I Fear Confusion
Edgar and Dougie out. Mark Loretta and Andy Marte in. No frickin' shortstop. THREE third basemen, and none of them are Billy Mueller. The possibility of an entirely new lineup next year, apart from the Cap'n and Papi-Man.
*hides under the bed*
I have to explain, my first reaction to all of these was not seething deadly hatred. It was a simple "What the fuck is going on here?" There is a plan, I mean, there must be, but I can't see it as of now. All I can see are the questions, all trees and no forest.
*How major league ready is Marte?
*Do we trade Youk for pitching, start Lowell in the bigs, Marte in AAA and go from there?
*WHO THE HELL IS GOING TO PLAY SHORTSTOP?
*Don't say Julio Lugo.
*No seriously, do NOT.
* Is there still a possibility of Wells for Roberts and Otsuka?
* How are we going to find a guy who can catch Wake as well as Dougie?
*Will this offseason be the death of the Vegetable Mojo?
I don't fear change. I mean, I started the year a Bellhorn Babe and ended it a Graffinino Groupie. I can handle change. What I sincerely, sincerely dislike is confusion. I have no idea, no concept in my head of what this team is going to look like in April. And it scares the hell out of me.
***
This was my initial reaction to John Olerud's retirement, and I can't find any other words:
"Sniff. Here, friends, was a baseball player. He may only have been here for one year, but I remember the young John Olerud, when he was a champion with the Blue Jays. He hasn't changed a bit. And that is the highest compliment I can give him. He is truly old school, in the best and highest sense."
John; here is that Viking ship I promised you, which still cannot begin to hold your awesomeness:
***
I think maybe I've given up on football writing, at least for now. Not football as a subject. It will show up occasionally. But weekly game recaps, if they ever were present, are things of the past now. Don't get me wrong , I dearly love football. However, baseball is my passion, and the bulk of my knowledge and this blog is baseball. I've found I cannot write about football as well as I want to. So at least for now, it must go dormant.
***
That, combined with the non-tendering of Buckethead, AKA the Idiot, and the imminent FA signing of the Professional, means real life, and this blog, have outgrown the title at the top of the page.
This is not something I take lightly, by any stretch of the imagination.
Reading Gordon Edes "The Cowboy rides into the sunset" in the Globe today, I got emotionally wobbly against my will.
God knows Millar scratched his cleats up an down my nerves this season. The fact that a water buffalo on a sunny day with a good headwind could beat him to first base. Whether he was playing it or running to it.
The stretches where he was sincerely godawful at the plate, and we screamed for Olerud.
But there were the good times; the Manny wrangling; his sense of his own absurdity; and the times when he did get hot at the plate, and it was beautiful to behold.
The Walk. Which started The Comeback.
And, I have him to thank for one of the baseball memories I will take with me always. It was my first game back at Fenway since my childhood. May 10th, 2005. Low-scoring pitcher's duel, bottom of the ninth Sox down by one. Papi walks. Millar at the plate, responsible for one of the the opposing runs through error. 2-1 count. Millar swings away, and as the ball lofts towards heaven to land on the Monster, a wave of human joy sweeps through the crowd, and lifts me off my feet. Sox win. Sox win.
I love you, Buckethead, ya big lug.
With Billy Mueller, there aren't really that many ups and downs to remember. Because that's what Billy is about:consistency. He is is the Professional, the Yankee Killer. He, like Johnny O, is a baseball player of the old, best school. Attached forever in New England consciousness to one particular home run, and one particular single.
And so I say of him, for the last time: "How 'bout our third baseman?"
The Red Sox are changing. So must this blog. Thus, I open up the comments section of this post for any and all suggestions of a new name, barring the obscene ones.Not that this is such a family blog to begin with. But my grandparents read it, so keep it clean.
***
Finally, in honor of our new Second Baseman ( another Mark, V.2.0)., from Monty Python's Life of Brian:
REG
Furthermore, it is the birthright of every man ...
STAN
Or woman.
REG
Why don't you shut up about women, Stan, you're putting us off.
STAN
Women have a perfect right to play a part in our movement, Reg.
FRANCIS
Why are you always on about women, Stan?
STAN
... I want to be one.
REG
... What?
STAN
I want to be a woman. From now on I want you all to call me Loretta.
REG
What!?
STAN
It's my right as a man.
JUDITH
Why do you want to be Loretta, Stan?
STAN
I want to have babies.
*hides under the bed*
I have to explain, my first reaction to all of these was not seething deadly hatred. It was a simple "What the fuck is going on here?" There is a plan, I mean, there must be, but I can't see it as of now. All I can see are the questions, all trees and no forest.
*How major league ready is Marte?
*Do we trade Youk for pitching, start Lowell in the bigs, Marte in AAA and go from there?
*WHO THE HELL IS GOING TO PLAY SHORTSTOP?
*Don't say Julio Lugo.
*No seriously, do NOT.
* Is there still a possibility of Wells for Roberts and Otsuka?
* How are we going to find a guy who can catch Wake as well as Dougie?
*Will this offseason be the death of the Vegetable Mojo?
I don't fear change. I mean, I started the year a Bellhorn Babe and ended it a Graffinino Groupie. I can handle change. What I sincerely, sincerely dislike is confusion. I have no idea, no concept in my head of what this team is going to look like in April. And it scares the hell out of me.
***
This was my initial reaction to John Olerud's retirement, and I can't find any other words:
"Sniff. Here, friends, was a baseball player. He may only have been here for one year, but I remember the young John Olerud, when he was a champion with the Blue Jays. He hasn't changed a bit. And that is the highest compliment I can give him. He is truly old school, in the best and highest sense."
John; here is that Viking ship I promised you, which still cannot begin to hold your awesomeness:
***
I think maybe I've given up on football writing, at least for now. Not football as a subject. It will show up occasionally. But weekly game recaps, if they ever were present, are things of the past now. Don't get me wrong , I dearly love football. However, baseball is my passion, and the bulk of my knowledge and this blog is baseball. I've found I cannot write about football as well as I want to. So at least for now, it must go dormant.
***
That, combined with the non-tendering of Buckethead, AKA the Idiot, and the imminent FA signing of the Professional, means real life, and this blog, have outgrown the title at the top of the page.
This is not something I take lightly, by any stretch of the imagination.
Reading Gordon Edes "The Cowboy rides into the sunset" in the Globe today, I got emotionally wobbly against my will.
God knows Millar scratched his cleats up an down my nerves this season. The fact that a water buffalo on a sunny day with a good headwind could beat him to first base. Whether he was playing it or running to it.
The stretches where he was sincerely godawful at the plate, and we screamed for Olerud.
But there were the good times; the Manny wrangling; his sense of his own absurdity; and the times when he did get hot at the plate, and it was beautiful to behold.
The Walk. Which started The Comeback.
And, I have him to thank for one of the baseball memories I will take with me always. It was my first game back at Fenway since my childhood. May 10th, 2005. Low-scoring pitcher's duel, bottom of the ninth Sox down by one. Papi walks. Millar at the plate, responsible for one of the the opposing runs through error. 2-1 count. Millar swings away, and as the ball lofts towards heaven to land on the Monster, a wave of human joy sweeps through the crowd, and lifts me off my feet. Sox win. Sox win.
I love you, Buckethead, ya big lug.
With Billy Mueller, there aren't really that many ups and downs to remember. Because that's what Billy is about:consistency. He is is the Professional, the Yankee Killer. He, like Johnny O, is a baseball player of the old, best school. Attached forever in New England consciousness to one particular home run, and one particular single.
And so I say of him, for the last time: "How 'bout our third baseman?"
The Red Sox are changing. So must this blog. Thus, I open up the comments section of this post for any and all suggestions of a new name, barring the obscene ones.Not that this is such a family blog to begin with. But my grandparents read it, so keep it clean.
***
Finally, in honor of our new Second Baseman ( another Mark, V.2.0)., from Monty Python's Life of Brian:
REG
Furthermore, it is the birthright of every man ...
STAN
Or woman.
REG
Why don't you shut up about women, Stan, you're putting us off.
STAN
Women have a perfect right to play a part in our movement, Reg.
FRANCIS
Why are you always on about women, Stan?
STAN
... I want to be one.
REG
... What?
STAN
I want to be a woman. From now on I want you all to call me Loretta.
REG
What!?
STAN
It's my right as a man.
JUDITH
Why do you want to be Loretta, Stan?
STAN
I want to have babies.
posted by Emma at 4:41 PM
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