No, Son. We CAN'T buy one just for us.

The next door neighbor's little boy had his birthday party today, complete with a huge blow up water slide that caused all three of my kids, at various times today, to come up to me and ask for this to be their next birthday/Christmas present, whichever came first.

In the midst of all this I've got Josh Beckett pitching in Philly, Ang wondering why I'm running back home every 5 minutes and I had to change the battery on my phone on 3 separate occasions.

Whoever said being a Dad was easy obviously never had to multi-task.

Turns out the slide was far better than the game as the Sox lost 11-6, even though The Commander went yard in support of his own cause, Tito may have chosen his starting lineup with the old "Eenie Meenie, Mynie Moe" method, and Saito apparently let Jimmy Rollins know he didn't appreciate the Home Run earlier in the game with a good old fashioned fastball to the ribs.

One of these days I'm going to stumble across the secret formula on how to balance family life with an obsession with all things Red Sox. And when I do?

I'm retiring to some beach in the South Pacific where all I'll need is a satellite dish, the USA Today, and a hammock.

Big Business Needs a Reality Check

Apparently, Lowes has some program where they allow anyone to come to one of their stores to make some pre-arranged project as a community outreach program.

After today, I'm sure there is some middle aged store manager furiously dialing the corporate office demanding they discontinue this project ASAP after Huey, Dewey, and Louie descended upon the local affiliate.

Especially after they gave Trot a hammer and let him go.

Evidently this is some Father's Day present gone horribly wrong and while I'm confident it'll end in someone getting dismembered or fired, Ang is positive it'll be a day I'll never forget.

Finally, we have something we can agree on.

The only difference is I see a prison sentence in someone's future.

Al Pacino IS Terry Francona. Or Something.

Pacino is the Red Sox.

DeNiro the Yankees.

And yes, I can tie ANYTHING to Baseball.

It's the bottom of the 11th in Philly, Sox/Phillies are tied 2-2, and I'm spent.

10 hour workday + tired Ang + Rakes and Trot bouncing off the walls = Ted and his nerves are fried.

I'm hoping for a HR in the top of the next inning, followed by someone, ANYONE, striking out the side.

8-0

Even with their Ace on the mound, the Skanks can't avoid the sweep.

Season series record? Sox 8, Yankees 0.

If I could dance, I'd be doing the Macarena right now.

I really wish some ballsy New York reporter would walk up to Sabbathia right now and ask him if he ever thought Brad Penny would beat him.

::Moonwalks::

7-0. Life is good.

6-5.

Sox win and Wake takes the W.

That makes the season series 7-0 Red Sox.

I'm ignoring the fact that Pap almost gave me a heart attack and I'm reveling in the fact Joe Girardi is counting on 300 lb CC Sabbathia to save the series.

If I'd have took this scenario to Hollywood they'd have laughed in my face.

I'm getting out my broom for tomorrow; Sweeps don't suck.

Just Another Life Altering Day

They gave us a copy of this poem 6 years ago when Ciera started Kindergarten. My apologies to the author 'cause I'd give credit if I knew who it was. I'd forgotten about it until I watched my not so little anymore baby girl walk across that gymnasium floor and get her diploma for completing Elementary School.

Next year she's off to the New World Order known as Middle School where drama, cliques, and God help me, hormonal boys await. I take solace in the fact I've raised her the best I could, she has a heart of gold, and hates the Yankees with the white hot passion of a true member of RSN.

It's still 3 months away so I'm gonna spend the summer with my head buried in the sand like some mentally challenged ostrich and try and forget that she's growing up faster than I ever could have imagined. Anyways, here is the poem that brought tears to my eyes 6 years ago and brought 'em again today.

Dear World, I bequeath to you today one little girl in a crispy blue dress with two blue eyes and a happy laugh that ripples all day long and a flash of light blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs. I trust you'll treat her well.

She's slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. Never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proper, she'll wave a young independent hand this morning and say "goodbye", and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse. Now, she'll learn to stand in lines and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She'll learn to tune her ears for sounds of school bells and deadlines, and she'll learn to giggle, and gossip, and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way, and she'll learn to be jealous. Now she'll learn how not to cry.

No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch on a hot summer day and watch an ant scurry across a crack in the sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew. No...now she'll worry about important things like grades and which dress to wear and whose best friend is whose. She'll forget her blocks and dolls, and now she'll find new heroes. For five full years now, I've been her sage and Santa Claus, pal and playmate, Father and friend. Now she'll learn to share her worship with her teachers, which is only right. But, no longer will I be the smartest, greatest man in the whole world.

Today, when that school bell rings for the first time, she'll learn what it means to be a member of the group, with all its privileges and its disadvantages, too. She'll learn in time that proper ladies do not laugh out loud or kiss dogs or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms, or even watch ants scurry across cracks in the summer sidewalk. Today, she'll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends, and I'll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long lonely journey to becoming a woman.

So world, I bequeath to you today, one little girl in a crispy blue dress with two blue eyes and a happy laugh that ripples all day long, and a flash of blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.

I trust you will treat her well.

Love you, sissy.

Where did the years go?

This picture was taken Easter, 2004. Ang and I were 34, Ciera was 5, Rakes was about 5 months old, and I was still in my 3 day stubble look with no gray hairs.

And my cap didn't look like a science experiment. Still have it, though; Sox won it all that year with me wearing that cap so I break it out in event of an emergency, i.e. Sox/Yankee series.

Flash forward 5 years. I look like Colonel Saunders, Rakes is a roving terror who I'm still convinced is cyborg sent from the future, Ang is prettier than ever, and tomorrow Ciera graduates Elementary School.

It should come as no shock to anyone I'm not freaking ready for this. Middle School? Boys, drama, and daily prayers in the morning that the same little girl I kiss goodbye will come back to me that afternoon?

When my Grandfather passed away I was given his prized shotgun and a box of shells.

Any boy stupid enough to come calling?

Consider yourself warned.

Best Thing About Today? The Fenway Hawk

*Image courtesy of Yahoosports.com*

Sometime around mid-game today, the Fenway Hawk did a drive by of the infield then flew majestically back out toward the Green Monster and beyond.

It was the highlight of today's game.

Even though Daisuke struck out 8 and walked 0, he still gave up 10 hits and 5 runs while the Red Sox managed a whopping 4 hits off the immortal Vincente Padilla in a 6-3 loss.

I could try and unravel the box score, break down the career statistics of batter vs hitter, and expand upon my views of baseball in the land of the rising sun, but it won't make a bit of difference.

I live my life by this simple credo.

Some days you're the bug and some days you're the windshield.

Today?

The Red Sox were made of glass.

Off day tomorrow, then the Yankees come to town. 5-0 so far this year with Beckett going in Game 1.

It could be worse.

Disturbia Indeed.

It was yesterday I brought her home from the hospital.

Really.

Tonight in Boston? Lester throws a complete game; 2 hits, 2 walks, and 11 K's.

Having two studs at the front of your rotation?

It doesn't suck.

First place in the AL East rules.

Yep. That's my Daughter

Ciera and her friend Caroline won "Most Original and Creative Performance" at the talent show tonight dancing to "Disturbia" by Rhianna and making me long for the days of pig tails in her hair and cries of "Daddy Home!" when she was 2.

Proud doesn't begin to cover it and I'm currently uploading the video so I can post it later. However, due to the fact it's over 2 minutes long it's going to take approximately the same amount of time it took that dude to build the Statue of Liberty so hopefully by tomorrow night I can link it.

Really proud of you, Sissy. It took a lot of guts to get up in front of your peers to do that and you guys rocked.

That said, the next time I see you with that much make up on better be Halloween and you best be going as a clown.

Or we've got issues.

Another Letter from the Desk of Miss Hathaway

*Image courtesy of Kelly at www.sittingstill.net* (I think)

Dear Mr. Geritol,

Let me start off by saying I don't really think your name is Mr. Geritol. I'm only typing what my employer railed at me over the phone today; I'm guessing Geritol is the name of the gentleman who discovered your fine product who long ago sold out for millions of dollars and is now either dead or laying on a beach on some tropical island and sipping a fruity drink with an umbrella in it.

Please understand I'm a 50 year old spinster who needs the money and is just following the directive of my slightly insane superior. In his defense? Have you SEEN his children? Beasts, I tell you. BEASTS.

After a 10 hour day where, and I quote "I'm going to eventually shove a recliner in an area not exactly large enough", I received a call on the Bat Phone around 7 p.m. I've discovered these are usually never good calls and today was no exception.

After rambling for roughly 10 minutes about some "dink" stepping on Youk's ankle (Youk is a heavily bearded gentleman with anger issues and apparently a gland problem due to his excessive sweating that plays for the Red Sox), the fact Big Papi is THIS CLOSE to busting out, and a proclamation that "Josh Beckett say's FYYO" to the rest of the league he finally got around to the purpose of this letter.

Again, don't shoot the messenger; I'm just passing along the words of my, and I use this term loosely, esteemed employer.

"Why in the name of all that is good and holy have you idiots not signed Tim Wakefield to a lifetime contract as the spokesperson for your company? He's 7-3, has a beer belly Homer Simpson would envy, kisses babies and visits sick kids in the hospital, my 3 year old can throw harder than he does, and he's 43 years old."

I try and keep up for the benefit of my employer (he gives bonuses for knowing the team leaders in each category, although I'm pretty sure "How many times Terry Francona looks like he's having a seizure" isn't an "OFFICIAL STAT") and I'm fairly certain there aren't many teams where the guy most likely to be voted "Coolest Grandpa at Pre-School" is an official stat.

I do know this man is the epitome of what I'd like my Son's (If I'd ever gotten married) to emulate, knows his way around a lineup, and can make that doofus Alex Rodriguez look completely silly with a 61 mph pitch.

Which only makes me want him that much more.

Sorry; did I say that last line out loud?

Back on topic, whoever is in charge of market research/development and company spokesman, please seek out Mr. Wakefield's representation on this matter. According to the imbecile, I mean upstanding citizen I'm employed by, this will be of great benefit to your company.

In closing, please accept my condolences on the future phone calls you'll be recieving. It really is in your best interest to make Mr. Wakefield your spokesperson within the next few months. He's like a retarded pit bull in that regard.

I've tried to tell my employer that deranged and stupid is no way to go through life, but I'm fairly certain he's not listening.

Sincerely,

Miss Hathaway

P.S. Is there any way you could slip Timmeh my phone number?

Spitting Nails and Breathing Fire

No hit ball through 6 1/3 innings. Cheese with hair on it, curve balls that bend your knees, and roughly 179 profanities.

Josh Beckett on the hill has returned to being a beautiful thing.

He left with a 10- 0 lead and got the win with a 10-5 score. Not exactly how you draw it up but he and I will take it.

Combine the win with a MFY loss and the Sox are in first place on 6-4-09.

And Curtis Granderson can bite Beck's tweeter.

The Fenway Tour Will Never Be The Same

We Paloozed, we toured, we take an awesome picture.

Friday, May 22 is a day that will live in infamy.

Sorry I messed up the girl/boy lineup, Cyn.

Tex just HAD to be in the center of the picture. ;)

Just another picture confirming the best weekend, other than when I got married, that I've ever had.

Snakes on a Plane! Or at Grandma's House.

There are 3 things that cause Rakes and Trot to completely lose their minds.

One is Santa. Nothing like an overweight stranger flying a sleigh powered by a bunch of reindeer on HGH (how else do you explain to a 5 year old how 8 freaking deer can fly a guy that fat all over the world in a 12 hour period? I'm doing the best I can here; you got any better answers and I'm all ears) who is going to have you a bike, a video game, and some socks from Target waiting when you get up. And no; I haven't figured out the whole "Target" thing yet.

Second is fighting. ANY kind of fighting; WWE Wrestling, Power Rangers, Peter Pan, COPS, and Sponge Bob are all included. Even the Bible isn't safe; tell Rakes about Sampson killing a bunch of guys with the jawbone of a donkey and he's in the backyard looking for a the skeleton of Eyeore he left outside during the last rain storm just so he can go all Stone Cold Steve Austin on Trot and have the excuse to use the word ass as a bonus.

Third? Dead animals. Can be a dead possum on the highway, bird in the woods behind our house, or a colony of ants Ang killed with Round Up. It's like they turn into CSI agents, only if it involves the wild kingdom. But the holy grail of dead animals? The mysterious and rarely seen snake.

Which brings me to tonight.

Ang was over at my folks house helping my Mom with some Spring Cleaning and lo and behold the dreaded black snake made an appearance.

Now, he doesn't look all that imposing. Until Pop got out the yard stick and stretched him out just a bit.
After the great Python was beheaded, Rakes and Trot ambled over for a look.

Take note of the maniacal look they both have on their faces. Trot especially seems excited about the large, dead reptile 6 inches from his feet. God Help Me. I may have the 2022 version of the Crocodile Hunter on my hands.


Lastly, Lewis and Clark version Duh give their enemy a proper burial with a little help from my Dad.

Good Lord, they look like total psychopaths.

It's like an updated version of "American Gothic" gone terribly wrong.

Thankfully, the Red Sox are back on tv tomorrow night and I can blissfully continue to ignore the fact I'm raising the modern day equivalent of Jesse and Frank James for one more night.

Everybody take a deep breath

Nothing like 12 K's, 2 HR's by Youk and one each by the Munchkin and Bay to set things right again; Sox win 8-2 and combined with the loss by the Yankees to Cleveland only the sight of George Steinbrenner with his hair on fire could have made today any better.

Suicide hot lines all over New England reported a sharp drop in calls today. Maybe, as my buddy ab calls them, the Doomsayers all took the day off.

Let's hope they stay on a permanent vacation.

Fire Tito!

Bench Papi for a week. At home. 'Cause he's not REALLY trying to break out of this slump.

Sign more ethnic players. Because we've got an inordinate amount of white dudes playing ball, apparently.

Throw in hitting Jacoby 9th, move Pedie to SS, Lugo to 1B, and Youk to 2B, and have Pap and Beckett switch roles and we've got it all sorted out.

Something about the Yankees being in sole possession of First Place in the AL East for the first time in like 3 years has gotten people out of their ever loving minds. The Red Sox have dropped the first two to the Jays after splitting with the Twins, the Yankees are playing out of their heads right now, and I guess this means Chicken Little was right.

The Sky really IS falling.

::rolls eyes::

It's a LONG season, people. And I hate to break it to you, but the Red Sox are going to lose MORE games. They will have slumps and high points, close wins and ball busting losses, and Pap is more than likely going to blow another save. Or 5.

Daisuke will drive me nuts with 6 walks, 8 K's, 3 hits, and 158 pitches in five innings at some point, Tek will kill a rally in the 3rd and win the game in the 9th, and Beckett WILL hit one of the LA Angels. We'll win more than we lose, care more than we should, and at some point cry over Johnny Freaking Pesky.

It's baseball. More specifically Red Sox baseball; it lasts about 7 months if we're lucky and a part of me dies every time winter arrives. We've got the model franchise in the game, with ownership and management that actually know what they are doing, and Scenic Lowell playing Third.

Face it. It could be A LOT worse.

So can we all step away from the Arsenic, take a look at the calender and realize it's MAY 30TH and not the end of September?

Thanks.

Life is a Highway. I wanna ride it all night long.

After working my 50th hour this week, with 8 more to come tomorrow, I imagined chaos and destruction were waiting on me when I got home.

Thanks to Ang spending the entire day at her parents helping her Dad do yard work, assisted by the Dalton equivalent of North Korea and Iran, the boys were calm, quiet, and composed.

Otherwise known as wore slap out.

Like most good things that happen in life, tonight's Hallmark moment came out of the blue around 8 p.m. while I was trying to eat my dinner in the midst of getting both the boys a snack.

Rakes: "Dad. I wanna wear my Red Sox hat. Like you."

Me: "Can I finish my dinner first, son?"

Rakes: "Dad. They are playing RIGHT NOW. I NEED my hat to help them."

Me: (While wondering if my obsessive/compulsive nature has passed down a generation) "You got it, Rakes."

Rakes: (After donning said hat) "OK, Dad. They'll win for sure now."

Thankfully, he fell asleep long before the end of the 6-3 loss and by the time morning rolls around he'll be back obsessing about Power Rangers, Indiana Jones, and why Darth Vader talks so funny.

But his Dad will remember how he laid his Sox cap carefully next to his bed so he could "put it on first thing in the morning. Just like you do, Dad."

Just when I'm ready to ship him off to Military School he goes and pulls a stunt like this.

I Miss All The Fun Stuff When I'm At Work

The Red Sox 3-1 today behind a great performance by Josh Beckett.

Which is fantastic.

However, the fact I missed what happened in the 7th inning is seriously making me contemplate staying home with Rakes, Trot, and Ciera this fall while Angie goes back to work; think of me like Michael Keaton in "Mr. Mom". Only without all the patience.

Turns out there was an ump at home plate fresh out of AAA who turned the bottom half of the game into an impromptu session of Rage-a-Holics anonymous.

Jeff Bailey from the Sox was called safe at home on a close play in the top of the inning, Twins catcher Mike Redmond jumped up to argue and quicker than you can say "Mike Redmond" dude got ran. THEN Ron Gardenhire, who sort of looks like the snowman who narrates "Frosty the Snowman" comes out to argue and HE gets tossed.

Fast forward to the bottom of the inning and The Commander doesn't quite like the call he gets on a close pitch. He politely questions the legitimacy of the umps heritage, throws a few "baseball words" in and before you know it The Captain is jumping up and playing peacemaker.

Now, I don't what was said; Tek wears that old school mask and his back was to the camera but before you can blink the quickest draw in the West has tossed HIM and subsequently Tito, looking like some deranged science professor with a wad of Beech Nut in his jaw.

I understand not wanting to let a situation get out of hand. I get he's a rookie ump and if he doesn't lay the law down he's dead man walking for the rest of his career.

But 4 guys in the span of 30 minutes? I'm honestly surprised Beckett didn't bounce one off his face mask just 'cause he can.

And guess who forgot to TiVo the freaking game?

As I head toward sleep I've got "The Rookie" on in the background in lieu of DO and whoever they pick up off the street today to fill in for the RemDog.

I'd forgotten how good this movie really is.

Tomorrow it's off to Toronto to face the free falling Blue Jays, where thankfully we don't have to face Doc Halladay over the weekend.

Doesn't get much better than that.

Every 5 Days My Ulcer Say's Hello

*Picture courtesy of patriotsandredsox.com*

5 innings.

3 runs.

9 hits.

1,697 pitches.

Sox trail 3-2 in the top of the 6th and Daisuke is making me pine for the days of Rudy Seanez and Julian Tavarez.

Not really; other than throwing more pitches in 5 innings than Brad Penny on a normal night after a kegger he's actually been OK. I'd like to see more than 5 IP, but he's just came off the DL and he wasn't exactly an early game before now so I can live with it.

Lobsters, 4 wild pitches, and Ron Gardenhire's beard are really to blame. Red or Denton at Survivinggrady.com said it best one time; dude looks like he should have a Marlboro Light hanging from his lips while he scratches off Lottery tickets in the dugout.

I will now head to the comfort of the garage and the back seat of the Camry for the last few innings in hope of changing the mojo. And if MDC wants to put one in Joe Mauer's back pocket?

Who am I to argue?

I may be having a mid-life crisis.

As I hit the door tonight, Ang began to regale me with the days events; Ciera did really well on her talent show tryout, Rakes had been sent to time out 137 times, and Trot managed to go to the bathroom 4 times in his pants after not having an accident at all in the past 6 days.

I immediately began to think about my trip to Boston and how nice it was not to have any responsibilities while I spent the weekend with my friends.

But then I thought about how excited I was on the plane back home to see my wife and children and I came to the following conclusion; I'm a mental mess of a human being.

I want to be with my family, yet I want to be with my friends in New England at the same time. Which has led me to discover the answer to all my problems.....

I need to move to Boston.

Now, what kind of complete fertilizer am I going to come up with to convince Ang about all this?

Do they have a military school nearby?

More Pics from the Trip

Me and my "Mom" for the weekend.

And yes; she's WAY hot.

How I saw the sun set on Thursday evening in Burlington, VT.


View from the Green Monster on the Fenway Tour on Friday.

Since I put one up of "Mom" I had to put one up of "Dad". Thanks, again Rob for a fantastic weekend.

Finally one of me and my brother JB. Miss you, man. One of these days I'll move to New England or you'll move to NC and we'll spend our Golden Years rocking on the front porch and yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off our lawn.

Just like ab taught us.

Great to see you, bro.

Just wish it could have been longer.

Tomorrow I'll be back to worrying about Papelbon, Papi, and wondering if Nick Green can pitch in the 9th inning. Tonight? I'm tired, wore out, and my head is still in Boston.

Thanks for a great weekend, everybody.

Can't wait to do it again soon.

I went to Fenway Park this weekend.

*Picture taken by me*

I Paloozed, I went to the park, and I'm flipping exhausted.

Suffice it to say, the weekend was epic.

I snapped this shot Friday night; this may be the apex of my photographic career.

Toured Fenway, caught a game, and Paloozed on Saturday with 35 of my closest friends.

If you're on Facebook you can catch the scene; meanwhile I'm headed to bed. But before I leave I have to post my favorite pic of the entire weekend of me and the best Red Sox blogger I know. Who gave me a hug in the last 72 hours.

Thanks for guiding me in, and out, of Boston this weekend Cyn.


::faceplants::

To again quote Danny Glover?

I'm getting too old for this S**t.

Stealing Home

It's finally here. After 5 months of talking about it I'll be getting on a plane and heading back to New England tomorrow at 6:20 am.

The fact this means I'm getting up at 3 a.m. isn't lost on me but I'm trying not to dwell on it. Hopefully by 10:30 tomorrow morning I'll be in Vermont with my friend Rob and the lovely Jane and heading to Boston Friday morning.

I turn 39 years old on Saturday and other than hitting the lottery I can't think of a better way to spend the day than with my second family from SG watching the Sox and Paloozing into the night.

I've got the net on the phone now so I'm sure I'll be checking in but no new posts until Sunday night at the earliest. Those of you coming to Boston? I'll see you there.

To those who won't be making the trip? Keep the Fair and I'll see you on the other side.

I think I'll go to Boston.

My Timing Needs Help

*Picture courtesy of Kelly at www.sittingstill.net.*

Sox win 2-1, Wake goes 8 strong innings, and the whole thing is over in under 2 1/2 hours.

Tomorrow night is Brad Penny. Which means the game could in fact last longer than your average lunar eclipse. So you can see why I wish Tito would have answered all my emails about how it's good to switch it up and let guys pitch on short rest every now and then and flip flopped the two.

Normally, all this wouldn't bother me. However, I've got to get up at 3 am Thursday morning to get to my friend Nicola's house by 4:15 to get to Raleigh by 5 so I can get on a plane to Vermont to see my second family by 6:20.

A.M.

All so I could save the $45 dollars it would have cost me to leave at 8.

Yes, I'm an idiot.

Season Finale, Pre- Palooza Monday

I just got done watching Jack Bauer, HANDCUFFED mind you, kill three bad guys with a scalpel and a choke hold.

Did I mention he's infected with a bio-agent that is shutting down his nervous system and he's going to die within a few hours?

24 is hands down the GREATEST. SHOW. EVER.

Although the fact I committed to 24 straight weeks to see some conclusion this year resulted in the biggest cliffhanger since "Who Shot JR?" is sort of harshing my mellow. Seriously; they couldn't tie up at least ONE loose end until next season starts?

Did I mention next season won't start until freaking JANUARY????

I'd rant some more but I'm spent. This, combined with 10 hour work days added on to the excitement I'm having due to me getting on a tin can and flying at 35,000 feet in a few days is sort of stressing me out. But once I get through it I'll be in Vermont with my buddy Rob and the fair Jane, then trekking into Boston to see the Sox followed by a marathon Palooza with the SG Crew is somewhat tempering my frustration right now.

But for Pete's sake; could they not have at least let us know if Jack makes it?

(He IS 24. Deep down I know he makes it; but considering I came this close to naming Trot "Bauer" they could at least throw me a bone.)

I Guess I Missed The Memo

Apparently the Red Sox are supposed to go 162-0, win the Cy Young, the AL MVP, Rookie of the Year, sweep the ALDS, ALCS, and the World Series as well as win the Nobel Peace Prize.

Because based on the number of people ready to jump off the Tobin Bridge just because the Red Sox lost a squeaker to Seattle today and went 2-4 on the road trip I'm assuming Chicken Little was right and the sky really is falling.

My friend Kelly O at www.sittingstill.net posted this on FB tonight and hopefully she's OK with me using it here.

"You're going to win 50 and lose 50; what you do with the other 62 is what makes the difference."

Have I ever mentioned Kelly is wise?

Ever since the game ended I've been focusing my attention on Thursday, when I leave the hooligans and stress in Angie's hands for a few days and head north to Vermont, then Boston.

Good friends, the Red Sox, and the most beautiful place on earth will be there too.

My productivity over the next 3 days will be between slim and none.

Put your money on none.

No more Jinx

It seems like every post I do about the games on the West Coast BEFORE they happen results in a loss so no Red Sox predictions/rants/totally unsubstantiated claims of insight tonight. I'm just gonna let the nights events unfold like the good Lord intended them to; 1 inning at a time.

After working a 48 hour work week, sleep deprived from staying up late to watch the Sox lose 2 out of 3 to the Angels and drop the first game against the Mariners, and somehow managing to avoid beating roughly 37 customers about the head with a lamp this week I settled in to watch COPS with Rakes tonight.

Can I just say that watching your child fall asleep while snuggled up next to you, and looking at that mirror image of yourself while you wonder how you can love someone that much may just be the best way to end the week I could ever think of?

A Request for Crabby

*Image courtesy of yahoosports.com*

Dear Crab Cakes,

Papi is scuffling and riding the pine tonight, Youk and The Beard are on the DL, and Pedie, even though he is the Amazing Munchkin can only do so much.

The boys are tired, 3,000 miles from home, and are in the midst of a 6 game road trip and coming off a punch to the gibleys loss to the Angels yesterday.

You are back home in the Pacific Northwest in front of family and friends playing a team that just came off a 1-7 road trip with a pitcher going for them whose 1-4 with an era that resembles the tab that the SG crowd is going to run up at the Palooza this weekend.

So if it's not too much to ask, can you come out firing beads with hairy cheese or whatever it is that Eck is talking about when he's in the booth?

Thanks,

Ted

P.S. Give Papi a hug for me and tell him it'll all be OK.

Strange, Strange Days

Sadly, this season has seen plenty of images like this; Papi with a bewildered look on his face and looking like the second coming of Tanner Boyle after getting punched out.

Again.

Today was even worse as he left 12 runners on base, went 0 for 7 and I fear for the safety of water coolers and reporters in his general area.

I've ran every possible scenario for what is keeping The Large Father from his normal level of excellence; from PED's to "he's just getting up in years" to the Swine Flu and I got nothing. He LOOKS like the same Papi, same sweet swing to go along with the spitting into and clapping of the hands but instead of a hitting machine he looks like an overgrown version of Smalls from "The Sandlot" flailing away.

Who knows when/if he reverts back to "I'm Big Papi and all you mortals better know your role"; all I know is I miss THAT guy and want him back.

The boys drop 2 of 3 to the Angels and head to Seattle for the weekend while I spend the next 15 hours working on a Ichiro voodoo doll.

It can't hurt.

Where did the French Horn come from?

Rakes had to tell his teacher all about his Mom for a Mothers Day present last week and he didn't let me down with his answers. Yes, we got the acting silly in how to make her smile and Mom is smart because she knows about race cars, but the 2 that really caught my attention?

He'd like to tell his Mom he wants a French Horn for starters; how does he even know what a French Horn is? He's five and I can truthfully say I've never heard him say the words "French Horn" a day in his life. I'm guessing SpongeBob said it the morning he took this quiz; it's the only explanation I can come up with.

Even more puzzling than the French Horn issue is, upon answering how pretty his Mom is, he responded with "sheep".

This is disturbing on about 17 different levels and I've really got no response.

Tomorrow night, he and I are having a really LONG talk about things.

Sox/Angels is just starting on my television.

Thank God.

Back on the Left Coast

Sox vs Angels. Last time ended up with Tori Hunter getting tossed and Josh Beckett having a rap off with Mike Scioscia around the pitchers mound. Take that, plus the fact these stupid things start at the UnGodly hour of 10pm, throw in the fact I'm going to go with less sleep than the average raccoon gets at night next week and you've got a recipe for disaster.

In the column of more good news? Youk has been put on the DL, Pedie still has a sore groin (which I'm blaming on the ball he took to the gibleys last week until I hear otherwise) and Papi is still looking for that first long ball of the year.

I'm calling my shot here: it happens tonight.

I hate off days

There really should be a law against Mondays without Red Sox baseball.

Thank God for Jack Bauer or I'm pretty sure they'd be fitting me for a straight jacket right about now.

Aubrey Huff is now my favorite non-Sox Player

When a guy hits a home run off Joba Chamberlain and fists pumps not only at first but again at home plate?

He's all right in my book.

In fact, I'm thinking about inviting him over for Thanksgiving dinner; that is the best baseball related thing I've seen since the Sox beat the Rockies in the 2007 World Series. Word to the wise. If your gonna pump your fist when you strike someone out in a game you LOSE be ready to reap the whirlwind.

I REALLY hope there is a line drive right off the protective cup of Joba in the very near future. And if there is any justice it'll come off the bat of Kevin Youkilis.

As I type it's 3-3 in the bottom of the 7th inning with Matt Garza spitting like a camel on the mound and Beckett cursing like a sailor in the dugout.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

Something tells me a Big Papi home run is going to end this thing.

That same something tells me I'm not getting a full 10 hours worth of sleep either.

To paraphrase Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon?

I'm getting too old for this.

Parenting is Easy

Ang and I have spent the better part of the past 10 years trying to figure out the best way to handle disciplining children. We've read every book (in full disclosure SHE'S read every book then told me about it while I pretended to listen while trying to watch the Red Sox game) and listened to every so called expert tell us what we needed to do and when to do it.

I've sought the council of the wisest and most knowledgeable voices on the subject of child rearing that I know of, including the women from "Nanny 911", that ninny from "John and Kate Plus Eight" and the dude that gave me my sausage gravy biscuit at McDonalds this morning.

In the past 10 years we've tried time out, spankings, positive reinforcement, taking them outside until they are at the point of exhaustion, and once, which I'm pretty sure happened when Rakes peed in the garage, curling up in the fetal position and hoping it would all just magically go away.

During this whole process we've endured lipstick on the wall, children barrel rolling down stairs, epic meltdowns due to the lack of Chocolate Pop Tarts, and dents in the refrigerator. ( I still can't figure that one out.)

I'd be remiss here if I didn't mention the 7,678 times one of them has yelled "DAD! He's not no his side of the couch!", the fact that the boys seem to view the toilet as an alien that will take them away, and Ciera being diagnosed with the rare "I can't clean my room or I'll just DIE" syndrome.

Finally, after 10 years of searching for the best way to make sure our kids are polite, well behaved, contributing members of society, we've finally found our answer.




Until you've walked a mile in my shoes?

Don't judge me.

A Letter to Theo

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

Dear Theo,

Please sign this man to a multi-year contract as soon as possible.

Thanks,

Red Sox Dad

P.S. Even if he asks for it to paid in Canadian money, go ahead and give it to him.

Suddenly I wish I was 10 again

I didn't tell Rakes. How do you explain to a 5 year old his favorite player (he still doesn't quite understand the whole concept of Manny being a Dodger) got suspended for 50 days for using PED's?

'Course he wouldn't understand PED's so I guess I'm worrying about nothing; still, it made me sad when I heard Manny got popped today. Part of me suspected something like this was coming, given the Bonds, Giambi's, Clemens, and Palmiero stuff that has happened over the past few years.

However, the kid in me just didn't want to believe that one of MY guys would be caught with his hand in the cookie jar; just another lesson life decided to teach me I guess. Mind you; I'm not passing judgement just yet. Maybe Manny hit that point in life where those football through the tire swing and duel bathtubs in the backyard really hit home enough for him to take a drug (allegedly) that helps produce testosterone.

Or maybe he took so many 'roids he had to manufacture it to make up for what he lost. At this point I don't know and really don't care. What's done is done and you can't go back and change the past. All I know is I'm gonna choose to remember Manny for his goofy actions, epic home runs, and high fiving that dude in the stands in Baltimore.

And for taking a bathroom break in the middle of the game to go take a leak inside the Green Monster while Schill did a slow burn on the rubber. He could set Joe Torre on fire and I'll still laugh every time I think about it.

Trust me. I'm not turning a blind eye to his faults. But as a parent, I can't stop loving Trot just because he treats his pants like an outhouse or disown Rakes when he takes a steak knife to the $400 dollar chair we bought when we were young and child less. So that's the way I'm going to mentally deal with Manny.

You screwed up and I'm not happy. Take your punishment, do your time, and show me you've learned your lesson and I'll forgive you.

Finally, for all the people who are shouting from the mountain top that 2004 and 2007 are now tainted and don't mean anything? Nothing short of Manny and Papi being covert op's with Al Qaeda can take the joy I received from those 2 years away from me. Show me EVERYBODY else was clean and you've got a point.

For now? I think I'll tell Rakes about the dude wearing #44 and playing LF for the Sox tonight and see if I can get him on board the J Bay bandwagon.

I really should write a book.

In the never ending sitcom that is my life, chapter 435 happened today.

We found out over the weekend that one of my neighbors has cancer and is getting ready to undergo chemo and radiation (this, along with the news that Jerry Remy had cancer surgery late last year is the final confirmation I need in order for me to wish cancer to get cancer). So Ang, along with several other neighbors organized a movement for all of us to put purple ribbons around the mailbox to show our support for him and his family.

In order to spread the word, Ang asks the innocent next door neighbor to watch Trot while she goes door to door to get support; according to her, it wasn't 10 minutes before she witnessed the following.

Trot, wearing a nothing but a pair of crocks and a smile, running down the middle of the road yelling his head off and looking for a wall to run into. Turns out he'd messed his pants and while the poor sucker my wife conned into watching him cleaned up the mess, Beavis decided to make a break for it and in the process scarred half the neighborhood for life.

This, combined with his visit to the Doctor on Tuesday where he took his physical and promptly told anyone in a 3 county radius how he peed in a cup is enough to make me seriously consider moving to Iceland.

I love my son more than life itself, but he's starting to make Rakes look like an alter boy which is the real world equivalent of a Red Sox fan liking Joba Chamberlain or Derek Jeter.

All this, combined with the Sox losing to the Indians tonight 9-2 is causing me to revisit that wacky idea I had a few years back about becoming a monk.

Although I'm pretty sure when they do the background check and discover I sired the second coming of Butch and Sundance my request will get thrown in the closest available trash can.

Which is really a shame.

I think I could pull off the bald look.

Timmeh tomorrow and MP in 2 weeks.

With a little bit of luck and some divine intervention I just may make it until then.

A Face Made For Gibley Punching

*Image Courtesy of Newsday.com*

You give up a 3 run home run in the first inning so what do you do?

Tip your cap to the guy, chalk it up to a bad pitch, or blame the wet footing on the mound?

Nah.

You hit Jason Bay in the back with a + 90 mph fastball the next time around.

As long as Joba Chamberlain is pitching in MLB Roger Clemens is alive and well.

What a bush league, chicken s**t, dinkish move; coming from this clown I shouldn't have expected anything else.

4-3 Sox in the bottom of the 7th with JPB pulled after giving up a lead off single to Captain Intangibles. It didn't happen tonight, but there is no doubt in my mind that someone wearing pinstripes is going to get one in the ear hole SOMETIME this year.

Dear God, I don't ask for much.

But PLEASE let it be Jeter.

Rakes Soccer Party

Thanks to Coach Wendell scheduling it on a Monday, I was able to make Rakes end of the season soccer party tonight. I was only able to make a handful of games this year, so getting to be there at the end was big for me tonight. As you can tell from the above picture, Rakes was excited in his own way.

His was the final name called to come to the front and get his trophy, and Coach made it special by announcing "Last, but certainly not least Rakes Dalton!" Ric Flair would have been envious with the way Rakes strutted to the front of the room to accept his trophy.

All the Sharks with Coach Wendell. I have no idea what Rakes is doing in this picture; I'm going to chalk it up to the Jimmy Legs and leave it at that.

Finally, Rakes and Wendell. And with every day I get more and more proud of my oldest son.

Love you, little man.

In the top of the 3rd at the new Toilet it's Red Sox 3, Skanks 0. Phil Hughes is at 80 some pitches, Crabby is dealing, and there are several Red Sox fans sitting in the first row of seats.

I really hope George is boiling over in his luxury box over this development.

Whoever said Sunday is a day of rest has never visited my house

6:27 a.m. Wake up with Trot standing beside my bed, hollering he wants some cheese.

6:45 a.m. After falling back asleep, wake up to Rakes yelling from the living room that he wanted some cereal while Ciera yells over him that she's making cinnamon rolls.

7:30 a.m. Desperately try to fall back asleep. FAIL due to the game of extreme floor hockey/tackle the man with the ball that has broken out in my foyer.

8:45 a.m. Give up on the sleep thing and get in the shower.

9:15 a.m. Get the boys ready for church, jump on the computer for a few minutes, then corral all the kids into the man van. Ang, down with a bad back, stays behind to clean up the coffee the boys spilled off the kitchen floor. And no, neither Ang or myself drink coffee. Long story.

10:00 a.m to 12:30 p.m. Attempt to teach the 2-3 year olds at church, including Trot, about giving. Based on the number of fights that broke out I'm going to go out on a limb and say the message didn't exactly sink in.

12:30 to 1:30. Ate lunch while trying to watch the Red Sox pre-game show. However, multiple interruptions due to spilled drinks, dropped food, and one instance of X-Men related defiance later I can't tell you anything about what I watched. Except Tom Carron looks REALLY awkward with facial hair and Brian Daubauch looks ready to be the next subject on A&E's "Intervention".

1:30 to 5:10 p.m. Watched the game, surfed the web on my phone, found moldy strawberries under the chair in the play room and threatened to send Rakes to reform school on 3 separate occasions. Mixed in with all this was the monthly pastime of Ang and I arguing about paying the bills with her crying, me ranting, and Rakes in the background using the Nordic Track as a punching bag.

From that point until now it's a blur; I found 3 Gogurts and a pair of scissors behind the tool bench in the play room, Ciera tried to convince me her glass of Sprite was in fact water, and Trot pooped in his pants and subsequently on the carpet leading into my bedroom. Figure in Rakes melting down when I wouldn't let him take his permanent markers in the living room and the fact the Red Sox lost 6-4 and it's actually a minor miracle I'm upright and able to type right now.

Tomorrow doesn't get any easier; Ang has an appointment with the chiropractor at 9, followed by a job interview at 11, which means I'm in charge for roughly 4 hours with Rakes in pre-school, Trot at home, and the Red Sox headed to New York for two games with the Skanks.

I've been hearing good things about electro-shock therapy lately.

Maybe I should give it a whirl.

Balls of Steel takes on a whole new meaning.

*Image courtesy of Yahoo.com*

Wake was human. Lowell hit a Home Run.

And The Munchkin took one off the marbles on a slide into third.

Final score was 10-6 Red Sox, and even though Jeff Bailey replaced J Bay in the 6th inning I refuse to panic. We beat the Rays on their home field, which has been a house of horrors the past year or so, and the sky failed to fall.

I'm going to consider that a good omen and console myself with the fact that 3 weeks from today I'll actually be in Boston.

CC Sabbathia going 1-3 today is just icing on top of the sundae.

Brad Penny on the bump tomorrow.

I'll be the guy swigging Pepto Bismal if you need me.

Buck Martinez isn't helping

The Red Sox are losing 6-2 to Tampa, I had back to back to back crappy days at work, and instead of the soothing tones of the RemDawg on my television I've got the perpetually nasally Buck Martinez on my NESN and harshing my mellow.

Add all that to the fact I've got a wicked case of writers block and you understand why I have absolutely no motivation to try and come up with anything close to original.

Therefore I leave you with my favorite "Non-commercial that really outa be a commercial" based on the life changing 2004 World Series.