First, I'd like to let my four readers know that I'm fine. You can rest easy now. As you may or may not know, the swine flu ran through my house this week and took no hostages. While it was never officially diagnosed as the swine flu, and some skeptics are trying to dismiss as the stomach bug, thus belittling my heroic battle and miraculous recovering from this virulent and heinous pestilence, I assure you, there was a time on Wednesday afternoon at 2:17, according to my alarm clock, when I didn't know, folks (I'm wiping a single tear from my lash), I didn't know if I'd make it. However, I'm not about to argue diagnostic semantics here. I'm an imaginary sportswriter, not an imaginary doctor, like my wife, and the sole reason I mention my bout with the killer swine flu is to set up an analogy with the ridiculous brouhaha made over the single good swing David Ortiz had this season and Red Sox Nation's pathetic apotheosis of the man that followed.
When Ortiz hit that salami on Wednesday night against a Blue Jay's pitcher who had about as much energy left in his tank as Rocky and Apollo in the fifteenth round of their second fight, Red Sox fans everywhere reacted like the second-coming of Jesus had just flashed a thumbs-up on the scoreboard in centerfield. Immediately, people started calling this Papi's reawakening, his rebirth, saying that Papi finally got his groove back. This is an overstatement equivalent to calling a mosquito bite on your neck a "near-decapitation." It's analogous to calling a twenty-four hour bout with vomiting and diarrhea "the swine flu," which, mind you, is not to say that I didn't have it. I did.
Listen, I wanted to believe in Ortiz as much as the next fan, but being a lifetime Red Sox fan, therefore in incorrigible pessimist, I was cautious as best. And I was right. It proved as apocryphal as photos of The Loch Ness Monster, or bear shit claimed to be plopped out by The Yhetti. I hope Papi's performance this weekend against The Mets made those idiots touting their "He's back" signs and calling into the radio shows as exuberant as teenage boys on a porn set want to find the nearest pink hat and it pull over their faces in shame.
Now, I realize that Big Papi has been impervious to the wrath of Sox fans, so far. I mean, the guy carried the franchise on his shoulders in 2004. He seemed super-human, which, sadly, raises some questions regarding his off-season recreations in The Dominican. There. I said it. I have my doubts. But here's the thing: as Red Sox fans, it's our duty to give it to the guys who aren't performing, and right now Papi is poopy, the same wet poopy produced by the swine flu. At what point are we going to stop spooning with his legacy and start realizing that he's costing The Sox some games here? Pink Hats are magnanimous and nostalgic and romantic because they've only been Red Sox fans for the past six years, while the Red Sox have been a romantic team, the equivalent of an ending to a Meg Ryan movie. Tear-jerkers. Real Sox fans, however, smell blood and need to start getting on Papi, booing his ass when he strikes out three times in a game, leaves 12 runners in scoring position, hits .200. Enough is enough. Remember, if the price the Sox brass offered Papi wasn't right at the last contract, Papi would've turned to the pinstripes in a heartbeat. If you really believe otherwise, well, you probably believe I had the fucking swine flu, too.
Right now, Pedroia/Youk/Bay sounds like a might fine 2-3-4 to me.
Tomorrow, we steam-clean our carpets. There's the lingering noxious scent of puke and the poop funk from Papi being on my television so far this season.
When Ortiz hit that salami on Wednesday night against a Blue Jay's pitcher who had about as much energy left in his tank as Rocky and Apollo in the fifteenth round of their second fight, Red Sox fans everywhere reacted like the second-coming of Jesus had just flashed a thumbs-up on the scoreboard in centerfield. Immediately, people started calling this Papi's reawakening, his rebirth, saying that Papi finally got his groove back. This is an overstatement equivalent to calling a mosquito bite on your neck a "near-decapitation." It's analogous to calling a twenty-four hour bout with vomiting and diarrhea "the swine flu," which, mind you, is not to say that I didn't have it. I did.
Listen, I wanted to believe in Ortiz as much as the next fan, but being a lifetime Red Sox fan, therefore in incorrigible pessimist, I was cautious as best. And I was right. It proved as apocryphal as photos of The Loch Ness Monster, or bear shit claimed to be plopped out by The Yhetti. I hope Papi's performance this weekend against The Mets made those idiots touting their "He's back" signs and calling into the radio shows as exuberant as teenage boys on a porn set want to find the nearest pink hat and it pull over their faces in shame.
Now, I realize that Big Papi has been impervious to the wrath of Sox fans, so far. I mean, the guy carried the franchise on his shoulders in 2004. He seemed super-human, which, sadly, raises some questions regarding his off-season recreations in The Dominican. There. I said it. I have my doubts. But here's the thing: as Red Sox fans, it's our duty to give it to the guys who aren't performing, and right now Papi is poopy, the same wet poopy produced by the swine flu. At what point are we going to stop spooning with his legacy and start realizing that he's costing The Sox some games here? Pink Hats are magnanimous and nostalgic and romantic because they've only been Red Sox fans for the past six years, while the Red Sox have been a romantic team, the equivalent of an ending to a Meg Ryan movie. Tear-jerkers. Real Sox fans, however, smell blood and need to start getting on Papi, booing his ass when he strikes out three times in a game, leaves 12 runners in scoring position, hits .200. Enough is enough. Remember, if the price the Sox brass offered Papi wasn't right at the last contract, Papi would've turned to the pinstripes in a heartbeat. If you really believe otherwise, well, you probably believe I had the fucking swine flu, too.
Right now, Pedroia/Youk/Bay sounds like a might fine 2-3-4 to me.
Tomorrow, we steam-clean our carpets. There's the lingering noxious scent of puke and the poop funk from Papi being on my television so far this season.
3 comments:
Wow....you almost sound like a yankees fan!!! Careful, now! (See, somebody is listening!!!)
It's called "tough love." These guys make $20 million a year to play a game, so if their numbers suck and we don't "love" them anymore, "tough."
Besides, Jaime, as an imaginary sportswriter, I want to maintain some degree of objectivity, as microscopic as that might be.
Glad to hear your death was avoided, no more PA eh?
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