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.

Magic

I didn't post last night for one reason and one reason only; I went to bed feeling like someone had taken a lug wrench to my marbles. Down 6-1 in the bottom of the ninth, Big Papi got his mojo on and hit a grand slam to scratch within 1 run, only to see the boys fall short. I went from depressed to walking on air to googling "Nut Houses" all in about a 10 minute period.

So tonight when I got home from work, got on the computer and saw we were down 4-0 (on the computer, because MLB and it's stupid exclusive contract with FOX controls Saturday afternoon baseball. And in another example of it's extreme stupidity, North Carolina is considered to be in the Atlanta Braves home market.) I was suddenly glad I wasn't gobbling TUMS and cursing out Daisuke under my breath.

So we ate dinner and Ang and I took Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum out for some ice cream. Driving home I get a text from Jr, and as usual he's being his gloom and doom self, ranting something about "Why am I yelling GET OUT BALL when I know how this song ends?" and before I can text him back he's calling me to tell me some outlandish tale of a 3 foot long fish he caught today.

But right in the middle of the biggest lie about fish since Captain Ahab, he yells out "Papi did it! It's off the wall..... three runs score..... they WIN!" and Rakes is hollering in the background and I'm pounding the steering wheel and Trot is obliviously watching "Toy Story" on the tv in the Man Van.

It hit me a little while later.

Baseball brought a 40 year old Dad together with a 24 year old New England native who became good enough friends to call each other on a Saturday night in July to talk about fishing and end up celebrating a walk-off win by our favorite team.

Reason 5,831 why I love this game.

As Jr said: Not a bad way to spend an evening.

I was sort of concerned today that I wouldn't be able to come up with a post tonight.

No Sox game, Trot somehow manged to avoid anything remotely controversial today (if you don't count trying to get Rakes' friend banished from the pool. I'm still not sure why exactly, other than he "didn't like that boy". I'm guessing he was told he couldn't play in any of their reindeer games, which would definitely set him off the reservation.), and I'd already watched this weeks episode of "Deadliest Catch".

Thankfully it all worked out. I turned on the MLB Channel and there was Vin Scully calling the Dodgers/Padres game, which is sort of like hearing Picasso paint. Or something.

THAT led me to watching Slappy's chase for his 600th home run which led to about 30 minutes of me fervently praying/hoping that he keeps falling short, leading to a complete mental breakdown culminating with him bawling at the plate during a Sox/Yankees game while Tek mutters "Glove to the face, Glove to the face, Glove to the face" over and over again.

Throw in Rakes having a complete breakdown around 9 due to the fact he'd been up since 5 and it went by in a flash.

Tigers at The Fens tomorrow night and I'm wondering what Damon's reception is gonna be.

You Don't Mess with a Winning Streak.

Tonight, while I grilled hamburgers and watched Trot and Rakes championship wrestle on the trampoline, I had an epiphany. Or it could have just been the 95 degree temperature combined with the 400 degree heat coming from the grill giving me hallucinations.

Whatever it was, the following went through my head.

The Sox go on a 10 day road trip and before Monday they had a record of 3-4 on the trip and were coming off a 4 game set in Seattle that sort of set the "2010 Suck Meter" record.

Sunday at church, Trot gropes his teacher. Monday, the Sox win.

Monday at Vacation Bible School Trot causes extreme havoc and Tuesday the Sox win.

Yesterday, he sets off the Fire Alarm causing mass panic and Wednesday the Sox win.

Today, he was sort of normal which is OK considering the team has the day off tomorrow.

Would it make me a bad Dad if I taught him how to say "The Seven Words You Can't Say On Television" by tomorrow?

'Cause the Tigers are coming to Fenway on Friday and I don't want to mess with the mojo.

And the journey to Juvie begins.

This picture was taken last year, yet my expression, and probably his, was the same today.

Seems like my youngest boy created a little excitement today at Vacation Bible School by pulling the fire alarm, causing roughly 200 men, women, and children to evacuate the church and led to a visit from our friendly neighborhood fire department.

When I got home from work I asked him if anything exciting happened at VBS tonight.

I got back a look IDENTICAL to this picture, along with him throwing his friend, who told him to pull it, squarely under the bus by blaming HIM for the whole thing.

If he and Rakes ever figure out they are better pairing up than going it solo, I'm pretty sure Superman, Batman, and that guy who does the "Sham-WOW" commercials combined couldn't stop them.

More Proof God Has A Sense Of Humor

My OCD has been pretty well documented since I started this blog; no dishes left in the sink at night, all toys, blankets, and kids folded and put away every night before I go to bed, and I've got my "lock up the house" routine down to 5 minutes now.

One issue I've had to just accept is I've got kids. And they do disgusting things. Starting from the time they're born they pee, poop, throw up, and in general make of mockery of all things hygienic, and as a Dad I've just had to sort of deal with it when it happens and move on.

This was fairly easy when they were infants, a little harder when they were toddlers, and flat out exasperating when they get to the age mine are now. For the most part it's all pretty much over now for the ones not named Trot but for some reason all three of them have one huge issue.

They don't flush the toilet.

EVER.

Which means every time I walk into one of the bathrooms I've got a pretty good chance of seeing a science experiment waiting for me in the bowl. And I don't know how to stop it; I've pleaded, yelled, grounded, threatened, and on one occasion quoted the entire Clark Griswold "Breakdown" scene from Christmas Vacation but nothing has worked.

Tonight, after I happened to walk into the downstairs bathroom after Rakes had just done his business I think I've finally come up with a solution.

I'm buying them all electric shock collars and carrying the remote with me at all times and when it happens again? I'm zapping all three of 'em at once, employing the time honored tradition used by coaches of all sports that when somebody screws up, EVERYBODY has to run laps.

'Cause I just don't think I can take much more.

Sundays with Trot

It's always an adventure when I drop Trot off at his Sunday School class on Sunday mornings.

Never one to miss a chance to show off he usually enters the room with a flourish not seen since Wayne Newton was in his hey day and by the time church is over I've got my standard "How did he do TODAY?" question at the ready.

Usually it's a slightly different version of the same answer: "He was good except he....."

Now, the answer has ranged from he hit another little boy to he squirted glue on another little girl to the always popular "Where is my underwear?" he dropped on a poor, unsuspecting teacher sometime last year. Just your basic run of the mill Trotism's I've dealt with for the past 4 years.

Today? He took it to another level.

Editors Note: The following was verified by 2 different people, one being the "victim".

During singing today, hopefully not in the middle of "Jesus Loves Me", Trot was sitting on the lap of one of his teachers. (I'm not using names to protect the innocent). At some point he calmly put his hand inside her shirt, copped a feel, and asked "What's that?"

Honestly, I didn't know whether to give him a high five or a spanking, so I settled on a really long talk about personal space, boundaries, inappropriate actions, and asking "What were you THINKING?" about 37 times.

Then he asked me if he could have an ice pop.

I'm starting to question the fact I saw him come into the world in favor of him being created in the same lab that made "Wolverine".

The Last Resort

It's the bottom of the 8th inning, Milton Bradley is standing on 3rd base with no outs, and the Red Sox have one more chance to change a 2-1 deficit.

I just figured it was an appropriate time to link my all-time favorite Eagles song.

Whatta mean I can't stay up and watch Beckett?

Having kids is like tap dancing through a mine field.

How do you tell THAT kid he can't stay up to watch the end of Smackdown when you, at the age of 40, has stayed up past 1:30 a.m. the last 2 nights and most likely tonight to watch a baseball game?

You could do what I did.

Pull the "I'm an adult" card and send him to bed.

Here's to hoping JPB is on his game and I can hit the pillow before then.

Regardless?

It's nice to have him back.

Rakes. And Mr. Andy.

What started out as a post about me taking the kids to the local Minor League Burlington Royals game tonight where I think I saw a TOTAL of 1 inning worth of action due to bathroom trips, food trips, Snow Cone trips, and in one really weird moment where Trot met the mascot Bingo face to face and he petted him like a cat, then hugged him like some long lost relative (that's Bingo dancing on top of the dugout while Trot is mesmerized) took a HUGE left turn when Ang told me what happened this afternoon.

Since I was at work, they were meeting me at the ball park and in the midst of getting 3 kids ready, fed, and trying her best not to lose her mind, Rakes wandered up and the following conversation took place.

Rakes: "Mom, Mr. Andy is gonna be there, right?"

Ang: "I don't think so, Rakes". (I still haven't figured out how to tell him Andy passed away. I know I should have, but whenever I think about it, I start to lose it and I just can't bring myself to tell him yet. When I say he loved Andy, I mean he REALLY loved Andy. After every game we saw together it's pretty much all I heard about for weeks. If you've got children and you have any suggestions on how to do this, I'm not too proud to admit I'd welcome some help.)

Rakes: "You mean we don't get to wear the mustaches and look all funny?"

Ang: "Not this time, buddy."

At first, this made me really sad. But the more I thought about it the more I realized it was just another example of how the game of baseball, more so than any other sport, has this really special way of bringing people who normally may not have ever crossed paths together.

Because of baseball, and more specifically the Red Sox, I became friends with a really great guy. And because WE became friends, my son got to meet this person and HE got to be his friend, even if it was only for just a short time.

And because of THAT, once I figure out how to let him know Andy won't be coming, every time I take Rakes to a baseball game he'll associate that with Andy and he and I will be able to talk and remember our friend.

So on a hot, humid night in North Carolina Rakes and Andy got to enjoy another game of baseball.

Even if it was just in spirit.

You've Been Missed.

It's July 21st, the Red Sox are currently 53-42 and 7 games behind the Yankees.
Pedie and Tek are on crutches, V Mart is out with a busted thumb, Ellsbury is in the witness protection program, and there are rumblings that Mr. Red Sox, Tim Wakefield may get DFA'd.

These are desperate times, people. The Yankees just keep on rolling, although Petttite going on the DL and Burnett morphing into Kevin Brown give us hope.

The Rays, those flipping Rays, just keep hanging in there with Maddon pulling all the right strings and pushing all the right buttons are like some MLB version of a gnat and just won't go away.

And our second string lineup keeps on hanging in there and staying close and coming THIS close to pulling off another miracle but I'm sort of afraid we've run out of whatever magic or mojo or karma or whatever you want to call it and we just dropped 2 outa 3 to the A's and the Angels are coming up next.

Thankfully, help is on the way. And no matter what other people think, in my humble opinion this is like signing Doc Halladay or Roy Oswalt or Bob Gibson at the trading deadline.

Look, we've got a great team when it's healthy. We've also got a great group of "good guys". What THIS team needs is a guy whose gonna curse his mother out if he gives up a walk, stomp around the mound if his curve ball misses, and kick a few guys in the posterior when they screw things up.

And it just so happens THAT guy is coming back Friday night.

Welcome back, Commander of the FYYO Brigade.

The Long, Strange Trip

Happy 21st Birthday to the best friend, best Mom, best wife, and without a doubt still the prettiest girl in the room.

Love you, Ang.

If it's not too much to ask, can we have THIS Daisuke tonight?

The Sox go to the land of Wally World.

Starting tomorrow, the Red Sox begin a 10 day road trip to the Left Coast and I'm trying to focus on the positives.

10 p.m. starts mean the kids are in bed by the time the game starts, I can actually watch "Deadliest Catch" on Tuesday night, the ballpark in Seattle is a thing of beauty and there's always a chance Sela Ward will be in Anaheim and the NESN cameras will find her.

Fact is, I'm just kidding myself. I'm gonna walk around the next week and a half with dark circles under my eyes due to lack of sleep, buy a book on how to curse in Japanese thanks to Daisuke, and have to explain to my boss why I'm falling asleep in a recliner at 1:30 in the afternoon.

Truth is, I'm sort of disposed to being a bit of a curmudgeon. Tack on no sleep, the Yankees on a roll, and the fact that despite my fondest wishes and most ardent of prayers Ken Harrelson hasn't been ran over by the A Train yet and I'm looking forward to this road trip about as much as I am in getting a prostate exam.

They go 8-2?

All bets are off.

Parenting 101 never mentioned this.

Looking at this picture, it's no wonder Rakes is a nervous ball of energy. If you had THAT waiting around the next corner for you YOU'D be a little bit jumpy as well.

For the past few years, however, Ang and I have been increasingly concerned with Rakes' speech. He'd stutter and stammer whenever he was in excitement overload, had a hard time getting the pronunciation of certain letters down and had the weird habit of repeating a certain word about 1,000 times before he could get it out.

By the end of the school year it seemed like he'd gotten it all figured out until about 3 weeks ago, when he suddenly started clucking like a deranged chicken before trying to tell us something when he was amped up. I'm a firm believer in letting kids work stuff out on their own and think that society has been inclined to over medicate and label kids before they really know what is happening, but at this point I'm debating on whether to get him some counseling or take him to Vegas like Tom Cruise did with Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman".

On one hand, he may have some sort of speech impediment.

On the other hand, he could have the ability to count cards and get me out of debt in a 24 hour period so you sort of see my hesitation.

Meh; you can't take it with you so I'll make sure he's OK first.

But I'd bet you $100 we could clean up on the Strip.

Brothers from another Mother.

While Tropical Storm Wally passed over Fenway tonight, the game was in a 59 minute rain delay. Usually in my house a rain delay is my out to actually talk with my wife, spend some quality time with the heathens, or catch up my ever increasing "Deadliest Catch" tapings.

However, tonight Ang was a Wally World, Trot was passed out in my bed with a bowl of cantaloupe on his belly and "The Backyardigans" blaring in the background while Rakes and Ciera were upstairs watching "WWE Smackdown" so I was sort of left to my own devices.
Now, "left to my own devices" usually means I end up watching COPS on TruTV or rearranging the shelves in the pantry, but tonight I ended up thinking about the most recent rain delay I was actually a part of.

Last month, in Portland Maine, I was up to remember the life of a good friend and an even better man, AB. Part of the weekend included a ticket to a Portland Sea Dogs game and even though the entire area was under a Tornado Watch, you can't tell a bunch of die hard baseball fans they won't catch a game so we all showed up in mass to see some baseball played.

Much like their parent club in Boston, the Sea Dogs are big proponents of "let 'em all in, serve as many concessions as they'll buy, and let's pray for sunshine" so several of us spent the time in the park shivering and miserable.

JB's wife Amy felt so bad for him that she bought him a Sea Dogs sweatshirt. He in turn felt so bad for me that he gave it to ME to wear. Our friend DB felt so bad for HIM she bought HIM a Sea Dogs sweatshirt.

Which is a REALLY long way to say it all led to one of my favorite pictures ever taken of me.

Get the tables, Devon.

Amigos.

I was looking forward to writing about how the Red Sox stormed into the second half of the season like The Bandit going from Florida to Texas and back in pursuit of the Silver Bullet for Big Enos and Little Enos but Tim Wakefield apparently didn't get the memo that the All-Star Break was over.

As a result I spent the last 3 1/2 hours trying to convince myself, JB, Ang, Rakes, Trot, Ciera, and the next door neighbor that a 7 run comeback was nothing for this team, conveniently forgetting that other than Youk and JD the starting 9 consisted of a couple of free agent pick ups and several members of the Paw Sox.

Now, if we were playing the Pirates or the local Union #9 softball team this wouldn't present a problem. However, we are currently playing the AL West leading Texas Rangers who just so happen to have a lineup that can flat out hit the cover off the ball, which in layman's terms meant we were screwed.

All of which led me to reminisce about my recent road trip with Jr and Josh and one of the funniest moments 3 guys who've been in a car for roughly 2 straight days can ever have. Yes, it's juvenile, and yes, it's sort of in poor taste.

But we're guys. And did I mention we'd been in the car for roughly 2 days?

So we pull up to yet another toll booth in the great state of Florida. (I'm convinced purgatory is one long toll road, where you just drive aimlessly and have to stop every 10 miles to hand $2.50 cents to a blue haired senior citizen FOREVER.) Jr politely asks the nice lady taking our money how things are going, and when she responds with "Great. How about you?", he blurts out "We're on our way to his (Josh) Dad's house to tell him he's gay!"

Due to FCC regulations, the fact I try to keep it clean around here, and I'm holding all pertinent details back just in case I can get a movie deal out of all this I can't repeat what was said during the next 10 minutes.

Just use your imagination, watch Samuel Jackson in "Pulp Fiction" and any Red Foxx standup routine ever filmed and you'll get a pretty good idea of what happened next.

I'm counting down the days until we can do it all over again, fellas.

God Bless His Pediatrician.

Trot had his 4 year old check up today, and in addition to doing cartwheels on the examining table, hanging onto the window sill and asking the Doctor if he could, and I quote, "Wear your ear hearing thing" he also got 3 shots.

Which apparently didn't please him all that much, since he responded with turning a deep shade of Redskin maroon and spent the next 10 minutes yelling his fool head off.

When the nurse came back in with his Tylenol for the pain I guess he was still a tad bit bent since he informed her in a loud and not exactly happy voice that "This tastes like chili. And watermelon".

Sox/Rangers, Fenway Park, 7 p.m. tomorrow night.

It can't get here soon enough.

End of an Era.

Steinbrenner showed remarkable restraint after the historic collapse against the Red Sox in the ALCS. "I congratulate the Boston Red Sox on their great victory," Steinbrenner said. "I want to thank our loyal fans for their enormous support. Of course, I am disappointed because I wanted a championship for them and for our city. You can be assured, we will get to work and produce a great team next year."

• "I don't believe in curses...wake up the d**n Bambino, I'll drill him in the a*s."

Pedro wins.

Rest in Peace, Big Stein.

If nothing else, you made it that much simpler to totally, completely, and without any feeling of remorse all the more easier to hate that team in the Bronx.

Somehow, someway you managed to get banned from the game TWICE, and once (In my best Scott Hall from the NWO days) FOR LIFE, and you still managed to get FOX, ESPN, the MLB Network, and pretty much everyone NOT a Red Sox fan to eulogize you like you were the Patron Saint of Baseball.

Keyser Soze would be proud.

Big Papi say's "HELLO!"

David Ortiz is the 2010 Home Run Derby Champ.

And you're not.

Hey Girardi?

Stick THAT in your pipe and smoke it.

(Dear God? Please don't let him be hurt or lose his swing or turn into Greg Zaun overnight as a result of this, because it's about 1000 kinds of awesome that the guy everyone wrote off at the beginning of the year just took all the young dudes to school).

If he DOES get injured and subsequently has an "accident" with a lead pipe?

Look no further than the man I'm proud to call my "brother".

Half way there.

*Image courtesy of the always awesome Kelly O and www.sittingstill.net*

The All-Star break is upon us, the Red Sox have 51 wins and somehow have managed to stay within striking distance of the Rays and Yankees while fielding the equivalent of a AAA team with enough injuries to convince me that somewhere in New York there is some voodoo doctor with a Jobu doll in a Boston cap and an endless supply of push pins.

So for the next 4 days there will be no baseball. Sure, I'll watch the HR Derby (only with the way things are going I'm half way convinced Papi will watch his right arm fly into the outfield seats along with one of his moon shots tomorrow night) and I'll watch the All-Star Game Tuesday night, but for all intent and purposes real baseball won't happen until Thursday night at Fenway when the Rangers come to town.

Looks like I'll be updating my coin collection, re-sorting my sock drawer and, God help me, actually talking to my wife for the next 3 nights.

Here's to everyone who is hurt in the dugout right now getting better, Joe Girardi losing the game thanks to one of his dim witted roster moves, and Jeter and Cano running full speed into each other while trying to catch a pop fly off the bat of Albert Pujols who then would step on both of them while he rounds his way into third.

Hey. A guy can dream.

Crash Davis knows his stuff.

Crash Davis: We're dealing with a lot of s***.

In times of great stress or even moderate tension, I turn to baseball. Somehow in the midst of Trot's latest urination escapade or Rakes latest attempt to construct a hydrogen bomb composed of DOVE soap and a leftover sparkler, the simple act of a man attempting to throw a ball past a man trying his best to land it on the moon sort of eases all the tension right away.

As I type this, I've got a daughter hitting her teenage years at 150 rpm, 2 boys who seemingly on a trajectory toward either the military or Johnny Knoxville's eventual replacements on "Jackass", a job in retail in an economy that can just BARELY be called "Meh", and the Red Sox limping toward the All-Star Break looking like Bruce Willis in "Die Hard" after he had ran all over Nakatomi Plaza with his bare feet.

So I found myself transfixed in front of the television (Well, as transfixed as I can get with Rakes having a friend sleep over, Trot in full-on Animal mode, Ciera asking me every 3 minutes about professional wrestling and Ang freaking out over whatever the Lifetime movie of the week was tonight, but you get my point) watching Doc Halladay and some kid making his 3rd career appearance in the show, Travis Wood of the Reds, who just so happened to take a no hitter into the 9th inning.

Looking a lot like the guy who changed my oil the other week, Wood had one of the most potent lineups in baseball looking like me trying to hit a whiffle ball thrown by Bob Gibson. And I was reminded once again that there is life outside my 4 walls and the AL East and that great baseball isn't always played on the biggest stage by the most famous players and I found myself rooting for a kid I had never heard of before tonight to make his way into the history books.

Or maybe I'm just doing my best to forget about the fact my baby girl is all grown up, John Lackey crapped the bed in Toronto today, and Rakes is going to be standing in my room at 3 a.m. not able to sleep because I let him and his buddy watch "Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End" before they went to bed.

Oh yeah. Daisuke gets the final start before the All-Star break tomorrow.

I think I may have to send my ulcer to rehab.

The King goes to Miami. I can hardly contain my excitement.

Even though this picture was taken over a month ago, all the way in Boston, it's EXACTLY like I looked tonight.

No Sox game to watch, I find out Youk missed the ASG and Nick Flipping Swisher is going instead, and I just spent an hour of my life I'll never get back watching Lebron James milk am hour out of ESPN to tell us he's going to Miami.

Thankfully there will be Red Sox baseball in roughly 21 hours, I can go back to ignoring the NBA and resume yelling at the television at all hours of the night.

In other words, normalcy will return shortly.

Where is Hawkeye Pierce when you need him?

Dear God,

I don't ask for much. Keep Rakes and Trot out of jail, help Ciera come to the realization that boys are nothing but trouble, and I keep waiting for that meteor to take out Yankee Stadium but I understand if you put the kibosh on that idea.

But if it is at all possible, could you please make sure nobody else on the Red Sox breaks a foot, leg or arm and all muscle pulls, strains, tweaks, and assorted maladies at least wait until AFTER the All-Star break?

'Cause I'm not totally convinced my heart or blood pressure can take much more.

Thanks.

My Money is on the Locust.

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

Pedroia. Lowell. Ellsbury. V Mart. Tek. Beckett. Clay. Hermida. Cameron. Jack McCormick, the traveling secretary.

Now Youk. Sometime between the first pitch and the 4th inning, HE gets hurt and all of a sudden Papi is getting Intentionally walked the rest of the night and Nuiman Romero is hitting in the clean up spot. I consider myself a pretty rabid Sox fan and until tonight the only Newman I knew of was Jerry Seinfeld's neighbor.

To call this development "ridiculous" would be an insult to the word ridiculous. At this point I'm convinced George Steinbrenner made a pact with the Devil and before the year is out there won't be anyone left standing.

All night long I kept waiting for a river of blood to run in the outfield and frogs to start jumping out of the NESN booth.

If they somehow can stay afloat through all these injuries and make it to the post-season, Tito should win Manager of the Year in a landslide.

In all the years I've watched baseball I've never looked forward to the All-Star break.

Until now.

Just another Monday at the pool

Blame it on the heat. Or the 6 hours at the pool with Thing 1 and Thing 2 with nothing but chips, pretzels, and cheese and crackers. You could even point the finger at the pending Daisuke Matsuzaka start that was clouding my mind at the time.

Whatever the reason, around 2 p.m. today I decided it would be OK for Rakes and Trot to have a Mt. Dew. 8 hours later Trot is finally asleep and Rakes is currently bouncing off the walls in his sisters room while watching WWE Raw.

Something tells me Rakes, Mt. Dew, and professional wrestling may not be the best idea I've ever had as a parent, but I'm sure it won't be the last.

15 minutes after downing his 12 ounces of liquid sugar, I snapped the following image of Trot.

That whole "A picture says a thousand words" thing?

Totally true.

Independence Day

Wherever you are tonight, I hope you had a happy and safe Fourth of July.

Hopefully Jr didn't blow his arm off in some inebriated attempt to set the Cape Cod Guinness World Record for most consecutive explosions in a 10 minute period.

And to those who have given their life in defense of this country and those who are currently in uniform across the Globe, myself and my ragtag gang of whirling dervishes would just like to say the following.

Thanks.

And God Bless The United States of America.

A Forrest Gump reference. Just for Josh.

*Thanks to Kelly @www.sittingstill.net for the picture*

Here we go again.

Just like in 2007, when everyone else on the Sox roster not named Youk or Papi was falling like flies and JD Drew stepped up to the plate, 2010 is starting to look like a carbon copy.

Pedie, Beckett, V Mart, Tek, Ellsbury, Lowell, and the guy who makes the popcorn in the RF Pavillion seats is on the DL, we're all wondering how in the world they are going to ride the storm out, and the quiet RF with the quick smile and the sweet swing comes to the rescue.

He's on one of those tears he gets on where I'm doubtful Cy Young himself could have gotten him out and even with apparently half the regular line up on the shelf, the Sox just keep on rolling.

I realize it's not just him; Jon Lester continued down the path that if there is ANY justice should result in an AL Cy Young and Youk just keeps on mashing and Papi continues his rise from the ashes, but you won't convince me that if JD Drew wasn't on this team that they could be pulling this crap off.

With the All-Star game about a week away, Yay D gets my vote for First Half MVP.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

And now? A word from Jr.

Since Josh is doing a multi-part series on the "3 Amigo's Wandering Down South Epic Megapalooza" over at his place I've decided to let him be the definitive word on our trip to the Land of Mickey we took last weekend. He's ten times funnier than I am and due to not having Rakes and Trot living in his house, his memory retention blows mine completely out of the water.

However, Jr sent me an email with his take on the first of what I hope is a lifetime of yearly road trips I take with these 2 guys I look at as brothers. Insane, delusional, and sometime profane brothers, but brothers nonetheless.

So here, unedited, is Jr's email to me earlier today.

Editors note: He sent this to me at 3:37 a.m. Take that as you will.

THE HIGHWAY ISN'T THAT LONELY

I once heard the highway described as a lonely place. After this week it is obvious to me that that person was a fool. I spent 5 days driving the east coast with two of my best friends and I can't say for a minute that I ever longed for home or felt alone on the road. They were wrong, they were dead wrong and I'm shockingly O.K. With keeping that secret.

No one really needs to know just how fulfilling it can be to drive, sleep deprived in the dead of night through traffic and everything short of frogs falling from the heavens, to a destination for something as silly as the game of baseball. In short Ted, Josh and Myself have nothing in common outside of this wonderful game.

I've had roughly a thousand gay jokes tossed my way. My convictions have been tested and my patience (my incredibly fragile patience) has been strained but I can't wipe this stupid smile from my face. I placed my life and livelihood in the hands of two people I count among my few friends and I came out alright.

I can't say I have ever been starved for words but I find myself incapable of really putting my fingers to the keys and explaining all of this. It hit me in Atlanta and I find it a fitting way to close what I have to say...

The game of baseball is sacred. It is to be enjoyed with good friends, good beers and good weather. This is why we drive three thousand miles, to be with those we hold as brothers. I found what it was I was looking for somewhere between a traffic jam in DC and the rafters of Turner field. If you ever have the opportunity to pack your bags and climb into a car with your friends for no other reason than to be together and catch a ball game, I highly recommend that you take that opportunity and that you savor every last second of it.

Thank you to the Graves family for putting us up. Thank you to the wives that allowed their husbands to be away from them for 5 days. Thank you Josh and Ted for forsaking reason and making this trip with me.

I look forward to our continued adventures and the rare opportunity to make a sequel that surpasses the original.

It was my pleasure, Jr.

Here's to next year, buddy.

It's not just a tooth. Or something.

We lost another one tonight. I'm home for 5 minutes and Rakes is making his front tooth do tricks while asking me if I think it's ready to come out.

The thing was parallel to the floor and he's wondering if it's loose enough. ::shakes head::

Those of you with kids know how this process goes; child begs you to pull tooth, then does everything humanly possible to stall you from yanking the thing out. After numerous attempts with dental floss, a wet rag, and a Woody the Cowboy doll (don't ask) I finally got it and it currently rests in a little box next to his bed, waiting on the tooth fairy to make an appearance.

And I'm just a little bit sad. Not because my boy lost a tooth and I was the one to pull it (that is sort of one of the cool side benefits of being a Dad; you get to do stuff like that with your kids.) It's just that with every baby tooth that comes out, a permanent tooth takes it's place and it's just another small reminder that you aren't getting any younger and neither are they.

Somehow though, Rakes in his innocent wisdom, knew I needed a lift.

So he ripped one REALLY loud while I was saying prayers with him and giggled for the next 3 minutes.

Thanks, buddy. Dad needed that.