We went into last night’s game not knowing which Timmeh was gonna show up: the guy who gives up home runs like my man Tokyo Pete hands out Double Quarter Pounders from the McDonalds drive-thru window on Longwood Ave, or the guy who likes to kick your ass.
Lucky for us, the ass-kicky guy showed up.
Honestly, I’m always happy to see Timmeh have a good game, and not just because it’s good for my blood pressure when he’s not spotting the opposing team six runs before we’ve even come up to bat. I’m happy because Tim Wakefield is the heart and soul of the Boston Red Sox. Actually, he’s more than that. He’s the conscience, the goodwill, the respected elder. He’s the part of the brain that tells you to throw that extra quarter in the Salvation Army bucket because, really, what the heck are you going to do with it anyway? He’s the Anti-Bonds, the One Man Love Army, the kind of guy you’d want to have as your college roomie, next door neighbor or son-in-law. And last night, he showed once again how devastating he can be when his mojo is working — and, y’know, he faces a team that isn’t used to seeing him.
Also, how f–king intense did the Papel-Bot look after closing it out last night, stomping and pointing and shouting like a guy at a Megadeth concert who’s screaming for an encore and secretly hoping it’s some obscure number off Rust in Peace.
Seriously, the only thing that’s got me concerned is the offense. I think I need to see one of those games where they score about 12 or 13 runs, just to prove to me that they can still do it. Not that I don’t love seeing our pitchers hold the opposition to 1 or 2 or 3 runs a game. I’m just not sure it’s how I wanna live the rest of my summer.
That said, we still own the best record in baseball, so it’s Shredded Wheat, Red Bull and cigars all around for breakfast this morning. And we’ve got Schilling tonight and Beckett tomorrow. These are magical days, people. Dig in.
