Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Game 152: Pitching His Way Off the Post-Season Roster

Final Score: Boston Red Sox 3, Toronto Blue Jays 4

Words do not describe my level of rage right now. It's ridiculous, over-the-top two-thousand-frickin-four levels of pure, seething, burst your eyeballs, make the vein in your temple throb anger and disgust at the stupid, stupid stupid ending of that game. I've given Eric Gag Me a first chance. And a second one. I've dealt with his melt downs and moved on; I've accepted his explanations about tipped pitches and looked forward to a time when he could be as reliable as any other member of the Red Scare this year. But I'm done. With an AL East lead slipping away like water through our porous palms, with every possible win another struggled step closer to whittling that magic number down to nothing, this travesty of pitching cannot go on. Put Gag Me out on the mound if you must, Tito, but don't let him go out there without backup ready and waiting in the wings, so that when he gets two outs and his control starts to slip and a 2 to 1 lead disappears like so much sand in the wind, you can pull him before he gives up the winning run again.

Then again, I might not be bitching right now if the Sox had a lineup that wasn't one-third utility player and one-third tape and glue. A lineup that could score some runs when the opportunity arose, as it did more than the three runs scored might suggest. I had a metaphor ready for you all, about how the Red Sox are like the Scottish army at Bannockburn at the end of Braveheart (without the kilts and with a few more million dollars on hand): with fading hope, with few weapons, but still fighting like warrior poets (whatever that means). Manny would be our William Wallace, Youkilis would be Hamish...it was going to be great, especially after Tek knocked in the tying run in the fourth and Papi the go-ahead run in the fifth.

Instead, I taste the dregs of the bitter cup, contemplate how that win against New York on Saturday grows daily in importance, and dream of tomorrow, when Boston faces Jesse Litsch, who's gifted 8 runs on 16 hits over the course of two appearances against the Sox, for the finale. I'm begging you guys: score so many runs that it won't matter who we have on the mound. Do it for the sake of the veins in temples. Do it for the sake of Robin's liver. Just win the damn game.