Kuzul

I am proud to announce that the Boston Red Sox have decided to open a brand new Institute for Advanced Science!

The venerable Daisuke Matsuzaka, who will surely become the most expensive physics professor in the history of the world, will be the first tenured faculty member. He will draw upon his vast knowledge in the area of streamlined, aerodynamic flight to raise a whole new generation of power-hitting, RBI-producing, pocket-protecting nerds.

You can still rest easy, however; this alternate career will not distract the man from his primary duty of raising the collective batting average of the rest of the league.

Okay, perhaps I am being a wee bit harsh, but the guy did manage to give up eight hits and seven earned runs in just two innings to the Tampa Bay Rays! This is a team that, going into the now-abbreviated three game series with the Red Sox at Fenway, had scored only 20 runs all season. In fact, if you remove the nine runs they scored in their only non-Sox victory, they only mustered 11 runs in eight games, and more than two runs in only two games.

In case I’m not painting the picture accurately, let me state this as clearly as I can: The Rays suck…

And yet the Red Sox, to their eternal credit, a testament to their unwavering resolve, were unwilling to be second best! They saw the Rays magical season of tragedy and horror and said, “we can do better than that!” And better they were, losing the two games they played in both spectacular and soul-crushing fashion before Boston fans began weeping so profusely that they flooded the field and forced a postponement of the final match.

This team is much too good at this…

Lester may have been the lone bright spot in the growing rubble of a rapidly crumbling season, building off his stellar outing against the Indians by throwing another seven quality innings. He allowed three earned runs and struck out another eight in a heart-breaking 3-2 loss on Tuesday night.

After the game, he demonstrated the tremendous class and character that can only be found in the spirit of a man of his caliber, when he told reporters, clad in only a towel the size of a face cloth and eating a salami sandwich the size of a basketball, that he “wonders if the Patriots need a backup quarterback.”

So, thanks to the deluge of tears, the Red Sox have two days off. Rumor has it that Terry Francona has already locked the clubhouse doors and refuses to let the players leave until they “think about what they’ve done!” Pedroia did throw a brief tantrum, but Franconca called him into his office and made him sit in the corner until he calmed down enough to take his daily nap.

When the Blue Jays come to town on Friday, all of Red Sox Nation will watch carefully as the team tries to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and squeeze out a couple of wins. Otherwise, I suggest they go for broke and start actively trying to lose; running out singles to third base, pitching from shortstop, forgoing the center fielder, letting Papelbon close…

If they’re going to lose, they may as well make us laugh.

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I have made a decision: The 2011 major league baseball season began on April 8th.

I don’t need to hear you tell me that I’m crazy, or stupid, or ugly, or a pervert; the voices in my head tell me that all the time (especially Paul; he’s such a jerk!) This is not about logic, this is about survival. And we all know that the most important thing any organism can do, after eating deep-dish pizza, of course, is to survive. Don’t argue with me, I didn’t make the rules.

I have some solid, scientific evidence to back up my claim, too:

1. It was revealed that the Red Sox were not given a coffee grinder in either Texas or Cleveland and have been living off only store-bought Red Bull for a week. Some could argue that this is in direct violation of the Geneva Convention, making both the Rangers and Indians guilty of war crimes. But above all, it most certainly nullifies the first six games.

2. The Red Sox were also only given a draft copy of the 2011 season that had an additional six preseason games listed, and were never mailed the updated copy. They clearly weren’t really trying against Texas or Cleveland, they were still tuning up! Therefore, the early season losses were the fault of the commissioner, and possible Jerry Remy, not the team.

3. Also, Cleveland sets its rivers on fire every few years, which offers them a clear unfair psychological advantage that the league should investigate immediately (send in the UN).

4. Texas doesn’t really exist.

Given the irrefutable proof listed above, combined with an eloquent, beautiful and spectacular 2-1 series massacre against the arch-rival New York Yankees over the weekend that was in no way only a mediocre performance, I can only conclude that this team is back in shape and ready to show what they are truly made of (meat).

Of course, there are still concerns. The Red Sox did get rather poor pitching performances out of both John Lackey and Clay Buchholz, both of which failed to get out of the fifth with even a shred of dignity. Also, the Sox offense managed to strand 32 base runners. They seemed to get a dozen hits every inning but somehow almost never scored a run, a feat only accomplished by a team with an intimate knowledge of physics and a desire to lose spectacularly.

But the signs of life were unmistakable. Pedroia racked up an astounding nine hits to raise his season average to .400 (is it too early to compare him to Ted Williams?) and David Ortiz had four hits (all while looking fabulous!) while Youkilis seemed to walk more times than he had legal plate appearances (I suspect evil was somehow involved). And the main event, Josh Beckett, pitched a stellar, lights-out performance on Sunday, throwing 11 innings of shutout baseball, allowing only -1 walks and amassing 29 strikeouts en-route to a two-win outing. He was so good that the President called him to congratulate him on his effort, but he hung up because he’s from Texas.

Also, Jason Varitek looked annoyingly comfortable at the plate, something he has no business doing, as I had him all but written off as a ludicrously expensive bench coach for the remainder of 2011.

Carl Crawford still sucks, though.

Up next, the Red Sox welcome the Tampa Bay Rays to Fenway. This is a team so ungodly awful that they managed to become the one shining beacon of hope during the Red Sox’ 0-6 season start, similar to the emotion of seeing a haggard homeless person just a few minutes after being dumped by your girlfriend. If the Sox can take at least two games in the series and face Toronto with a 4-8 record or better, then I’d say the team is back on track and ready to make some noise (with a vuvuzela).

Until our next meet-up, stock pile your nachos and get ready to ride out an assuredly pleasant stretch of Red Sox victories; the 2011 season has just began, and I can quite clearly recall the media being certain that this team would manage to win 100 games, the World Series and cure cancer. It should be a lot of fun to watch…

…Unless they start to suck again…

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As the dawn of the 2011 baseball season comes, one thing above all is certain: The 2011 Boston Red Sox are the greatest collection of baseball players ever to grace the game with their hallowed presence. Put this team against anyone, from any era, and they will stomp the snot out of them without even breaking a sweat. The 1927 Yankees? Don’t make me laugh! The 1998 Yankees? They had David Wells; need I say more? The 1932 Yankees…

Okay, enough with the Yankees. The point is, every newspaper, radio station, television analyst and homeless person has been telling us near nonstop just how undeniably, invariably and spectacularly awesome this team is.

I saw one such breakdown on a local sports network that claimed the Red Sox have a legitimate chance to sweep all major awards, win over 100 games, win the World Series, cure cancer and raise Papelbon from the dead. And I can’t think of a single reason to doubt their analysis.

Well, unless you count the three consecutive losses to start the year where they were outscored 26-11, Carl Crawford struck out five times and pitchers surrendered 11 home runs en route to a team ERA of 9.75 and a BA of .200…

But why would we worry about that? They were playing in Texas! If there is anything we can be more certain of other than the extreme talent possessed by Francona’s sexy, brooding squad of man-some is that Texas rarely obeys they laws of physics.

When a scientist tells a Texan that the Earth has gravity, a Texan will defiantly pull up his Wrangler’s, don a ferocious scowl and jump right off a bridge. And I think, as Americans, we should encourage this behavior.

The Sox have a much needed day off today before they head up to Cleveland, trying very hard not to touch anything on their trips to and from the ballpark. And I think the day off is a very good thing because it gives the Boston sports talk show hosts and diligent listeners a chance to completely flip out and threaten to kill everyone with fire.

I don’t believe I have ever seen a turnaround in faith this rapid and jarring since all the way back in the good ol’ days of 2010, which was the last time the Sox lost three or more in a row and made life not worth living anymore.

The only potential salvation lies in the arm of the Texan named Josh Beckett (assuming he hasn’t met any scientists recently), who spent most of 2010 trying to remember where his keys were. If it weren’t for the now infamous and successful transnational search, spearheaded by an international coalition of military forces, just before the winter meetings, Beckett might still be struggling.

We owe the outcome of this all-important game four to the men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice to discover that the keys were actually on his counter the whole time, under a piece of paper that “wasn’t supposed to be there.”

I will join you again on Friday to discuss the arrival of the Yankees (the 2011 version, so don’t panic) at Fenway Park for this first time this season and chronicle their inevitable and merciless slaughter, unless, of course, they happen to win.

Where are my nachos?

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I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the Giants on winning the 2010 “Fall Classic” (TM), otherwise known to the rest of the world as the “World Cup,” 4-1 in front of a thrilled national audience of approximately fifteen people from outside the San Francisco area (almost thirty if you count their various pets). It was truly a hard-fought battle that involved many impressive feats of strength and struggle that I’m sure would have been amazing had I actually watched any of it. I considered tuning in last night for the finale, but then a new DVD of NCIS came from Netflix, and no mere mortal can overcome the allure of the Gibbs.

I would also like to extend sincere and heartfelt gratitude toward the Giants for choosing to wait and win their first championship since the fifties until well after Barry Bonds was forced into retirement via national popular vote and/or grand jury indictment. I can only hope his vast collection of bobble-head memorabilia will give him comfort on those lonely, cold winter nights when he has nothing but an array of international super-models, millions of dollars and dozens of MVP trophies to keep him company. It must be quite a challenge to live with such shame. I wonder how he can cope.

I do feel a little bad for Texas, mostly because of their star outfielder Josh Hamilton, who overcame a serious and life-threatening addiction to Grand Theft Auto before making his first post-season appearance this fall. You may remember him as that guy who hit 217 home runs in the 2008 Home Run Derby before passing out from exhaustion and not waking up until almost August. I was hoping that he would win a trophy this year, considering all the trials he has endured over the years, but I can take solace in knowing that he is still far richer than I will ever be, even if I sell both of my kidneys on the black market.

I will offer genuine praise for one player, however, and that is Tim Lincecum. He is a man that is so awesome, so talented, so special that you are almost able to overlook just how tiny he is compared to everyone else in the league. He looks how I imagine a fifteen-year-old kid would look if he tried on a uniform made specifically for Dwayne Johnson and tried to pitch. The only difference is, this fifteen-year-old is the product of some bizarre and illegal government-run genetics experiment, the result of which has caused him to be able to see ultraviolet light and throw 137 MPH, even after eating Italian. I have high-hopes for this man’s future, and can only hope that he becomes so spectacular that he becomes unaffordable to the Giants and signs with the Red Sox.

Until next season, I hope that all seven baseball fans in San Francisco enjoy this special day and remember that real cities celebrate championships by setting fire to random vehicles and committing acts of violence. I have yet to see flames on the news, so it’s time to get to it! I hear the Prius smells lovely when burned with mesquite.

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