|This is, exactly, the bullshit NESN and owners will be spewing this season.|
Admittedly, the latter are based on nothing but an implausible scenario where I imagine myself condescendingly patting an imagined Yankee fan on the back in October, as said fan collapses into a fit of fury and tears. I then lick the tears off their face and say, "They taste so sweet, so sweet."
This season is no different.
Here is what I know logically about 2013 Red Sox: If they win 80 games, we'll consider it a successful first season for John Farrell.
Let's face it, the last two years, beginning in September of 2011, have been a veritable circus sideshow. From the beer and chicken boys to Bobby V; from a bogus sell-out streak to the slow exodus of The Pink Hats, who may have finally gotten tired of singing "Sweet Caroline"; from cuffing the Dodgers with the ridiculous contracts of the aging and the arrogant and the injury-prone to the asshole who is Alfredo Aceves, following the Red Sox has been like peeking inside a tent to look at a donkey with three dicks.
This year ownership tells us they're bringing in good "clubhouse" guys like Shane Victorino and Jonny Gomes, who add zero-pop to the line-up. Meanwhile, Mike Napoli and Big Papi will be flipping through their AARP pamphlets as Princess Ellsbury keeps one foot out the door. Oh, did I mention J.D. Drew's brother, Stephen, who will never shake the name "Drew's brother"? J.D. was about as much fun as an enema, so I imagine Stephen will also be doing his post-game interviews with a lampshade on his head.
In other words, the ownership---aka, The Dick, The Nerd, and The Creep---is trotting out a horse on its way to glue factory and trying to sell fans on the fact that it is a stallion. Thankfully, most of the Red Sox base isn't buying it. The Globe reported yesterday that even season-ticket holders are starting to jump ship.
Now here is where bat-shit/nut-bag thoughts start to enter my mind.
Listen, if Lester, Buchholz and Lackey (who lost 30 lbs., meaning he is now an ass-wad who weighs 30 lbs. less) can win 15 games each, pitching to their potential, maybe the offense doesn't have to be explosive.
And who knows? Maybe Xander Bogearts or Jackie Bradley Jr. will be the next Mike Trout. Maybe Middlebrooks isn't fluky or still hurt, and maybe Salty will crush 30 home runs. Maybe The Dick (Lucchino) is right, and these guys will be competitive and make a run at the pennant. Maybe Kate Upton will finally start returning my calls.
You see, these are bat-shit/nut-bag thoughts. I know this and I own them.
As my father says at the beginning of every baseball season: "Here we go again." Indeed, here we go.