The Horror....the horror...

  

 I'm not sure if this qualifies as a sport, but Halloween is right around the corner, and many youngsters are planning, training, strategizing, assuming/becoming totems, and purchasing supplies as we speak.

   I'm not talking about the NBA season. These aren't Raptors or Bulls. We'll get to that in another post. This is Halloween, baby....and a lot of kids will hit their peak athletic performance Sunday night.

   Halloween, for the most part, involves more exercise than a lot of sports. Few people ride those silly little golf carts as they go home to home. Not many halfbacks play with 2 little mask slits to see the world, through....and most cars weigh a lot more than Ted Washington.

   Vandalism- with its' hurled eggs and frenzied sprinting- combines the better elements of all 3 major US sports....not including an NHL-style ass kicking if you egg Albert Belle's home, but we'll get to that later.

   Halloween is indeed in the realm of Sport, and will be treated as such in this column....so we may as well start at the beginning. I'm a History teacher when I actually am working, and I'll sort of look like one for the next few paragraphs. If that bores you, skip down until you see "Albert Belle" again.

   Time was sort of unimportant before humans figured out agriculture. "I have an 8:30 appointment with the mammoth"....prolly didn't happen, no?

   Once humans started hanging around where the apple trees were, they needed to acquire some sense of when to throw seeds, and when to harvest. It was survival of the fittest then, and whoever farmed better lived better. The better farmer recognized how to exploit the seasons, and from that came our obsession with what we call Halloween.

  

   The best place to start is in the Celtic culture, and I don't mean Paul Pierce. They used to have a festival called "Samhain," which meant "summer's end". It was time to start pulling up crops before the frosts came, or time to celebrate having pulled up the crops- depending on the weather. It generally fell on November 1st in England/Ireland/NW France.

   Around 800 AD, the Church began having a feast on All Saint's Day...October 31st. They put holidays on pagan festival days a lot...Christmas was set at the time of the Roman Saturnalia holiday, which was a rowdy hoilday until it shared a day with the Birth of Jesus....which probably didn't happen in December, btw. All Saint's Day was aka All Hallowed Eve, and illiterate peasants shortened that to Halloween.

   There existed a belief that, prior to All Soul's Day (Nov 1-3, depending on where you are), the barriers between the natural and supernatural world were broken, and the souls of the dead could walk the earth. Throw in some witchcraft myths, local superstitions, and- especially- the American marketing machine, and it is pretty much unchallenged as the Night for Big Evil.

  

   The Jack'o'lantern was based on an Irish legend of a miser named Jack who Heaven didn't want, and who Hell had problems with, as well. He was cursed to walk the earth, with only a coal from Hell(kept in a hollowed turnip) to light his way. Some people put out similar lanterns for dead ancestors, and some people put snacks out for the dead. The hungrier people eventually got around to dressing as the dead and scooping up this free offering. Out of this, trick or treating was born.

   Immigration to America brought that stuff here, along with the European tendency to whine and seek vengeance at some perceived slight, such as failing to come up with the expected treats when asked. Few holidays are conducted in stealth disguise at night, and people who run out of Recee's or those peppermint patty things can expect to be punished like a lazy Georgian chain gang member.

   Eggs were a natural weapon of a primarily rural people, as kicking the **** out of someone was a bit extreme for failure to provide free food on command. Americans added things like toilet paper to trees, doggie-bags from Hell, and the Lawn of Fire....and burning down every vacant building in the city, if you're from Detroit. 

  

   Duxbury, Massachusetts had its' own particular style, and feel free to elaborate in the comments section if you have some Fat Prank that was practiced in your town.

   Duxbury is a rich town, and I spent  one Halloween sitting in the back seat of a Mercedes with my friend Chrissy, as our boyfriends got high and smashed mailboxes/ran over fences/robbed children/egged houses/generally acted like asses.

   This was allowed, because the town feared another Scavenger Hunt. In the 1980s( Duxbury High School class of 1986, I'm being told) horror came back to Halloween with a Scavenger Hunt that included things like "police cruiser," "homeless man," "DPW vehicle," "Lisa *****'s fingernails," and "McDonald's employee" being legitimately crossed off many kids' lists.

   A pile of debris was deposited in a lonely beach parking lot, and complaints from friends of the kidnapping victims eventually brought in the State Police. It is tough to laugh off a 911 call claiming "someone dressed as President Nixon just tore off my daughter's Ninja Turtle costume."

  

   Almost forgot Uncle Albert Belle, the former Cleveland slugger who is his own kind of Mr. October. Even I thought he was robbed of the MVP by Mo "Supper" Vaughn in 1995. He should have been a little pissed. But in one lovely October, Albert made himself into the World's Angriest Man.

   First, Hannah Storm made the mistake of not stepping like Slavery when he ordered it. He lit into her with a tirade that would have made Dice Clay cover his ears. I saw the tape....he looked like he was about to plunge his face into a stream and come up with a salmon.

   Hannah, who was generally ass-kissed during her days at NBC, was actually turned on by having a big Louisiana man ho check her like that. She began to follow Belle, and eventually was involved in a violent fracas with Mrs. Belle at a Cleveland soul food cafe.

   Oh wait...that was me. But I digress...

   On Halloween that year- no doubt upset by the $50,000 Pimphand Fee levied by MLB- he answered his door and may or may not have failed to hand out some 3 Musketeers to some Cleveland teens, who then egged his condo. Albert chased them down in his truck, knocking one kid to the ground with his front bumper.

   Bottom line, kids: Know Thy Enemy. There are houses where the door hides monsters far worse than demons. Imagine the horror when Albert Belle came flying out of the door, bellowing profanities? Imagine hearing the roar of a truck, and seeing a huge, angry athlete jump out? I wonder if the kid who got Trucked held up a crucifix as Belle ran up on him. I bet those kids were bobbing for apples at the Church in Halloween, 1996.

   I would also recommend exercising caution when extorting Roger Clemens, Allen Iverson, Ray Lewis, Rasheed Wallace, Dale Earnhardt Jr, Bill Romanowski, or Tie Domi for candy. Nolan Ryan can and will hit you in the kidney with a Butterfinger bar at 107mph.... and LT has broken legs for less, and may have a coke buzz.

   Sometimes, it's better to just let Carl Everett enjoy his well-earned privacy, and take home 3 less Snickers bars. Live to fight another day, kids.... 

   La punition excède la récompense  

Find Wound, Apply Salt....Enjoy

 

- What do you call 25 guys watching the World Series on TV?
The New York Yankees!

 

 

- Spare a-rod, spoil October(Yes, I know that's not funny....I'm hoping someone can better the basic idea in the comments section).

 

 

(from my email) Boston sports teams are like former lovers:

The Patriots are that guy that you just met... he's wonderful, he does nothing wrong....but all guys look like that for dates 1-5 or so. The radar is still up.

The Bruins are that "nice" guy you go out with when no one else is available. They're fun to be with, but cheap. If all else fails, you know they will be waiting in the double-wide for you.

The Celtics are a deceased husband. 20 years later, you look back and remember how wonderful it was, and you judge every new man you meet by the high standards you remember the Celtics by. You know his son, btw....but he's a punk.

The Red Sox are an abusive boyfriend who beats the **** out of you, but you keep going back because you love him, and you think that he'll be different next time.

That joke just died, but it gets to deliver its' own eulogy.

 

- Two old men sit at a Red Sox game, circa 1998. They've been going since they were kids, and they only hope to see the Red Sox win it all. One of them finally dies, and the other sits by an empty seat as the Sox beat the Yankees, and finally win the elusive world title.

   Game 4, St. Louis. The surviving old man is shocked to see the ghost of his friend sitting next to him as the game ends. The ghost smiles, and says "Wouldn't miss it for Death itself." He then starts to fade away.

"Wait....don't go....there's something else I need to know!"

The ghost pauses, and awaits the question.

"Is there baseball in Heaven?"

The ghost smiles...then says:

"I have good news and bad news. The good news? There is indeed baseball in Heaven. The bad news? You're pitching Thursday."

 

-  I'm beating a dead horse, but did you evereverever see a worse set of National Anthem/God Bless America singers than what St. Looey trotted out for games 3 and 4?

   The girl- Gretchen someone- was like listening to someone repeatedly opening a styrofoam cooler. Thank God she's cute, because after her song ended, every walrus in the St. Louis zoo began mating.

   The guy from Creed must have thought it was Halloween, because he showed up dressed as Eddie Vedder, complete with the faux baritone Vedder tries to sing with. If Chuck D had come out of the audience and killed him, no American jury would convict him.

   I guess they were saving Ike Turner for Game 5.

   I hatehatehate the Yankees...still...but that Shrek looking guy could bust out a ferocious God Bless America. Those big ears must have some acoustical merit.

 

 

- Many New Englanders think that the Curse was truly broken when a kid from Sudbury was smashed in the face by a Fenway foul ball. The Sudbury kid had one special thing about him....he lives in the house Babe Ruth lived in while playing for the Old Towne Team.

   Now, we need to buy him Rick Pitino's Back Bay condo, and have Latrell Sprewell try to strangle him (Best post assault quote ever from Sprewell- "I didn't choke him that bad.....he could still gag and gasp").

Trade A-Rod, Buy Mauritania

The Yankees paid $190 million for the pleasure of losing the ALCS. Here's what you can buy for $190 million:

- Roughly 200 tons of marijuana....or so I'm told.

- given a fair volume discount and the continuity of the Dollar Menu, one could have 63 million Double cheeseburgers, fries and cokes. One could also get 87 million Big Dave's Bacon Deluxes.

- I stole this from Sportz Assassin, but each US citizen could have 70 cents

- You could rape the hotel staff at Vail 27 times. You could also shut Vanessa Bryant up 78 times, even when you are admitting to sodomizing a hotel clerk.

- You could buy all the real estate in Monponsett, and you could still have a big party afterwards where you throw million dolar bills into the fireplace.

- The entire American League All Star team, with money left over to sign every teenager in the Dominican Republic to a developmental deal.  

- You could start 5 Shaqs, and bring 1.3 more Shaqs off the bench.

- You could subscribe to AOL for 7,600,000 months.

- Go to Lockheed-Martin and buy 7 F-16s, and a B-52 bomber. Train a few of your buddies to fly, and you have an air force that's quite capable of gaining air superiority over a developing nation like Senegal or Mauritania.

- You could have Nancy Kerrigan's right knee smashed in with a pipe 380,000 times

- Rather than come in with the B-52, you could buy every person in Senegal a George Foreman Fat Burning Grill

- At current NYNEX long-distance rates, you could call everybody in the world with a working phone, and insult them for 23 seconds each.

- You could hire Celine Dion to sing for you, one show a day, for 25 years. You'd have 1.2 million left over to buy a Walkman, 25 years worth of batteries, and enough CDs to drown out that awful Titanic song.

- You could go to Ottawa, say "Enough already!", and personally settle the NHL labor dispute.

- You could move to Senegal, and offer everyone there $20 to move to Mauritania.

- You can capture and eat all 30 remaining Yangtze River Dolphins, the rarest species of edible animal in the world.

- You could buy 30000 Zambonis, and go make Siberia nice and smooth.

- You could suddenly cancel the Daytona 500 by hiring every team driver to take part in a sled race down the side of Mount McKinley.

- You could make full body armor out of $100 bills, packed thickenough to stop hollow point shells.....for 3,275 people.

- You could get 70 million people hooked on Oxycontin, provided that you buy the drugs from Canada.

- Hire James Earl Jones and his sons, who he would train in oration, to answer your phone for you for 165 years.

- Hire Iron Mike Tyson to "visit" absolutely anyone who has crossed you in life. "Steal my boyfriend before the Junior Prom, will you? Yeah, 10 years is a long time, I agree. Meet my new associate, Mr. Tyson."

- Use actual Senators, active and retired,  for the new Washington Senators baseball team. I'm thinking Dole(he can just wedge a bat into that Pencil Hand), Helms and Kennedy as my leadoff inning, with Clinton batting clean-up.

- Hire Demi Moore, Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, The Rock, Renee Zelwegger, Sean Connery, Sarah Michelle Gellar and whoever else I am into to star in a film where the plot consists entirely of movie stars trying to seduce a retired teacher/wannabe sportswriter.

- You could create a Suzi-Q pastry large enough to obscure the entire nation of Canada.

- Capture the Loch Ness Monster, and spit-fry him over a carefully-arsonized Versailles.

- Add 65 million boxes of Earl Grey Tea to Boston Harbor....oh wait, that's been done before.

- Book a flight to Mars with the Russian space program. Depart from a launch pad in Kazahkstan. Once on Mars, construct a big sand structure, consisting of an arrow pointing towards Earth, with the expression "I'm with Stupid" under it.

- Pay everyone in Europe to start calling Mia Hamm's sport "Soccer."

- Buy Rafael Palmiero's remaining dignity and some Viagra stock, then start doing magazine ads with captions like "Be Impotent, Look Impo'tent" and "She'll laugh it off when you have $75 million....what's in your wallet?"

"Hell....sometimes I take 3 at once, and go down to the junior college in my Maserati"

Almost Live Coverage of Game 1

7:55: Good to see Stephen Tyler is either back on heroin, or did enough in 1976 so that there is a sort of residual effect. The National Anthem now starts with a "wuh-ellllllllllll" Letting Joe Perry play it...now we're talking. Can't send a Marshfield boy to do a Duxbury Man's job.

If it goes 6 games, Duxbury's Juliana Hatfield is slated to sing. If it goes 7, a little known band named 20th Maine will handle the job.

8:03: I have a sister in Missouri, and I still haven't finished goofing on her for New England's Super Bowl victory over her cowardly Rams a coupla years ago. This is either her revenge, or her nightmare continued.

8:07: Game time....

8:08: Wakefield plops on Santeria, or whatever they call him, 4 pitches. Wakefield has my favorite dream job- knuckleballer. Few can do it well, and he can throw 8 innings tonight, close the next game, and do 5.5 innings of relief in game 3. The problem is that guys like Walker can get their bats on it, and then it's batting cage time. Pool Ho is up, but Wake gets him popping. Rollen suffers the same fate, and we'll be back after this break....

8:17: Low rider Chevy commercial lead-in....almost as funny as a guy in 2004 still calling himself "Woody." I guess "Stiffy" was already taken.

8:20: Damon at the bat...he goes for 2!! Orlando tries to bunt, as unusual for Boston as a July snow. Then Woody beans our new SS, on a night we have a guy with a 54mph fastball pitching. It looks innocent, but I trust nobody named "Woody."

8:27: Just how much ass does David Ortiz kick? He just may ascend into Heaven at the end of this October. He is your Papi. Resistance is futile. He knows if you've been bad or good.

2 different ways to spell "Miller" put another run up before the Cards get out of it. 4-0.

'Bout time Alexander the Great got his own movie....

8:36: Edmonds gets one of those cheesy bunt hits, trying not to think about the fact he's down 4-0. Sanders misses a Battleship swing before Edmunds almost gets picked off on a passed ball. Catchers who can snag 102mph heaters can't adjust to the dancing knuckler- the equivalent of Dale Jr. saying "Shucks...that Gordon guy is too slow...I can't catch him."

The Cardinals immediately look to bunt with dudes on 1st and 2nd. The Sox bunted 12 times this year, while St. L seems to do it as option one. 2nd and 3rd, now...which is why they do it. 4-1 on the sacrifice fly. National League Ball clinic in progress...

Wake strikes out Coochiecoochie to escape the inning. 

What do you want to bet Pete Rose has money on tonight's game?

8:48: I enjoy seeing a Japanese player standing under the Green Monster. They ought to dangle a big Gamera out of the Monstahh seats to add to the terror.

8:50: Bellhorn gets on, with Captain Cavema-a-a-annnnnnnnn following him. Line shot to Renteria, and Orlando does the same thing to the left fielder.SuperManny gets on, and here comes Senor Octobre...

   For those of you familiar with Massachusetts geography, Ortiz looks perfectly capable of hitting one out of Fenway and into nearby Natick. Woodrow wisely walks him. He gets out of the jam, and it's time to sell Energizers.

9:00: Nanny 911 looks like it should be called Kids who need a Pimp Hand or some Ritalin.

Walker jacks one out...4-2. Great hitters can turn on that knuckler, and beat it like a lazy serf. Pool Ho suddenly looks more menacing. Full count....he hits him, at 44 mph. Rollen A Fatty comes to bat, drops 0-2, and then double plays us out of a jam.

49 degrees, 42 wind chill, 6 mph winds, 27 mph gusts, really damp and raw. Cider weather....we don't break out the cocoa unti November.

9:12: Nixon out, Mill Dog walks, Mirabelli(you know what they say about guys with big gloves, no?), who is Wakefield's spear carrier, gets us first and third, one out. The Japanese guy I goofed on seems to play the Monstahh well, something not easily done. He'll save them runs if he masters it.

A walk...bases loaded for the Speed Damon.

37 feet tall, 310 down the line. Seats added in 2003. It's the Green Monstahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Damon drives in a run....5-2.

LaRussa might be coming out to pull Woody. Tony is taking his Woody out. If the next pitcher is named, "Johnson," I may have to watch COPS for a few innings. If his name is "Hugh G. Rection," I may just take off my glasses and watch with the volume down.

9:26: Orlando abuses the guy from AAA, 6-2, bases loaded...SuperManny. Manny gets the run in, 7-2. Manny sure needed that RBI. He got none in the ALCS.

Senor Octobre, 1st and 3rd, 2 down. Who's your Papi?"I dream it, Ortiz makes it a reality" says one crowd sign. They walked him again. Millahhhhh coes to bat, bases loaded, 2 down.....side retired.

But the damage has been done...time to sell some SUVs.

Howie Long...worst Radio Shack commercial ever. Even the folks in Charlestown are laughing.

9:33: 4th inning....leadoff walk(s). 2 on, no one out. Wake is the first knuckler to start a Series game. Arroyo loosening in the pen. They got lucky with the wind...it was howling earlier.

3 straight walks, no outs. Yikes. Wakefield seems to have a small strike zone to work with. He needs a K...like the spider needs the fly. Suicide squeeze? Full count...why bother? Sac fly, error on the throw,,,2 runs score, Womack on 3rd. 7-4. The worst playing of a sac fly, E-3, that I done ever saw. Sacrifice, 7-5. St. Louis is using luck, good base-running, and spirit.

They're back in it. The Cards have all had themselves a good look at Mr. Knuckleball now, and walk #4 ends Wakefield's night. We need a white man with cornrows. Wakefield fell apart like my first car.

Glad to see the tobacco lawsuit settlement being spent to produce "Shards 'O' Glass" commercials. Whoever wrote that should be force-fed tobacco till they look like Slash.

9:48: Arroyo vs Walker....advantage, Walker. Pujols up, with a lot at stake. He grounds out, but it's 7-5, bottom of the 4th.

9:54: 1918 or not....we won the first one, which is the only one that really mattered. The Yankers got all the weak ones.

   Orlando likes to come up with the flying elbow when he slides. FOX had some fine audio of Sanders calling him on it. Orlando called him "poco pene," which means "My bad" in Spanish.

10 PM EDT: 2 leadoff walks, with the man-in-the-crowd interviews of an old drunk, an ugly kid, and a Swede. 2 fly-outs, no advance. Damon seed comes up, 2 out, 2 on. Steady 10mph wind, 90 mph heater from the pitcher. Pop out, 4th inning over. Jam escaped.

10:05: Rollen out quick, like my dog in a snowstorm. Edmonds takes tthe K train on a heater. The wind is blowing across the outfield to right, and it robs a easy fly from Trot. Sanders gets K'd like Ku Klux, and here comes the Viagra commercial...and that dude's devil horns would be hidden by a less receding hairline.

10:15: Orlando's out, no slide necessary.Ahorrible Manny spot runs, even with the Stevie Wonder song. Manny rips one off an umpire, a hard single. Dr. October comes to the plate, goes 0-2, then flies to left. Millar hits a foul ball that lands in some Townie's beer, which would win a baseball H-O-R-S-E game 9999 times out of 10000. Inning over, 7-5.

10:25: Arroyo and Womack, one down after a deep drive to right. Arroyo offered his father his own kidney, which Daddy-yo refused to take. A suitable donor was found. Arroyo was named after Charles Bronson, has a brother named Eastwood, and he K's his way to 2 down.

Arroyo throws away a tough grounder, and there's a guy on 2nd, 2 outs. Should have held it, kid...

Bronson makes stupid faces when he looks for signs...he's near-sighted, I think. Renteria up, Walker on deck, 3-3 tonight. Bronson pays the Rent, and it's 7-6.  Momentum has shifted. Walker slams it, tie game. He's walkering all over us.

Pujols is my new potential heart attack. I suddenly want a cigarette. He has DiMaggio/Williams RBI totals, but he K's.

O-O, folks.

Time to sell some AOL. The new AOL commercials blow like Tuba.

10:38: We need a bloody run. We blew a fat lead, and we need to score, like a junkie. 2 quick outs. Varitek pinch hits, leaving Pokey Reese as our backup catcher. He K's.

10:45: Timlin takes the mound. We've been sloppy, and we've paid for it with the lead. 7th inning, 7-7. Rollen leads off fly out, Edmonds hits one to SuperManny, and he...phewwwww...catches it. Colonel Sanders grounds out, and it's stretch time.

Kelly Clarkson belts out a cute God Bless America, and she has what we call a "Huge Husband Mouth." She could throat the Rally Midget, but if her and Tyler had kids, they'd look like largemouth bass.

11:00: Bellhorn on, now Damon advances him. Orlando walks, and Manuel steps up to bat. Someone named Kinko is pitching. Manny simply makes him his puto, dodges a pickle, and it's 8-7, baby!!!!!!!!!!!

Enter L'Ortiz....and a goofy looking relief pitcher..lefty on lefty. This pitcher obviously hasn't missed many meals worrying about how to pitch Ortiz. Ortiz then-  I swear- hits one so hard, it injures the man who tries to field it. 9-7. I would like to offer my condolences to the family of Womack's collarbone.

11:11: Millahhhhh goes 0-2, then pops upforout #2. We switch pitchers, while Wal-Mart tries to make more money.

11:20: It's 4:20 somewhere in the world.  Inning ends. The Polar Express looks wick-wick-whack. Cialis claims to give you "20% larger stiffies" than Viagra. There's a new X-Box hoop game that I must have.

11:30: 9-7, first man on. Bullpen warming...someone might be getting Foulked up in a minute. Embree time, my bad. Single, pinch runner pitcher (pitch runner?) nearly hurts himself when Ortiz stares at him. As the camera pans on his mother in the stands, Kieth Foulke struts in to wreck shop. Mother Foulke, her son better get some people out.

11:35: Foulke-o:clock. Single, to Manny....Yikes....play at the plate...safe. 9-8. Varitek doesn't like the call. McCarver does. 4-4 Walker steps up, looking for the jackpot. A fly hits Manny in the head, 2nd and 3rd, one out, tie game. 2 straight errors. Kids might start calling him "Abdullah"....because he's a Butcher.

11:41: Walking Pool Ho. Bases loaded, one out. Rollen pops out....huge. 2 down. Time to earn your money, Foulke. Don't Foulke this up....Edmonds at bat...heart going thumpthumpthumpthump......Stephen King looks calm, which may be a bad thing....Foulke strikes him out on an ugggggggggly pitch.

11:45: Nick Cage movie, he's stealing the Declaration of Independence. In the sequel, he travels back in time to wrestle Abraham Lincoln for theater tickets. Tavarez on the mound, defensive replacements for Cards.

   Mueller up, grounds out to a guy who lost a fight to a phone. He'd better not bean Grand Pere. Renteria mannys a ball, and Bellhorn is up with a man on. Yeti on deck.

HOME

RUNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

11-9

 

Midnight: 9th inning. No phones were injured in the Slewy dugout during the commercial. Foulke seems calm, though he's sweating on a 46 degree night with a north wind. Extra base hit down Manny Blvd.

   Holy Mackerel.

   Pop up to Mncklvwiczilkilvc....2 down.

   Cedeno....Foulke.

   Strike Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

 

 

Supernatural Edge

   Things are gonna get ugly for the next week. Boston is in the World Series, and High Above Courtside has shifted its' operations to the War Room. Guards are posted, battle stations manned, and rations have been distributed. I'm in it to win it, and have absolutely no problem at all with shedding someone's blood if Francona should require it of me.

   Hopefully, the Sox can take it without my advice. Baseball has never been my thing, to be honest. I love to watch, but I rarely played- not even the more girl-ish softball.

   I have a bit of a schhhhhhhnout on me, and my vision isn't the best...or the ball is too small, as I like to say. The end result is that I have difficulty seeing it until it is too late to get that stupid glove in front of my face. I go "eeeeek!!!!" a lot when I play. I could never swing one of those bats properly, either- although, at a sort-of exaggerated 5'1", I have a strike zone that Pokey Reese envies. You could completely defend my strike zone with a good-sized cutting board, if you had any talent at all. I don't.

   These facts combine with my Darwinian aversion to being struck in the face to keep me on the safe side of the fence. That said, I don't think that a lack of talent should keep me from contributing to the cause. While playing is out of the question, and any technical advice I'd proffer would be flawed, I can get in where I fit in.

   While Francona has his flaws, he's not an overeducated housewife with some time to kill. I have talents that can not only be exploited, but which- if properly utilized- could prove pivotal.

   So, here's what I can come up with, off the top of my head:

 

- Stealing the Moon:

   In 1504, Christopher Columbus fooled natives on the island of Jamaica into thinking that he had supernatural powers. While many "primitive" cultures were actually quite advanced as astronomers, these locals were not in that league. Once, when in some kind of jam, CC simply threatened to "steal the moon" if the natives got restless. CC knew an eclipse was coming, and he probably did some silly dance as it started. As his men struggled to restrain laughter, the natives fell before Columbus as if he were a God himself.

  If things start 0-3 Ugly again, the Sox might be well-served to remember this story. They would also do well to plan what teachers call proper implementation. I would allow a FOX cameraman to "catch" Johnny Damon- dressed in full Aleister Crowley regalia- conducting a Black Mass.

   As several hooded people who may or may not be Curt Schilling, David Ortiz, Jason Varitek, Manny Ramirez, Derek Lowe and others watch, Damon- speaking in a jumble of Latin- sacrifices the Rally Midget in a ceremony so bloody that Quentin Tarantino hurls.

   Literature professor Elizabeth Miller, brought in by ESPN as an emergency analyst, translates Damon's ritual to a shocked audience. In short, Damon has threatened to "Steal the Moon" to break the Curse.

   As Game 4 begins, the Moon slowly begins to turn blood red, then becomes partially obscured. Unless the St. Louis players are properly prepared, many will flee in abject terror. If Damon can sell well enough, he just may not only force a forfeit, he just may keep several of them from coming back for games 5-7.

   Granted, this is what we call playing dirty, but you have to break a few eggs to make some Reverse the Curse Cookies, no? It would be especially hard on the Rally Midget, though I suppose Ben Affleck might know some FX guys who could stage an elaborate faking.

   With the pivotal Game 7 taking place on a now-terrifying Halloween, the remaining Cardinal players would be ******* themselves like infants who somehow opened the Ex-Lax packaging.

 

 

  

  

Pure Hope

post Game 7 Notes...

   I started this thread with babies, and circumstance has forced me to end with the elderly. After last night's game 7 whupping of the Legion of Doom, I finally took poor Sloppy Dog for a much overdue walk.

   Monponsett is the kind of town where a small woman can walk around safely after midnight, especially if she carries Mace...for coyote, of course.

   Sloppy, who is a lovable border collie, had patiently waited for her walk, and she was dogging it up, sniffing, marking territory, chasing cats, and running up on people. She and I walked by several houses with 20 cars parked outside of them, as we eventually made it to the more woodsy part of Monponsett.

  Monponsett- stuck in the middle of the Great Cedar Swamp and the Twin Lakes- is a strange place to hear 1 AM screams. I'd be in the woods, and a breeze was ruffling the trees. When the breeze stopped, one could hear the sound of distant celebration. I was overjoyed, and the night had an almost surreal air about it. I would imagine that V-E day had a similar sound to it around these parts.

   At the end of the street, I walked by Mr. Valjean. He isn't a Jean, but he was happy to see another Frog move to the neighborhood. I see him on a lot of my Sloppy walks, usually as he is sitting on his porch, listening to the Sox game on the radio.

   Mr. Valjean is, by conservative estimate, 170 years old. He calls me "The Schoolmarm," and I called him "Sir," until he said to call him "Henry," after which I called him "Mr. Valjean." He is one of those old charmers, and I usually see him 3-5 times a week, depending on which street Sloppy pulls me up. The same routine every time, too:

"Heyyyy...it's the Schoolmarm"

"Hello, Mr. Valjean....how's the game going?"

"Whipping them, hon....absoultely whipping them."

   One time, I came to their house to thank them for a cake they sent by when I had Melissa(I have 2 kids, a dog, a live-in sister and a 270 pound husband who all benefit greatly from having a French person run their collective kitchen...and the household suffers if I am unable to cook... my sister is completely American, and hasn't really taken to cooking yet- my husband refers to the 3 days I was in the hospital as "The Starving Time"). After talking about the game, I told him I was looking for Mrs. Valjean.

"Funny...I'm doing exactly the opposite."

   Anywho....last night Mr. Valjean was sitting on his porch as I strolled by. I knew he'd be up- even though it was nearing 1 AM. I wasn't surprised to see him on the porch, drinking a beer. He greeted me loudly, and I responded with a primal scream of my own. Eventually, I made it to the central question:

"How good was that?"

"I'll tell you, dear....I'm not as young as I look. I was a child when they won it in 1918. I truly felt that we'd never break that damned Curse, and I'm glad I lived to see us humble those ******** Yankees."

" Sir...did you ever stop believing?"

"Hell no,dear....I was a POW in France. I'd get a bowl of stew a day. I was there for a while. General Patton's 3rd Army liberated us. As they took the town, the Germans were killing prisoners. They stopped the job before they got to me, of course."

   I just stared. I'm smart enough to let old people roll with their stories. I took the beer he offered me, and kept listening:

"When Patton reviewed the camp, I actually had a chance to speak to him. I thanked him, and he took my hand and thanked me. I asked why, and he said 'for never giving up hope.' You know what I told him?"

"No, Sir"

"I said 'Hope? I can only hope you have an extra rifle- I have a year's worth of Nazi ass to kick.' Patton smiled, which was strange enough. He was dead a short time later, and I like to think that I gave him alaugh on a day that was probably most unpleasant for him."

"Anyway...waiting for Patton when the Germans are shooting my fellow prisoners- that's hope, Stacey. Waiting for your baseball team to break a Curse is merely like waiting for a bus after that."

"I guess it would be, Sir."

"God damned right. But I'll tell you....after being liberated, this is a close second."

   Sloppy and I walked home afterwards. It was pushing 2 AM. Mr Valjean may not be long for this earth, but I look good for 50 more years, or so. While Mr. Valjean's story about Patton had a bit of Commander McBragg to it, I will never forget the look on his face as we spoke. He wouldn't admit it, but I could tell he may have been holding out on just how relieved he was with this Sox victory.

   After all he's seen in his 170 years of life, his mind was blown by what happened in Hell's Kitchen last night. I don't know if that speaks to how shallow our lives are- this man saw wars, men on the moon, 9/11, Patton, you name it- or if baseball truly does reach some part of us that never, ever loses hope.

   Down 3-0, facing the very Soul of Evil itself.... but in the end, 2 French-Americans of differing eras share a six pack over the Corpse of Curses Past. St. Louis or Houston is about to be hit with a Karma Sledgehammer, and the world itself may be heading towards a new era of positivity.

À la Victoire!!!!!!!!!

 

Sexiest Athlete Poll

Officer Cool

   A quick story to amuse y'all...

   I had to go to my sister's in Quincy before the game. As we tend to do, we talked for a while. As it turned out, I was driving back to Monponsett for the first couple of innings.

   As I'm cruising down a nearly-deserted Route 3, the bases load for the Old Towne Team. Then, Johnny Damon (he must have eaten a big bowl o' Balco before the game) positively sh*ts on the first pitch Vasquez throws, and it's Grand Salami time.

   I responded by leaning on the horn, flashing the high beams, and screaming like a loon. Immediately, the flashing blue lights of the Massachusetts State Police go on behind me. I pull over, and wait as he runs my plate. Then he comes up on my car, and the conversation goes like this:

"What the ***** is wrong with you?"

"Damon....grand slam, sir"

"Really?"

The officer then- I swear- leans into my car and honks my horn like a freak from Monponsett. For once in my life, I was speechless.

"Enjoy the game, Ma'am."

If the 5-0 are on my side, there has been an intense shift in the Karma balance of the world. Not only will we win the World Series, I predict the following events will occur this year:

- Farrakhan becomes Honorary Grand Dragon of the KKK

- President Eminem

- The Arabs and the Jews decide to give the Holy Land to the Buddhists

- It is revealed that Mary Kate is an Olsen, Ashley is an Olson, and they are actually "longtime companions" who just happen to look a lot alike.

- Warren Sapp leaves the NFL to serve as temporary CEO of Martha Stewart Living Enterprises

- The Surgeon General declares that cigarettes, steak and drugs are actually good for you. Laura Bush's  "Just Say Yo" campaign is credited with President Bush's re-election.

- AOL hires me as a Contributing Editor. In a week and a half, I'm the Vice President, and "Yahoo" is merely something that cowboys yell.

Even at 8-1, with men on 2nd and 3rd and one out in the 5th, and I am not at all relaxed. I fully expect a furious Yankee comeback, and I may have a few grey hairs before the tail stops wagging on this dog.

Victoire!!