It has taken me over 24 hours to write this because... well I dunno... maybe I just can't accept that the Sox blew that game so badly and I certainly don't know how to put it into words. I could write tomes about the failures of this hobbled ghost of a pitcher that calls himself Josh Beckett. I could narrate epic poems about the shell of David Ortiz. I could even wax frustration over the scrappy Tampa line up that just seems to happy and excited to be here...
But no... I will avoid all of this to talk about Mike Timlin: the second closer on the Red Sox staff. When I say "second closer" it really is the opposite of everything a closer is. He the ANTI-closer. The BIZZARO-closer. The closer from the dimension where Kirk has a moustache. When Timlin enters a game it means the Red Sox DON'T WANT to win. It mean Francona looked at his watch and realized he would rather be asleep... and called in Timlin to put the game away... one way or the other (and it is ALWAYS the other). His entrance music is Black Betty... but it should be a funeral dirge. A march of the soon to dead.
Look, I am not doing this to bash Mike Timlin. The guy is (was) a horse for us. He has 4 rings for heavens sake. He helped bolster the Sox bullpen for years.... but those are years past. Long past. I feel bad about it, but he has no place on a competitive baseball team. After last nights disaster... he should retire before the World Series if the Sox make it or not.
That's enough vitriol. I want to move on to Jon Lester and his cancer killing pitches, I want a win in Boston and I want the drama taken out of this series. Is that too much to ask?
"Four people are sitting around a table, talking about baseball, five minutes of it, very dull. Suddenly a bomb goes off. Blows people to smithereens. What does the audience have? Ten seconds of shock." -Alfred Hitchcock