The pattern is getting frighteningly predictable. Schilling pitches, Red Sox win. Beckett pitches, Red Sox win. Lester pitches, Red Sox win. Anyone else pitches, the team looks like a herd of retarded cattle trying to do the Macarena. You come to expect the mediocre pitching that makes guys like Frank Thomas look 10 years younger and tattooing the ball into another zip code. But it’s the bats that scare me. One day they’re thunder, the next they’re a fart in a windstorm. Four hits and a walk? Haren is good, but he ain’t that good.
It seems like only yesterday the Sox were pounding out 18 hits and treating every member of the A’s pitching staff like the new guy on the prison block. Well, maybe the day before yesterday. But where the hell do those bats go? With the lineup the Sox put out there, no 5-run lead should be safe and the fans should just know the comeback is imminent. Days like yesterday, they could have called the game after the Big Hurt hit his second homer, it was all over but the crying.
Today, we get the off day. An entire day and night to sulk and watch bad sitcoms and drink away the pain of a bad loss. Then the Sox are home. With Jon Lester on the mound. The grass is always a little greener and the sound of bat hitting ball a little sweeter at Fenway. I won’t be there of course, but I’ll have Remdawg and DO to help. If you get a minute, check us out over at Barstool Sports. And feel free to take a look at the rest of the stuff there, not just us. Needless to say, none of the girls there compare to our own Mrs. MLB, but still worth a look.
