So we avoided a sweep at the hands of the Rays. Which is good, because the last thing any self-respecting Sox fan needed at this point was the lasting image of Raymond the mascot giving us all the brown-eye as we shuffle, heads down, out the back door of the Trop. It wasn’t the prettiest of series, but last night’s game served as a somber reminder to opposing teams everywhere: You cannot stop David Ortiz; you can only hope to contain him. He is magic and ‘splosions, thunder and lightning, the puller of strings, the basher of wrongdoers, the keeper of the three-pack bonanza and the closest thing this city’s had to a bona fide superhero since Dana Hersey. Remember when everyone else on the rebel base was like, “Well, this Death Star thing might cause some trouble so let’s try and stop it” and Luke Skywalker was all, “Screw that, let’s blow the thing out of the sky”? That’s what Ortiz is to this team.
Now, onto a tough weekend series with the Knights of Sir Ozzie. My personal, uniformed predictions are as follows:
Tonight, we get shut down by Buehrle.
Tomorrow, Beckett gets croaked.
Sunday, redemption arrives in the person of Curt Schilling.
So, yeah, I’m guessing 1-2, then get our asses back home for some rest before the second half.
