good, if counterintuitive, place, I suppose, is the first inning, when the sun
was shining warmly on red-bedecked fans, and Jon Lester retired the side on just
four (4) pitches.
Hot dog! It
seemed from the get-go like we were in for another gem.
posterity, is a photo I snapped of Lester — avant
le deluge — as he struck out Carl Crawford in the second.
quite suddenly, they
the eight inning yesterday evening, as the moon shone brightly over the first
base line and Rocco Baldelli’s Monster mash flew skyward, hammering a
definitive nail in that game’s proverbial coffin, I gazed down at the field and
noticed something disconcerting.
in their new
uniforms, road grays with dark blue caps, looked a lot like the Yankees.
hitting like the Yankees, too.
It was also
around this time that fans started exiting
put. If only to witness something miraculous. But I really couldn’t blame
people for wanting to beat traffic. “I can't believe people are walking out,”
wrote someone on Sons of Sam Horn. “The fucking principle. This is the American
reply: “Tell that to the Red Sox bats.”
Yep. This game
Lester did the best he could do considering the circumstance he was in. After
that disastrous third, he sacked up and came back, gutting it out for another
two and two-thirds, giving up just three more hits. (And, yeah, Tek made some bad pitch calls. And yeah, he’s probably
a little overworked.)
But WTF is
up with this offense?
It’s not just that we’ve got
no pop. Yesterday
it seemed like we had less than nothing.
Tek. (Hey Jason! Don’t
wanna be pinch-hit for? Don’t suck!)
ourselves to be handcuffed for 6 innings by Matt
because of that, we find ourselves hoping against hope that Tim Wakefield, who
with a 5.87 against the Rays this season, will somehow set that thing a
dancin’ and turn in a performance like
And we praying
Sonnanstine, who beat us twice in a row last
month — and with ease: 13 IP, 12 strikeouts, 7 hits, 0 earned runs — will
somehow forget that he has our number.
have happened, sure.
Rays seem relaxed
and rested. (And way, way, way too
comfortable at the plate.)
beat-up, tired, and tense. Which I think we are.
starting to think that, as much grit and guts as we may possess, we just don’t
have the offence or the pitching do see
this thing through.
of course, to be proven wrong.