Our boy Brandon on the business end of an uncharacteristic shelling. The bats that came to life in New York lulled back to sleep by the wizardry of Rodrigo Lopez. My 86 year old aunt Rose getting drunk at the family picnic and taking off her shirt. Yes, it all adds up to a miserable Memorial Day for me and the hometown team.
The only silver lining comes in the form of two hits by Olerud, two more by Damon [I, for one, never would have predicted such unstoppable awesomeness on his part this season], and some nice work by Halama in relief of Arroyo. Oh, and the fact that Rose was eventually tranquilized and sent back to Southie.
And on a more somber note, today we remember J.P. Villaman, the Sox’ Spanish language play-by-play man, who died yesterday.
Toight, it’s Miller against Cabrera. See you there.
