Mr. Buchholz Goes To Tampa

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

Sox win 6-3 and take the series with the Rays 2-1.

Welcome to reality Maddon.

And boom goes the dynamite.

The bats have finally woke up, Billy Wagner has provided the 'pen with the kick in the pants it needed, and Papelbon is pitching like it's the ALCS from 2007 all of a sudden.

Other than the bully on the school bus with Ciera (that either her principle or me, a two by four, and Rakes with a garden spade is going to fix post haste) my life consists of sunshine, blue skies, and a Mt. Dew on ice while I sit in the shade while watching the world pass by.

Life could be a whole lot worse.

Hurricane Trot is about to start Pre-School

Mornings around here have gotten slightly chaotic since Ciera started Middle School and Rakes is off terrorizing the local Elementary School. I take Ciera and her cousin Jerry to school every other week (my brother in law is the tag team partner in this car pool thing and he's on duty this week) and Ang takes Rakes every morning.

Which means on my off weeks I've got Trot until his designated jailer shows up or I take him to where they are, whichever is applicable. This morning, as I hopped in the shower, he was quietly watching SpongeBob in the living room and I figured all was well.

10 minutes later I'm out of the shower and find him in the aforementioned living room, with his shorts and shirt on backwards and about 75% of Ang's makeup kit on his face, hands, and the sofa he was sitting on.

I have no idea how he did this right under my nose while I was showering but he did.

Flash forward to tonight at his pre-school orientation where they are telling us they will teach them how to open a zip lock bag, put a straw in a juice box, and open up their snack.

Please.

At this point I'm pretty sure he can take apart at .30 gauge shotgun blindfolded, put it back together, and do a Rubik's cube at the same time. Plus, I'm fairly certain by the time he reaches the age of 6 he'll be assembling a crude nuclear device in the garage and grinning like a maniac the whole time.

By the time Ang told Mrs. Kelly we had zip locks on the fridge, the pantry, the medicine cabinet and our bathroom I'm pretty sure I saw tears in her eyes and fear on her face.

Gonna be a fun year at Pre School.

Somtimes, Crabby is Good.

It's 7-2, bottom of the 8th inning with the Red Sox on top as I type.

Playing in that monstrosity known as The Trop, which has been a house of horrors for the Sox lately hasn't seemed to bother the fellas, and Crabby went 6 innings and gave up only the 2 runs. This, my friends, is huge; considering the Red Sox had resembled that team that got waxed every time out by the Harlem Globetrotters every time they went to Tampa, the fact they put on their big boy pants and came out swinging was a sight for sore eyes.

Sure, Oki has allowed the first two batters he's faced to reach base; why not?

Billy Wagner looked like Goose Gossage in the 7th, albeit with more facial hair and a demented look in his eye last seen in "Deliverance", but still; dude was lights out.

Barring some unforeseen and ted turns to heroin inducing comeback, the Sox roll into tomorrow one more game ahead in the Wild Card race. And while I'm not conceding the AL East just yet, I've got one eye on the Wild Card just in case.

On the home front, after one full week at school, Rakes had to move his card to yellow. For those of you without kids, his kindergarten class operates on the stop light method. Green = Good, Yellow = not so good, and Red = we're calling your parents and you are SO grounded.

Today? He got a yellow for talking in the hall.

Frankly, I'm amazed he wasn't sitting on Red after 30 minutes on the first day.

Sometimes they really do surprise you.

A Day Off. In Theory.

As Ang, Ciera, and Rakes all left the house around 7:15 this morning, I figured I had it made. Trot was in the living room, eating an Eggo waffle and watching Sponge Bob and we didn't have to pick Ciera up for her Dentist's appointment until around 10:15.

So, like any other Dad looking good fortune in the face, I rolled over and fell back asleep until about 8:45. Mind you, every time I woke up I listened for the tell tale signs of chaos, but heard nothing but the soothing tones of that demented yellow sponge and Trot's deranged laughter.

You can imagine my surprise upon entering the living room and finding 2 empty Ice Cream Sandwich wrappers alongside 5, yes FIVE empty Ice Pop sleeves laying on my couch to go along with the chocolate hand prints in the down stairs bathroom.

Of course Ciera's appointment that was set for 10:45 didn't begin until 11:45 and ended around 12:15 with all the time in between consisting of Trot laying waste to the Dentist office while I tried to at least keep anything from breaking beyond repair.

After we dropped Ciera back off at school, I spent the next 2 hours cleaning the house while Trot spent that same time apparently trying to drive me to an early grave. 5 minutes after I get him down for a nap, Rakes arrives home and in direct contrast to my fervent prayers all day, has no home work.

I honestly have no idea how Ang did this EVERY day for 6 years; one day in and I'm a basket case.

Maybe everything I've ever heard about Dad's not being cut out for this stuff is true.

Or maybe I'm just the exception to the rule and need to read the "How to Sack Up and Be a Stay at Home Parent" book that I'm sure some nimrod with no kids and no clue wrote that Oprah has featured in her flipping Book Club thingamjig.

Me personally? I'm blaming it all on the fact the Red Sox were off today, travelling to the dump know as "The Trop" to face the Rays for 3 games starting tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow, it'll be September 1st. The Yankees lead the division and the Red Sox are out front in the Wild Card, with Texas and Tampa Bay in the rear view mirror.

The sun is setting sooner and the shadows are growing longer; Summer is almost over and the post season is just around the corner. Meanwhile I grow grayer by the day and wonder how in the name of all that is holy does Terry Francona deal with this stuff on a daily basis.

That long, slow push to the post season begins tomorrow with Papi, V Mart and The Munchkin leading the way.

I wouldn't want to be anywhere else than where I am right now.

Let's Dance.

It Was Right There All Along

Who knew? After throwing $5 million at Brad Penny and hoping he'd be the answer, that gaping hole in the rotation remained.

Yet we all held out hope that bald dude who bears a passing resemblance to me could rise from the ashes of a bad arm and be the comeback story of the year. Turns out, he just may be; only it'll be wearing a St. Louis Cardinal uniform and not the scarlet B. John Smoltz as a Red Sox worked out about as well as Coy and Vance replacing Bo and Luke on "The Dukes of Hazzard."

To paraphrase Larry the Cable Guy? NOT TOO GOOD.

Turns out, the solution was right there under the nose of Theo Epstein all along. A guy who went 4-2 for Boston with a sub 5 era last year. A guy with a herky jerky motion that would remind you of Cy Young, had there been video of Cy Young available 80 years ago. A guy who makes the local Farm Bureau Insurance agent look as imposing as Chuck Freaking Liddell.

Paul Flipping Byrd.

6 innings, 0 runs, and the most pathetic display of facial hair since I rocked the porn stache back in 1991.

Throw in Billy Wagner looking like the deranged first cousin of Kevin Youkilis and that dude that played the banjo in "Deliverance" while throwing 95 mph cheese and striking out Vernon Welles, combined with the bats looking like it was BP and you had a great day to be a Red Sox fan.

7-0 over the Jays, 7-3 on the home stand, and to top it all off? The Rangers lose and we're sitting in the catbird seat in the wild card race.

Thank God tomorrow is an off day; I could use the break. Tuesday it's off to Tampa and three games with the Rays and for some reason?

I feel fine.

I'm thinking it's the power of the Byrd.

An Open Letter From Miss Hathaway

First, let me express my regrets for the delay between my most recent post. It's been a very busy summer for me, due to the, well, eccentricities of my employer.

Apparently, the "Wild Card" just isn't good enough, the "MFY" are ripe for the picking, and "Jeter is a blow hole" all were repeated multiple times.

Mind you, I have no idea what any of that means, just that my employer was wound up tighter than a stop watch from June until this evening.

Tonight, as I was relaxing with a cup of Earl Gray and watching "The Lawerence Welk Show" circa 1972, I was summoned to his penthouse office high above the gold fish pond. It seems that Clay Buchholz, (a young man I've admired from afar since his no hitter against the Royals in 2007) was pitching and for awhile it looked as if history would repeat itself.

Upon arriving, I was informed I needed to search the internet for any fantasy football league information I could find, due to the fact my employer was having his "draft" tomorrow.

I have no idea why he participates in these things. To put it mildly, he sucks when it comes to these games of chance. For example, his Fantasy base ball team couldn't beat the Bad News Bears if he had some man named Pujols along with a Yogi? and and Teddy Ballgame? on it.

Again, I'm as lost as you are, but he IS rather passionate and the last thing he screamed at me as he left the office to spend time with those dysfunctional children of his was "Make sure Adrian Peterson is on the top of the leaderboard!"

I ask you this; if you made just under the minimum wage, spent roughly 15 hours a week with those demons he refers to as his children, and haven't had a raise since Ronald Reagan was President? Would YOU put up with this?

The last I saw of him he was ranting about "Freaking Aaron Hill" and cursing a blue streak as he informed me I needed to arrive at the office at the unGodly hour of 8 am Monday.

However, this was before the Red Sox actually won the game 3-2 and with tomorrow being Sunday, he'll automatically forget what he said so I think I'll just show up at 9.

It's not like he'll find somebody willing to put up with his nonsense between now and then anyway.

And I'm still wondering how I can get a personal message to that Terry Francona fellow. If any of you have any ideas, please forward them to me care of my employer.

Is it too late to answer all my questions?

I have no idea why every game the past 2 weeks Josh Beckett has pitched has turned into BP. After making the opposing hitters look silly all year, the last 3 starts have resembled me playing Rakes on the PS2 in MLB 2004.

Maybe he's hurt. Or maybe he's just tired. Or maybe, just maybe, he's got some under the table deal in the works with the makers of MLB 2010 and has to show them every possible outcome of each pitch. For what it's worth? THAT is the scenario I'm working on.

A 5-5 tie in the eighth inning and the game is in a rain delay. Meanwhile I'm biting my fingernails down to the quick and wondering why John Henry and his cohorts haven't converted Fenway to a dome roof with an option to open when needed.

I'm tired, grumpy, and slightly on edge due to Ciera starting middle school, Rakes starting kindergarten, and still a little upset at the V Mart replaces Tek as the starting catcher era.

In the case of all three, however?

I'll get over it.

I gotta work tomorrow and sleep beckons, but I'm sticking with NESN in the hopes the fripping game will re-start soon.

Professional help is just a phone call away.

Living the Surreal Life

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

As I sit here watching the Sox take a beating not seen since Jimmy Burke and Tommy Devito put the boots to Billy Bats in "Goodfellas" I've realized a few random things.

One, seeing our utility infielder, Nick Green, pitch a scoreless 8th inning is both bizarre and fripping hilarious at the same time. Dude looked like he was born to pitch; wherever he is, I'm hoping Daisuke Matsuzaka took notice. Throw the little white ball over the plate and let your fielders do their job, dude.

Two, having a daughter in 6th grade riding the bus with High Schoolers is OK. Unless you are an overprotective Dad like me, so thank God my sister is willing to let Ciera ride home with Cousin Jerry and ride the bus to her house. Thanks, Stace.

Three, Jr and hayes are in Boston at a Jimmy Fund event with Renton from Surviving Grady and although he promised to keep me updated, I've got nada so far.

Which means he's either A. passed out, B. in jail, or C. Red has some Jedi mind control tricks he's using to keep Rich from keeping me abreast.

I love the little fella but Jr isn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed so I'm guessing C. (Kidding, Rich. Kidding. Well, sort of. ;) )

Whatever it is, I'm currently on the phone with my attorney wiping every trace of Jr out of my will.

Unless he calls me in the next hour and a half.

Has any team ever come back from a 9-2 deficit in the bottom of the ninth inning before?

THIS is further proof I need a full time shrink/Nanny living in the compound known as Casa De Dalton. Since that's never gonna happen, I'll settle for an epic comeback, Peace in the Middle East, and Trot sleeping past 5 a.m.

Of all the weeks for Miss Hathaway to take vacation......

Funny. I Thought It'd Have Been A Mug Shot

Ang and Rakes made the front page, ABOVE the fold of the local paper today after newspaper photographer snapped a picture of her kissing my little man goodbye yesterday on the first day of school.

This was a relief on several levels. One, he didn't think it was uncool to hug his Mom goodbye. Two, since his birth, I'd had visions of his first public photograph either being a mug shot or a wanted poster, so this was definitely a pleasant surprise. Three, I couldn't get my head through the front door after seeing this; not every day you see the love of your life and your first born son on the front page of the newspaper.

The fact he's not holding up a sign with a prisoner number on it is just a plus.

Throw in a Papi walk off Home Run to end the Sox/Sox game tonight and Teddy is a happy man. To all the haters who where crucifying the big man a few weeks ago?

The Large Father extends his middle finger in the universal symbol that the Red Sox are Number 1.

Finally, a better picture of today, courtesy of the Burlingtontimesnews.com

http://www.thetimesnews.com/sections/article/gallery/?pic=2&id=27614

First Day of School. Or the start of Ted's descent into insanity. Whatever.

Not only was today the first day my baby girl headed off to Middle School, it was also Rakes first day of Kindergarten and the first day of class for Ang at her new job.

I woke up more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and it didn't help when I dropped Ciera off at the front door of her school; for the first time in 6 years of taking her to school I didn't get a goodbye kiss or even so much of a "I Love you, Dad."

THAT stung for awhile.

Trot having a running commentary with himself in the back seat helped keep the mood somewhat light. He sounds like Chaka from "Land of the Lost" on meth and I could only understand every 4th word but it kept me from crying like Sally Field in some A&E Movie of the week, so I guess it was worth it.

Meanwhile Rakes was off to kindergarten, where I awaited the call from his teacher or the Principle about some sort of inappropriate behavior and the threat of suspension all day; much to my surprise, all was quiet. Another first out of the way and we decided to take some photographic proof.

Just in case the authorities came calling later.

Rakes, in his new skate shoes (which for some reason he thinks will make him able to ride a board like Tony Hawk. This is funny until you find him building a 12 foot high ramp in the garage and telling Trot to "Wear these, buddy. You can do it too!") I can't believe my little man is going to school full time.

And it's not in an orange jumpsuit.

Ciera on her first day of Middle School.

Note to self: buy handgun and 10 foot high barbed wire fence to secure the perimeter ASAP.

This is the photographic equivalent of an Shiite and a Sunni taking a picture together.

Trust me.

I think the nervous energy bonded them for one brief, glorious moment. What you don't see is Trot off to the left taking a whizz in the flowers.
All in all, it was a good ending for a lot of firsts today; Ang had a great day with her students and Ciera and Rakes thrived.

In the end, the only person who really struggled was the poor shmuck who was trying to sell furniture all day and wondering what in God's name was going on with the rest. Which isn't really different than any other day.

Except I'm both relieved and happy all at the same time.

I'm Fine. Really.

Ever been on a roller coaster? You know that part where you start off up that REALLY big hill and you've got that "Man, this is gonna be flipping awesome/I think I'm gonna throw up right on the head of that nice lady in front of me" feeling?

Today I'm on my way up; tomorrow I head down that hill into the second phase of my life. Not only is Ciera starting Middle School, Rakes is starting Kindergarten, Ang has her first day of classes at HER new job, (On a side note? I LOVE this woman. LOVE HER. But I'd repressed to the back part of her mind how she gets when she's got a deadline to make. Lead, Follow, Or Get the Hell out of the way comes to mind for some reason.) and I'm shuffling Trot all over creation to which Grandparent is keeping him on that given day.

My carefully controlled, OCDish, Iknowwhereeverythingis life is about to blow up in my face like Mount Olympus. And for some reason? I feel fine.

Maybe it's because I know we've raised Ciera to be the kind of young woman who thinks a clique is over rated. Or maybe, just maybe, a little part of me thinks Rakes is going to be a productive member of Kindergarten and not the second coming of Chuckie. And Trot, God Bless Him, is like a 2 foot version of Kramer; just point him in the direction he needs to go and he'll be fine.

Having my wife feel like a productive member of the working class and not a full time nanny doesn't hurt either. I haven't seen her this excited since I told her the baseball season was finally over.

Or it could just be the Yankees are gone and normal baseball resumes tonight when that whackjob in the picture I posted brings the other Sox to Fenway for a 4 game set. I love Ozzie Guillen; he's like that crazy cousin in your family that you're never sure what he's going to do or say, but you end up laughing your head off most of the time while he's around.

Whatever it is, I'm calm, cool, and collected.

Which is also what it's like in the eye of a hurricane.

Junichi Tazawa say's Hello

*Image courtesy of yahoosports.com*

Friday Night: 20-11, New York.

Saturday: 14-1, Boston.

Sunday: Beckett vs Sabbathia. On paper, and because the first two games look like football games gone horribly wrong, this one should be a tight, quick game filled with idiotic remarks and equally moronic suit/tie combinations from the ESPN crew.

However, it wouldn't surprise me if another 3 touchdown game erupts complete with a 5th inning brawl, fire falling from the sky, and Teets and Girardi engaged in a "1,2,3,4 I declare a thumb war" Death Match.

It's Red Sox/Yankees.

'Nuff said.

Dream the Impossible Dream

Heading into the bottom of the 7th inning the score from Fenway is 16-7 Yankees.

Barring the most epic comeback in baseball history, a Tornado hitting down town Boston, or Youk taking on the entire Yankee bench and wiping them all out ala Bruce Lee this one is most likely a loss.

While I understand that the lack of timely hitting, some random luck, and I'm pretty sure the earth shifted on it's axis are to bear some of the blame, the brunt of the suck fest I've endured since arriving home from work falls square on the shoulders of Brad Penny.

He gives up 8 runs, threw everything down the middle of the plate to a great hitting club, and in general looked like a guy throwing BP to a group of 1st graders. Which is why, after the game, I fully expect Tito to walk into the locker room, rip off Penny's jersey and cap, give him a sawbuck for the cab and a kick in the tail for good measure and ship him off to parts unknown.

I then want him to take said jersey and cap, walk out onto Yawkey Way where Louis Tiant is selling sausages, telling stories, and smoking Cuban cigars. Give the jersey and the cap to Louis, tell him he can smoke that stinky thing on the pitchers mound if he wants, and be ready to go in 5 days.

'Cause there is no way what we'd get out of Tiant can be any worse than what we got tonight. Trying to fight and claw their way out of a hole, with their mortal enemy in town and fighting for their post season lives, Brad Penny comes out acting like he's throwing BP at the Old Timers game.

If a guy can live through the Castro regime, he can flipping get Slappy to hit one on the ground.

One of the biggest reasons I love this game is they play again tomorrow. And there ain't no day better than tomorrow. ANYTHING can happen. Anything.

So I'm gonna take solace in the fact my boys didn't quit, they didn't roll over, and they fought to the end. Win or lose, I'll always be proud of that.

And if Pedie wants to yell "FREEDOM" at the top of his lungs and cross body block Jeter at second base?

I got no problem with that, either.

'Cause if anyone wants to count this team out, let me just remind you of the 2004 ALCS. Down 0-3, and coming off their worse loss of the year, that team with the B on the front of their cap went out and did the impossible. And because of that one series?

ANYTHING is possible.

Sweeping up the Jays

*Image lifted from boston.com*

An 8-1 win caps a 3 game sweep of the Jays and the boys are headed home to the comforts of Fenway Park for a HUGE weekend series with the Yankees, who are coming off their own sweep of the Oakland A's.

6.5 games back in the AL East and leading the Wild Card race, the next 3 days promises to be a 3 bottle of Pepto per night weekend.

The series is 8-4 Boston, with all the wins coming in sweeps for both sides. As much as I'd like to say I can see another one coming, it's going to have to be with Brad Penny and Junichi Tazawa starting the first two and The Commander climbing the hill for Game 3 on Sunday.

However, with the way the starting 9 are hitting, it's distinctly possible I could pitch the first two games and they'd still have a chance to win. From Ellsbury to AGone, EVERYONE is hitting and I'm in close contact with certain people to get the "Victor Martinez for President in 2012" campaign in motion.

As for the rest of tonight, I'm going to be locked in the laundry room practicing my "How to Curse without actually Cursing in front of my Kids moves" while I consider taking up smoking to get through this upcoming series.

Miss Hathaway is on 24 hour call if I need her, I've got my lucky hat, lucky bat, and autographed Big Papi ball on standby should the need for mojo arrive, and my Jason Bay Team Canada shirt clean and ready for tomorrow night.

As my main man Red said in Shawshank; Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'.

And it's the Yankees, Mattie. All bans on Shawshank quotes gets a pass this weekend.

Let's get it on.

One for the Ages

David vs. Goliath.

Fraiser Crane vs. Cliff.

USA vs Grenada.

Rocky vs Clubber Lang.

Clay vs Halladay.

Sometimes?

The underdog comes out on top. Tonight, Clay went 6 innings and the Red Sox beat the Jays 6-1 and Luke Skywalker opened a can of whoop a#* on Obi Wan before my very eyes.

As far as that post from a few nights ago about the Sox conceding the AL East to the Yankees? I was battling a severe case of Dengue Fever at the time so just ignore whatever it was I said.

To top it all off, Jerry Remy returns to NESN on Friday night for Game 1 of the Sox/ Yankees series.

If that isn't a good omen, I have no idea what is.

Pap wants to kill me

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

4-0.

6-2.

7-3

7-7.

10-7.

All the above were leads held by the Red Sox tonight against Toronto. Then Tito puts Papelbon in the game to get the last 4 outs and all of a sudden I'm on the phone with "1-800-Ineedadifibrilatorstat".

Before I can yell out "CHARGE" to Ang, it's 10-9 Red Sox, bases loaded, and I'm at the medicine cabinet throwing Flinstone vitamins willy nilly over my shoulder while I look for the nitroglycerin tablets I stole from my Dad 9 months ago.

Thankfully Pap got out of it before I found them. I'm pretty sure you can OD on nitro; at least I saw an episode of ER once that makes me think that.

God, it's me. I know your'e there.

Can I please have a completely classless game sometime in the next week?

My heart, as well as my sanity would greatly appreciate it.

Happy Birthday, Sissy.

Tomorrow, at 12:55 p.m., my little girl turns 11.

And in another week, she heads off to middle school where who knows what awaits while I head to the pawn shop to buy a really big pistol, a concealed carry permit, and several bottles of Valium.

Up until now, my life as a Dad has consisted of diaper changing, 4,390 Lego pieces scattered across the living room, and trying to help her do Elementary School level homework.

We're about to graduate to boys, cliques, boys, Pre-Algebra, boys, and all the joys of 400 plus pre-teens gathering in one place, for 8 hours, EVERY day.

Did I mention boys?

I may only be 5 ft 6 inches, but if I accomplish nothing else in this life I swear on the contract of David Ortiz that I will make life miserable for every little dink who darkens my front door.

Not only will they have to pass my carefully crafted Red Sox quiz, they are going to have to make it through the front line defense of Rakes and Trot, THEN get past me, my gun, and that 8 inch think steel door I'm having installed next week.

For the love of all that is holy, where have the past 11 years went? To say I'm not ready for all this is the understatement of the century. I don't even know where to begin.

All I can hope for is that I've brought her up the best I know how, she's actually listened on the rare occasion I've made any semblance of sense, and that her Mom's genes are the majority rule.

'Cause other than that?

I've got no hope.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.

Let It Be

Trot STILL has a 102 + degree fever?

Let It Be.

Sox lose to the Rangers today, dropping 2 out of 3 this weekend?

Let It Be.

Yankees come to Fenway next Friday for pretty much the most important series of the year?

Let It Be.

Tek has become a black hole at the plate and can't throw a runner out at second if his life depended on it?

Let It Be.

As much as I don't want to admit it, the Sox are pretty much fighting for the Wild Card from here on out.

Let It Be.

Out of the Fab Four, only Paul and Ringo are left?

Just flippin' Let It Be.

It Worked Last Night...

It's the top of the 5th inning, the Red Sox are losing 4-1, and Brad Penny is on the hill.

Trot is in bed with a 102 degree fever, Rakes is asking me every 3 seconds if HE has a fever, and Ang and Ciera are up in West Virginia white water rafting, leaving me, ME, in charge.

Not only are the Sox losing, but the Rangers have stolen 6 bases in FOUR FREAKING INNINGS. And while you may initially blame Tek for all of this, the dude in the cowboy hat in the picture with the move to home plate that looks like The Matrix when they bend over backwards to avoid the incoming bullet is mostly to blame.

I'm firmly convinced the little old lady with the blue hair and the walker I saw at the grocery store last night, along with Haystacks Calhoun and a snail with a torn hammy and one leg could steal second tonight.

So, as Tim in the comment section of yesterdays post so eloquently said, I asked for a rabbit last night and got a kangaroo.

I'm expecting the same tonight.

PS: Gimme back my Wake.

Whenever you need a rally, look to Millar

It's currently 3-2 Texas in the bottom of the 7th inning.

I'm home alone due to Ang and Ciera off on a mother/daughter retreat and Rakes and Trot at the in-laws tonight. The Sox are on the tv, I ate 2 frozen burritos for dinner, and I have no responsibilites other than wake up in time to go to work tomorrow.

The very least the Red Sox could do is pull a rabbit our of their collective rear end and win this flipping thing.

For some Sox mojo, I need to look no farther than Kevin Millar.