A dubious distinction

There's an afternoon game today on Fox, which translates to: don't make plans before 9 p.m. And there's the pleasure of listening to Joe "Fuck" Buck and Tim "Windbag" McCarver audio-blow the Yankees. There's a double-header tomorrow in the Bronx where the Yankees could do what I once dreamed the Red Sox would have the opportunity to do, which is play the role of the sniper. Then there's three in Camden Yards where the suddenly mighty O's can take the final dump on their corpses.

Yeah, it's been a great season for Red Sox fans.

In the end, The Red Sox will probably worm their way into the post-season, and God help me if they have the nerve to celebrate in their locker room if they clinch. There should not be a single bottle of champagne, a single can of Bud Light or Papelbon sucking on a stupid cigar and dancing like a jackass. If they make it to the post-season, they should simply thank the fates for aligning, take Ambien, and get a good night's rest so their sore backs and stiff necks don't keep them out of playoff games.

It's supposed to rain most of the weekend in New York City, and it's going to be unseasonably warm in Baltimore. If you clinch, the Pink Hats will be there on Yawkey Way to cheer you when you come home. They'll sing "Sweet Caroline" in their authentic David Ortiz jerseys outside your bus. They'll chant for J.D. Drew. They'll pay $200 a seat to watch you get smoked in the playoffs. Don't expect the real fans to be there, boys. You'll still have a lot of explaining to do.