The Collide-A-Scope.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre once collided with himself. It was before Game 3 of the 1989 World Series.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre is the reason McDonalds discontinued the McRibs.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre once watched Delta Force on TV. Chuck Norris woke up the next day with three broken ribs.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre thinks it’s called a “pillow contract” because you can use it to suffocate sleeping enemies.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre is the reason baseballs need stitches.
• 
  
• It took Adrian Beltre only four swings to demolish the old Yankee Stadium.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre pulled a ball to the opposite field.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre only appeals to umpires on checked swings so they can feel important.
• 
  
• Scott Boras is actually an Adrian Beltre client.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre won “Connect 4″ in three moves.
• 
  
• When Adrian Beltre does a postgame interview, he asks the questions.
• 
  
• Adrian Beltre doesn’t wear spikes. The ground knows the only way to survive is not to let go.

It happens.

*Picture courtesy of ESF on the Survinggrady.com board*

In a season filled with injuries, close wins and losses, and apparently a biblical plague beset upon the Red Sox, with one line Don Orsillo captured the moment to perfection in MAYBE the best game of the season so far.

This needs to be on t-shirts, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, and tombstones from here on out.

Scenic.

That guy?

Ain't got nothing on THIS guy.



Mikey Two Bags isn't done yet.

Just ask the Blue Jays.

Married. With Children.

On days like this, I look to those who've walked this path before me.

OK, I look to Al Bundy.

If I told you Rakes and Trot were SO far out of control today that at one point I actually thought about just walking them next door and telling my neighbor "Ang will be home from Bunko around 9. Call her and tell her to pick 'em up then" would you believe me?

Bottom line is this; if Pap hadn't struck out Mr. Ed to finally win the game today while I was running back and forth into the house grilling dinner, I'm pretty sure I would have put up the pup tent in the back yard, told the kids to have at it, and applied at the nearest shoe store first thing in the morning.

By the way?

I'm still accepting those full time Nanny job applications.

2 Dinks and a Bulldog

I realize they are broadcasting to the "casual" fan who only turns in once a week or when the Yankees or Red Sox are on and to THAT fan I'm sure they love to get the story of Babe Ruth or how great Joe's Big Red Machine team was or don't even mind that Miller can't pronounce any ones name correctly.

Doesn't change the fact that I pray every week for a foul ball to bounce of one of their heads, ricochet onto the other one, rendering them both comatose so Orel Hershiser can actually get a word in edgewise since he's the ONLY one who makes sense.

They babble about movies, Joe's book, random celebrities in the stands, and other non-game related topics. It's like TMZ, only at the ballpark. And poor Orel has to be sitting there thinking "My nickname was the Bulldog, I was one of the best pitchers of my time, and I'm reduced to listening to these two clowns every Sunday night."

Look, I realize there are WAY more important things to worry about like the economy, that lunatic in North Korea, and whether Trot and Rakes will ever get the concept of flushing a toilet. I'm 40, have moderately high blood pressure and that isn't even counting the fact Ciera is going to someday soon utter "Dad, I've got a date this Friday".

I just can't help myself; those two start babbling and I'm that much closer to taking a tire iron to the television.

Ang is hoping I'll eventually grow up someday.

Coming to The Smoking Gun someday soon.

I snapped this mugshot of Trot today after he sneaked the chocolate syrup out of the fridge and drank straight from the top of it.

After I asked him the obligatory "What did you get into?" and received the equally obligatory "Nothing." he finally led me to the dining room and the opened bottle of syrup.

Thinking he looked like Clark Gable or Indigo Montoya from "The Princess Bride" made me snap the picture and plus, he didn't really make a mess so I let bygones be bygones and let him off with a warning and a promise to show this picture to every girl he ever brings home to meet me.

Turns out he somehow made it upstairs where he put it on the bathroom wall AND the towels hanging on the hooks (I'm telling myself that it was POSITIVELY the chocolate syrup and couldn't have been ANYTHING else so I won't completely lose it and curl up in the fetal position) so in hindsight I should have probably punished him somehow.

Except now he's peacefully asleep and I'm sitting here wondering how he got one over on me AGAIN.

The Commander on the hill from the Bronx tomorrow night.

Don't say you weren't warned.

Do I Amuse You? You think I'm FUNNY?

This picture was taken by my crappy phone off the computer, so I gotta apologize right off the bat for the quality.

However, the more I view footage from the "fight" against Cleveland the other night the more disturbed I get.

Beckett going nuclear doesn't bother me. He's good for one or two meltdowns a year and in this instance, his insanity was justifiable. Two of his guys had pitches thrown 8 feet behind their back and I'm sure he was just sending a "Hey, I'm saving all this in my head for sometime down the line and tell the poor guy whose ribs I'm gonna break it ain't personal."

It's Lackey that is totally freaking out. Out of nowhere this lunatic runs into the screen, apparently laughing, cursing, and looking to do some impromptu dental work all at the same time. Honestly, I think he's deranged; he's like some mixture of an extra from "Deliverance", Hannibal Lecter, and Cousin Eddie from "Vacation".

In the dark recesses of my mind I was secretly hoping he and Beckett would go Pesci and DeNiro ala Goodfellas on Duncan, complete with Lackey yelling "Lock the door, Tito!" over his shoulder.

I blame the Yankees series for my current mental state.

Paging Dr. Freud.

Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net

With the Sox currently sitting in third place and about 6 games back, I'd hate to think of where we'd be without Adrian Beltre.

Yeah, we might not have had to deal with the busted ribs of few outfielders, Jacoby Ellsbury wouldn't currently be the whipping boy of a portion of Red Sox Nation, and Mike Lowell POSSIBLY could have played several games at third if a certain wrecking ball of a man wasn't signed in the off-season.

But we wouldn't have had his bat, his glove, and his hilarious aversion to anyone touching his head. Which was tweaked to perfection tonight after his Grand Slam when Marco Scutaro flipped his helmet off his head followed by V Mart gleefully rubbing said dome with Beltre chasing Victor into the dugout.

They may not be as boisterous as The Idiots of '04 but for sheer lunacy?

I'll take this group every time.

Trust me. YOU'D have nightmares too.

This is the face I see in my nightmares, peeing on everything in sight, punching his brother in the marbles (suddenly it's their new favorite thing to do to each other, their sister, and I'm guessing the mail man if they ever catch him in a weak moment), and destroying the toy closet in under 3 minutes.

Then I wake up, it's 6 a.m. , and he's standing next to my bed asking if he can have some cheese.

Usually this happens after a particularly bad night by the Sox.

It's the 7th inning and they are losing 9-1.

Think I'll save myself some time and just put the cheese on my nightstand so I can at least stay in the bed in the morning.

Welcome Back, Senor Doubles.

*Picture taken by my friend Kelly, who may well be the best I've ever seen. You can catch more of her fantastic stuff at www.sittingstill.net*

When I grow up? I wanna be Mike Lowell.

Forget the fact I'm already older than he is, whatever athletic ability I once had is now confined to playing whiffle ball with my kids, and the only thing he and I have in common is we both rock the salt and pepper goatee.

He's gone through an off-season where he was traded but wasn't, a season of sporadic a/b's intermingled with trips to the DL and Pawtucket and apparently was going to be traded to the freaking YANKEES, of all teams, in a 3 way deal with Texas.

Yet he's handled it all with more grace and dignity than I can manage going to church, he's always the first guy off the steps of the dugout to man hug somebody who just went yard, and I'm fairly certain he could spend a month watching Trot and Rakes and utter "what special little guys you have. Full of energy!"

So, with Youk going on the DL with a pulled thumb muscle (I didn't even know this was possible. If this isn't proof enough that there is a plague of biblical proportions residing over Fenway Park right now I don't know WHAT is.) Scenic got the start at first tonight.

All he did was jack one over the Monster on the FIRST PITCH he sees, look like, well, Youk at first while making some sweet defensive plays and actually help calm Beckett down when the benches emptied in the 8th, which I'm pretty makes him qualified to be the Ambassador to the Middle East.

Good to see you again, Mikey.

All Beltre. All the time.

*Image courtesy of who else? Kelly at www.sittingstill.net*

I don't care about the fact he's put 2/3rds of the starting outfield on the DL.

He's got some weird aversion to having his head touched? No problem.

He plays the hot corner sans protective cup?

He's a grown man; he wants to take the chance a line drive renders him sterile? It's a free country.

All I know is he's a human hoover at third, has a swing tailor-made for Fenway Park, and anyone who can bang a home run over the Green Monster while swinging with one knee on the ground is a leading candidate to replace Mike Tyson as the official "Baddest Man on the Planet".

He's the reason why the Red Sox lost 6-5 tonight instead of 6-2 and I wouldn't blame him one bit if he stuffed Bill Hall in the laundry room for "admiring" his Home Run shot earlier in the game that turned out to be just a really impressive single.

Give him 4 years, $40 million in the off-season Theo, give Youk some mental security at first, and let's put a stop to the revolving infield, at least for a couple of years.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL

*Photo courtesy of my friend Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

Strangely enough, this photo is a happy one, even though Scoots looks like he's about to drop kick his helmet into the third row.

For the second day in a row, the Red Sox walked off in the bottom of the ninth with today's magic courtesy of a sacrifice bunt by Scutaro and a throw to first by the Tigers pitcher that would make Nuke Laloosh proud.

Not for nothing, but I'd REALLY like a 10-0 game that provides no drama sometime in the near future.

And my ulcer wholeheartedly approves this message.