A formal apology to Nick Green

Dear Nick Green,

I'm so sorry and I would like to take this space on my blog to offer a formal, heartfelt apology to you for certain libelous and sophomoric remarks I made in post dated May 17, 2009, titled "Nick Green the Dick Machine." In fact, I'd like to address my offenses individually and beg your forgiveness.

1. You are NOT, as I said in the title of the post, a "dick machine." The reason I called you a "dick machine" was largely because of the rhymes with your name ("Nick" and "dick"/"Green" and "machine"). It was immature and completely meaningless. I mean, what is a "dick machine"? I've seen some contraptions on X-rated websites that might fit that bill, but they are certainly not you, Nick. I'm sorry.

2. You are NOT responsible for the Bruins and The Celtics losing in their respective rounds of the playoffs, thus ending their seasons. I know that now.

3. I do NOT believe you are a "clandestine operative" working for the Yankee organization to infiltrate the Boston Red Sox. I still think David Wells was, but I don't believe you're currently on the Yankee payroll. Sorry about that.

4. You NOT "a stinking bag of dogshit on the doorstep of fortune." Again, I was going for the alliterative effects. Whether you know it or not, Nick, I've been known to try my hand at poetry every now and then, but Robert Frost, I am not.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, "Isn't it strange that this imaginary sportswriter's letter coincides with my walk-off bomb against Atlanta on Father's Day." First, I don't know whether or not you're a father (I have two kids), but if you are, Happy Father's Day, Nicky. Do you mind if I call you "Nicky"? If you're not a father yourself, I'd like to wish your father, Mr. Green, I presume, a felicitous day full of peace and relaxation. Hell, he must be having a great fucking Father's Day, watching his boy play the role of "Hero of New England." He must be proud, and I'm proud of you, too.

Again, I am profoundly sorry and embarrassed for the egregious and flatly erroneous comments I made in my prior idiotic post. I was trying to be funny, and I was definitely, undoubtedly, NOT funny. In fact, I'm never funny, Nick. I'm just trying to compensate, rather overcompensate, for some deep-seeded personal insecurities and anxieties. I have issues, Nick. Some serious issues. It's best to pay no attention to me whatsoever.

In closing, well-done today, Nicky...I mean, Nick...I mean, Mr. Green (that includes your father, who, as I said, I hope has had a wonderful Father's Day). It looks like you're starting to really settle into your spot at shortstop, thus keeping that uber-douche Lugo in his rightful place collecting ass-splinters on the bench.

I love you, Nicky, in a platonic, manly way; although your Roman-esque good looks makes it very easy for me to understand how someone of the female persuasion would find you stunningly attractive.

Again, great job today, Nick.

Nate Graziano

Watermelon vomit, or why I'm still agnostic

Dear God,

I realize the necessity of dichotomies. Without evil, we have nothing by which to measure Your infinite goodness; without abject ugliness, we have no lens by which to view Your unimaginable beauty. However, God, there is no way for me to comprehend, rationalize, or philosophically legitimize the existence of this abomination of mankind. Because of this, I remain an agnostic, teetering on atheism. Because of this, I have been inexplicably spewing watermelon for the past two weeks.

Why, God? Why Pink Hats? If you exist, give me a sign. Make a Pink Hat wearing this exact atrocity spontaneously-combust in the right field bleachers tomorrow night.

Please. God. Why?

Yours truly,

Nate Graziano

Baseball musings (and other ephemera)

• Since the sweep of a certain group of luxuriantly loathsome peckerheads in pinstripes, thus bringing the season series to 8-0 (but who is counting, right?), I've felt buoyant and elated. That's the only way to describe it: buoyant and elated, like this guy above. And I'll feel like him until August, at least. Look at him. That's me.


• Just an observation I made after watching the Interleague games: The National League is clearly not as competitive as the AL. The Phillies are decent. The Mets are all right, and I guess the Dodgers are pretty good, but all of those teams would be eviscerated in the AL East. Sorry, Karl.


• The Sox are moving to a six-man rotation, and I'm suspicious. There was a time in baseball when teams went with four-man rotations. They gave the pitcher a baseball and let him throw until he was tired. The only other job I can think of where you can get that much time off is...well, teaching. Nevermind.


• Sammy Sosa tested positive for steroids? No! Sammy Sosa! The next thing you know, we're going to find out The Bush Administration lied to American public when building their case to go into Iraq. Get out of town!


• Donte Stallworth got off light with a 30-day sentence for manslaughter. Very true. Let's face it: The American judicial system is unfair, elitist, prejudice, and often unjust, but I'd still rather be tried here than in Saudi Arabia. At least we're not beheading each other for farting in restaurants, or something similarly insane.


• Japan should be paying at least half of Dice-K's salary this year. And maybe Scott Boris can make up the difference. Whatever happened to the Dice-K who looked like he was going to impale himself with a samurai sword at his locker after losing a game? I liked him better.


• The Red Sox sold out at Fenway Park for the 500th consecutive game. Whoopee. It hard to remember the time before The Pink Hats and the fair-weather rich ran up ticket prices and chased out the old-school fans with the blessings of one Mr. Henry. Jesus, it sounds like a Dickens novel.
  
• I don't dance. When people ask me to dance, at weddings or bars or hoedowns in barns, I reply with "I don't dance." There are no exceptions. It saves me the pain and humiliation of trying to dance and others the trauma of having to watch it.


• By my count, the Yankees have at least two legitimate douche bags, according to the definitions laid out on the Hot Chicks with Douche Bags website. Congratulations Nick Swisher and Johnny Damon. You're both big douches. Big surprise.


• If you've voted The MLB All-Star Ballot more than three times, you should probably get thee to a therapist. Quick.


• If you're not happy with our life right now, try more fiber in your diet.

Why I hate the Yankees (Part II)

With the Sox's knees currently planted firmly on the Yankees' chests, as they smack them around like Ralphy taking it to Scott Farkus in The Christmas Story, blissfully beating on "Bitch Tits" Rodriguez and the circle-jerkers for seven games in a row now (yes, I realize BT was only part of two of those), you might consider this an odd time to proceed with my probe into my innermost loathings.

No, stupid! Now is the time to ratchet up the hatred, pile it on, embrace it, feel the rough rush of disgust in my blood and really spit venom. When people seeing me walking down the street, I want to be the guy who people will point at and say, "That dude really, really hates the Yankees."

However, if you happen to be one of my now six readers and remember my last imaginary sports column, I vowed to attempt to make some "rational and logical sense of these emotions." Therefore, my readers, I must confess to playing with you a bit. Those first two paragraphs of this column were somewhat histrionic, my case and point leading into my next segment.

II. A medical explanation

It recently occurred to me that I, and many fellow pinstripe-haters, may very well have an allergy to the New York Yankees. In other words, this is a condition that we cannot control, much like an allergy to mold or dust mites or peanuts. While most people with allergies need to either medicate or take measures to avoid the allergen, as a Sox fan, I can't avoid the Yankees, and when I'm exposed to them, I start to experience physical and emotional discomfort, reacting in strange and often unpredictable ways.

For example, last weekend my wife, kids and I were at the party store shopping for decorations for Paige's sixth birthday party this Sunday---in case you're wondering, the theme is princesses and plastic silver tiaras were purchased for Paige, her friends, and Alex Rodiguez, if he accepts the invitation. So I was walking through the party store and saw a t-shirt, my four-year-old son's size, that read Yankees Yuck, retailing for a whopping $13. Now, a rational person without an allergy would not even consider spending $13 for about two-square feet of cheap fabric. But my eyes lit up. I pictured my son, my boy, standing proudly in his new Yankee-hater t-shirt during this week's series and suddenly money became no object. Of course, I didn't buy the t-shirt because my wife was there, and rational, but I thought about it.

Compounding this uncontrollable medical condition is a Tourette's-like symptom that comes over me, exacerbated by alcohol, during Red Sox/Yankee games. When I tell you that I can't control the next word out of mouth during these contests, I mean I can't control the next word out of my mouth during these contests. Another example, if Johnny Damon were coming up to bat, I might yell out, "Traitor, douche-dick, donkey-fucking ass-tool" without even realizing what I said. It's a spasm, a baffling paroxysm. Now, I ask you, would someone without a legitimate medical condition (or psychological condition) behave like that? Would they?

While there is myriad of explanations for it, this all boils down to quite a simple concept, and as I entertain the possibility of yet-another sweep of the Spankees at The Fens tonight, I'm both anxious and elated. However, regardless of tonight's results, the simple fact remains: I hate the fuckers. A lot.

Why I hate the Yankees (Part I)

I hate the Yankees.

And when I say "I hate the Yankees," it is not something that's said frivolously. I mean, I really hate the Yankees. It's an enmity fueled by so much raw emotion and passion that I sometimes find these feelings confusing, if not a little embarrassing. With the Pinstriped Pricks coming to town on Tuesday, this physical and spiritual loathing is, again, coming to a head. This time, however, as an imaginary sportswriter, I'm feeling the need to try and make some rational and logical sense of these emotions that are, quite frankly, confounding. I'm going to attempt to look at this academically, as opposed to my usual "A-Rod (a.k.a. Bitch Tits) is a cheater/Jeter is a homo, etc..." cum rants.

So here it is, folks, my probing examination of my antipathy through a historical, political, medical, and self-analytical lens.

I. An historical, regional and socio-economic explanation

I've often struggled with the concept that I may possibly hate the Yankees more than I like the Red Sox. It's an interesting thesis. When the Sox won the ALCS in 2004, I actually derived more pleasure in watching the television shots of Yankee fans in the midst of their misery and humiliation than I did in watching the Sox doused in Bud Light during the locker room celebration. Does this make me a sadist? There's another idea that I can't entirely disregard.

However, growing up and living almost my entire life in New England, where Yankee-hating is a part of our culture, almost a sport in itself, it's possible that it is a learned behavior, nurtured in me, an undetectable nutrient in New England mothers' breast milk. My father hates the Yankees. His father hated the Yankees, and someday, I pray, my own son will make his papa proud and also hate the Yankees. While we try to teach our children not to hate, to teach them to empathize and try to understand, there's a caveat in New England to this life-lesson: Don't hate anyone, kids, unless it's the Yankees.

But this still doesn't explain why. Since I clearly don't have a life and I've had an abundance of time to ponder the issue the past couple of days, while trying to figure how I'll keep my pulse in check (without the use of prescription sedatives) for the upcoming three-game series, it occurred to me that this disdain for The Evil Empire may, in fact, have its roots in Marxism. The New York Yankees, with their historical disregard for salary caps and penchant for signing overpaid All-Stars, wear the mark of the bourgeoisie, the elite, and the resentment may stem from the frustrations of the proletariat. To me, George Steinbrenner---the first douche, as opposed to his equally douchey sons---single-handedly ruined the game of baseball and is largely responsible for the sickly state of the game today, the ridiculously inflated player-salaries, and, consequently, the obscene ticket prices that prevent guys like myself from being able to take his family to a ball game. Has John Henry, who I've realized bears more than a passing resemblance to the crypt-keeper from Tales from the Crypt, and the current Red Sox ownership followed Steinbrenner's douche suit? You bet. They're responsible for The Pink Hats and the affluent socialites filling the seats of Fenway with golden sticks up their collective asses these days. But I digress.

The reason I want every team in baseball to thrash the Yankees in head-to-head games is the same reason I root for Rocky to knock out Apollo, for Daniel-san to land that Crane Kick and beat Johnny and that asswipe sensei of the The Cobra Kai; it's David and Goliath, the story of the underdog, the plight of working-class. The Yankees are, and always will be, Apollo (in the first two movies), Drago, Goliath, The Cobra Kai, the guys in the black hats, the arrogant bosses, the bullies, the bastards who date the hero's one and only true love. Is it any coincidence that the team The Indians beat in the 1989 cinematic classic Major League (oh, Corbin Bernsen, where art thou these days?) was, none other than, The New York Yankees?

Regardless, there is still the irrationality of my hatred that needs to be addressed, which can only be explained as a medical condition.

The Ultimate Act of Treason

For those of you with kids, particularly little girls, you might be able to relate to this perfidious act of torture that makes water-boarding seem like a day at the beach. I'm talking about the dance recital.

Yesterday, my daughter, who will be six-years-old in a couple of weeks, had her first dance recital, which was subsequently my first dance recital as a parent. My own folks claim they took me to one of my sister's recitals when I was a young lad, but after jeering when she took the stage, Iwas never allowed to attend another one. Until yesterday, that is. Now, while I don't want to seem like a bloodless, heartless curmudgeon who didn't even smirk at the cuteness of these tiny girls in tutus aimlessly drifting around a stage while "I'm a Little Teapot" pipes through the PA system, the recital wasn't exactly what I would call exhilarating entertainment. But, mercifully, it was short. And my daughter, of course, was fantastic. Priceless.

There was, however, one number that I found particularly disturbing. I can't remember the song, or even whether it was tap or ballet, but there was a one duet with a little girl and the only little boy in the recital. And, let me tell you, this poor kid was the picture of forlorn. He dragged his feet onto the stage, head down, and didn't move for the entire dance, other than to tap his foot a couple of times---so maybe it was tap. While this danse macabre was going on, the only thing I could think was, "What sort of parent would put their son up to something like this? Clearly, the kid doesn't want to be here." This kid was miserable. Finally, the song ended and the boy walked off stage like he'd been shot in the leg by a sniper in the balcony. On a side note, if you happen to have a doctorate's in psychology, or plan on getting one in the next ten years, let me know and I'll try to procure this kid's name for you.

Okay, so where am I going with this? You're supposed to be an imaginary sportswriter, and this is supposed to be a baseball blog, you might be saying to yourself, while kicking the dog in frustration. Stick with me.

Last Thursday, I believe it was, I got an IM on Facebook (my sole means of socialization in the universe) from my friend Karl. Karl is a lifelong Cubs fan, and he wrote me, distressed, because his six-year-old son recently told him that he was a Cardinals fan. Immediately, my heart went out to Karl, not only because of this act of treason, but because my heart goes out to all Cubs fans, and if the Sox are ever knocked out of it, the same romantic who, regardless of how many times I've seen the movie, still pulls for Roy Hobbs to jack that fastball into the lights in The Natural, pulls for The Cubs. That's not meant to be condescending. If anyone understands that suffering and that passion for their team, it's old-school Sox fans (not the Pink Hat frauds).

But Karl's situation got me thinking. What if one of my own son, the spawn of my seed, someday comes to me and tells me he's a Yankee fan. Can you disown a kid at the age of six? Or start charging them rent, at least? Then today, it occurred to me what I'd do, and suddenly I had one of those revelations where everything momentarily made sense.

If Owen ever comes to me and proclaims himself a fan of those vile shits in pinstripes, I decided that I will take my son straight down to the dance studio and sign him up. Maybe, being dragged on stage at a dance recital with all of his friends watching (I will personally buy the tickets), he will rethink his decision and return to his rightful and inherited spot, his legacy, as a die-hard Red Sox fan. Maybe that's what I witnessed yesterday: the punishment of a young defector, a treasonous little bastard who thought he'd spite his father.

And if you happen to have a doctorates in psychology, keep your Freudian comments to yourself. And can you believe I wrote this entire post without once uttering the name Johnny Damon?

Swine flu, poopy, and Papi

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.