Kuzul

Stop the presses! Hold the phone! Tweet, tweet, tweet!

A Yankee catcher admits he has no fondness for the Boston Red Sox. Not since Tom Brady admitted his lack of affection for the New York Jets last year has there been such an earth-shaking announcement.

Russell Martin told the media how much he hates the Red Sox!

In Boston, such earthquakes generally run around 3.0 on the Richter Scale, hardly more than a grumble over spilled milk.

Russell Martin flirted with the Red Sox in the offseason when inquiries were made to spend a few million dollars on him, but he blew cold when the flowers and candy proved to be less substantial than a New York speed-dating minute.

In Red Sox and Yankee catcher wars, you have to go back to Carleton Fisk and Thurman Munson to find more fireworks, though Jason Varitek notably stuck a mitt into Alex Rodriguez’s snout a few years back. Jarrod Saltalamacchia criticized Yankee catchers for doing the cha-cha during their previous series in Boston.

Martin now struts his Bronx ties like a peacock on a low-rated network.

Such pronouncements usually arrive when the opposing team has confidence that they shall not again return to Fenway Park this season. An attitude like that makes for a great mixed martial arts matchup. Take that, magic number.

The Yankees must already have found their adversary in Florida or Texas, where the hothouse flowers wilt in the cold breeze off the Hudson River.

Suffice it to say—the Red Sox don’t have much of a bone to pick with Martin. The Sox are too busy turning on each other to pay much attention to those Yankees. 

The squabbles between Theo Epstein and Terry Francona are among the rumors spicing up the Boston airwaves.

Jarrod Saltalamacchia may wonder if his Yankees counterpart has some of the hot Latin temperament he earlier noted with another Yankee catcher.

Alas, all this ill will would be kind of fun if the Red Sox weren’t about to play the last act of the season in whimper mode.

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When the Boston Red Sox began their season losing six straight games and having one of the worst Aprils in their history, it seemed as if it were over.

Fortunately, that losing streak was a hiccup, a minor skin irritation, but now it seems the symptoms have become full blown.

The Sox, to their great resiliency, came back and played far beyond what the opening week suggested. They looked almost like what the stats sheet said they would appear to be.

Alas, the injury bug has hit like Contagion, the new hit movie about a pandemic.

Forget Bird Flu or Swine Flu. We now have caught Red Sox Flu, which is not to be confused with Red Sox fever.

As the new movie Contagion states, nothing spreads like fear, and now, Sox fans, the panic is about to set in.

The injury bug has gone viral.

Don’t talk to other Sox fans. Don’t touch Red Sox memorabilia. You may spread the fear that the Sox are looking at a fight to stay in the Wild Card slot.

The latest bug has bitten Kevin Youkilis. The Red Sox medical staff, which borders on malpractice at best, recently returned the third baseman to the lineup, and now his hipbone is detaching from the leg bone.

Another MRI is just what the doctor ordered.

Sox fans may demand that the Center for Disease Control (CDC) be sent to Boston to learn what kind of voodoo has cursed the Red Sox just when they looked ready to win a third title in this decade.

If we look for a common factor in the rampant injuries that have beset the Red Sox, we find only a sad excuse to use as a salve when the crying is over.

Last year, the Sox lost Jacoby Ellsbury to the injury bug, and this year, they may lose the entire team.

Unless there is a Jonas Salk or Louis Pasteur in the Red Sox trainer’s room, we fear the gremlin that attacks the team. If only we had nothing to fear but fear itself, we might feel confident.

Alas, injury bugs often run the course of a season. 

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Not since the late Early Wynn pitched for Cleveland in a comeback to win 300 games has there been a pitching staff with two starters who look like the monsters who ate Cleveland.

Bartolo Colon and C.C. Sabathia, in combined British stone, would be heavy enough to build Stonehenge. Colon’s kind public relations guys claim he is still under 275 pounds. Sabathia is in the same ballpark as his fellow Yankee starter, but he hides it better.

If you want super-sized stars, then these two pitchers are now rivals for the Tweedledee and Tweedledum award, Kirstie Alley’s former prize.

When will an enterprising dieting food company sign them up? They’d eat everything on the menu.

Over the offseason Sabathia was said to have lost 30 pounds. Well, he found it again with a Happy Meal or two. Kind hearts have suggested the pitchers have a metabolism problem. On the moon, they’d only weigh 50 pounds, each. Fortunately for them, stripes make them look thinner.

In Boston the weighty issues generally have been limited to the hamburger-munching habits of Big Baby Glen Davis, but if you wanted to make a sandwich with Baby between those Yankee pitchers, he’d look like lean ground beef.

If these guys were playing for Mike Shanahan, they’d be on permanent suspension. Someone should tell them that Refrigerator Perry played football, not baseball.

If we measured C.C. in liquid weight, Sabathia would likely top a million. We are told that 1000 cc’s equal 2.2 pounds.

No doubt Yankee haters will call Sabathia and Colon many names related to being overweight, just don’t call them late to the dinner table.

We think Red Sox trim boys like Jacoby Ellsbury and Josh Reddick would fit into one pair of Colon’s pants, though we are not eager to see such a feat accomplished on a Twitpic.

So far Charles Barkley has not weighed in on the issue of the Yankee avoirdupois, but the pitching staff provides fans with love handles to grab onto for the remainder of the season in case it turns into a bumpy ride.

Herman Melville wrote about whales and ended up in New York in his twilight years. The Yankees have clearly harpooned a few more Moby types.

We don’t want to criticize the Yankees too much because we all know the World Series doesn’t end ’til the Fat Man pitches. 

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When you take a trip down memory lane to the heart of Yankee country, you don’t expect the bold and the restless to emerge from the visitors’ dugout.

In three games, that is exactly what happened when the Boston Red Sox came to the House Next to the House that Ruth Built. The Yankees promptly caved in and lost all three games.

Though threats to hit the unpopular Papi railed across the rags of the Big Apple, only CC Sabathia took umbrage at the home runs and assorted doubles to plunk David Ortiz in the final game of the three games New York would like to forget.

Ortiz laughed all the way to first base.

Joe Girardi, looking like a fashion model for AARP’s tough guy/old coot line, swore that Ortiz was courting disaster for showing up bad pitchers for making bad pitches. Alas, the talk seemed only to inspire the Red Sox pitchers.

Not known for their colorful antics, the Red Sox pitchers are still a dangerous group of men who foam at the mouth during tough times and Bronx visits.

Jon Lester nearly sawed off the leg of Red Sox tormentor Mark Teixeira and also gave Russell Martin a blow with a pitch to the body. For those who forgot, Martin had turned down a chance to sign with the Sox in the offseason, preferring the Yankees, and the less said about Teixeira who turned down the Sox offer several years ago to go with the Yankees, the better we feel. Diehard Red Sox fans will never forget the insult Teixeira gave the Boston fans.

In the second game of the series, Tim Wakefield hit Robinson Cano and brushed back several others with his nutty knuckleball.

In the finale of the series on Thursday night, after the rains dampened Yankee spirit to a puddle, Josh Beckett hit, in no particular order, Curtis Granderson, Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez.

Beckett apparently believes in only hitting the best. 

Before the Yankee series, John Lackey put the baseball on a couple of batters in the Oakland-Boston game on Sunday. Lackey’s kerplunks were deemed not deliberate by the home plate umpire despite a warning earlier that no beans were to be balled.

Those wild men of the Red Sox staff may be on to something.

Once upon a time, there used to be phrase uttered by Noel Coward that only “mad dogs and Englishmen” went out in the midday sun. It now appears the mad dogs have joined up with Red Sox starters.

And step aside, Mr. Coward, these Red Sox pitchers are willing to plunk you midday or at nighttime.

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If you watch enough baseball, you see umpires blow a call now and then. Yet, they do manage to stay calm and try to maintain some aura of objectivity. After all, that’s what they are paid to do.

On Saturday, June 4, 2011, an umpire took the field in an effort to hand a game over to the opposing team at Fenway Park.

Will we learn home plate umpire Tony Randazzo has been investigated? Will we hear he has been disciplined? Likely not.

What happened? Tony Randazzo, apparently thinking he is one of the cast of the Sopranos, iced Jason Varitek and Jonathan Papelbon, erstwhile catcher and ace reliever of the Red Sox in a ninth inning, with the game on the line.

Papelbon, not exactly a paragon of logic, went berserk and bumped the umpire after having turned away on the mound after throwing a strike past the batter.

Randazzo pulled off his mask and charged the mound, sending Papelbon into the stratosphere. You seldom see an umpire ripping off his mask and stepping toward the mound as if the Godfather sent him.

Remember the name, baseball fans. Razzle Dazzle Randazzo. He should have his own reality show because he is living in his own reality.

Yes, Major League Baseball head office personnel, you have a problem. Sox fans had the feeling we were watching a basketball game where referees are key players to ensure victory goes where it belongs.

This was a scandalous and unacceptable behavior from the umpiring crew, and this disgrace to umpires should be reprimanded, if not removed. He won’t, of course. That would be like MLB admitting they hired an incompetent official who forgot how to officiate the game.

Thank heavens we have moved into the 21st century, or fans would be screaming, “Kill the Umpire!”

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One of those vaunted New York and Boston rivalries comes to the forefront for New England fans who are reeling over the loss of the Celtics.

We began to wonder what exactly we are likely to see this weekend at the House Next Door to the House That Ruth Built.

If a visitor arrived all the way from Uranus to see what all the space chatter is about, he’d be perplexed to find two normal teams, playing typical baseball.

Well, they are as normal as baseball allows.

An interloper from space would surely notice that Yankee pitchers are fat. Bartolo Colon and Joba the Chamberlain look like Pizza the Hutt from a bad Mel Brooks movie.

And the Red Sox pitchers, like Clay Buchholz and Daniel Bard, seem to be married to Jack Spratt’s former wife. They don’t look like they ever had a chance to lick the platter clean.

The splendid splinters on the Red Sox all seem to be pitchers.

Late arriving radio waves to the outer planet may have not told the visitor that Derek Jeter, erstwhile hero of the Yankees for a generation, seems to have fallen and can’t seem to get up.

Home runs seem to come from Mickey Mantle’s grandson, someone named Granderson, no less.

Our extraterrestrial visitor would have heard about the great catchers of the past, like Thurman Munson and Carleton Fisk, but now a couple of guys named Martin and Saltalamacchia seem unable to catch much of anything, not even a break.

Our friendly visitor from another world may have heard reports how in the past every one in the starting lineup on the Red Sox was batting near .300, and now nearly every starter is barely hitting .250.

In the past, all those great hitters meant the team was mired in fifth place. Now, so-so hitting means the team is mired in fifth place.

Einstein was right about space travel, but he had no idea how it might affect a baseball fan. Better to sit on Uranus and think about those champion-caliber Big Bad Bruins.

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The Boston Red Sox ownership group held a coffee klatsch at Fenway the other night. Or, was it early morning? A koffee klatsch is a casual chance to sip coffee over conversation with friends.

In a rain-delayed extra inning horror story at friendly Fenway that ended at 2:45 in the morning with the Sox losing, fans went home later than the pickpockets and muggers.

The silver lining in the tarp on the infield was Red Sox owners, John Henry, Larry Lucchino and Tom Werner.

In a gesture right out of a Damon Runyon sports saga, the trio of owners got behind the counter and served up hot coffee to the die-hard fans that shivered during the chilly rain delay.

In all my years of cynically watching the Red Sox, this gesture struck me as the most good-natured, however calculating, that I have seen.

Why do I keep thinking Mr. Steinbrenner might have gone behind the counter, but gouging the fans for that extra cup? Oh, I am being unfair as usual.

Boston has not always had beloved sports owners in the city, though Tom Yawkey came about as close as possible.

Most sports owners are invisible carpetbaggers who sweep into town, rake in the money and sell for a big profit.

The New England Patriots found local owners who have been highly visible and fan friendly. The Celtics owners include one man, Steve Pagliuca, who ran for U.S. Senate in Massachusetts, and the ever-present gentleman at games in the front row is the genial part-owner, Wyc Grousbeck.

Having the common touch is an uncommon virtue, especially when your income is far beyond those of the players who are usually overpaid.

The same Red Sox owners recently showed up in a local coffee chain commercial, hawking the official Red Sox caffeine brand for charity.

When your team’s owner seems like an Average Joe, the cup of joe becomes a brew to savor. These are smart businessmen, but their actions still have something endearing about it.

Let’s hope these nice owners don’t end up selling apples on Yawkey Way to pay for millionaire players who never hit home runs.

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The Boston Red Sox had few fans nearly 50 years ago. Fewer admit being fans back in 1963 and 1964. Few fans of today were alive back then. Those seasons were the Dark Ages of Red Sox lore. 

Many have removed the memory of the last time, with great flourish and optimism, the Red Sox brain-trust under Dick O’Connell and owner Tom Yawkey decided to pay big bucks and land one of the premiere players of the National League.

At the time, the newspapers were full of reports about the star of the Houston .45s where he was called “The Home Run King” for his 24 dingers in 1962.

Experts in the Boston media said he was a shoo-in to clobber 30 to 40 home runs over the Green Monster. There were no Monster Seats in those days, only a mesh net and lots of broken windows on Lansdowne Street.

Roman Mejias came to Boston at the same time as another catastrophic star: Dr. Strangeglove, the immortal error-prone slugger named Dick Stuart.  It parallels the Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford situation.

Fans expected home runs galore from the two batters. Stuart came through, and Mejias did not.

Most naïve fans believed the new home run machines would equal the firepower of Mantle and Maris over at the starry Yankee Stadium.

Mejias was an outfield phenomenon that used a three-fingered glove and made spectacular basket catches out in the cavernous center field area.

Alas, it was not to be.

Mejias, a nice fellow, could not buy a hit with the Red Sox, and his batting average was not much higher than his weight, below .230 in 111 games during his first season, and it was .238 in 62 games the next year. After the poor start, his bench time increased accordingly.

Roman hit a handful of home runs, 11 in 1963 and only two in 1964. Soon, he was permanently benched, demoralized and devastated by failures in Boston.

The sad statistics can be found at Baseball Reference.com for those with a sense of cruel irony.

Eventually he went to play baseball in Japan in 1966.  The two years in Boston were like having his heart cut out by the high priests of baseball. His two-year tenure with the Red Sox turned into a career killer for benighted Mejias.

How much he resembles Carl Crawford is a matter not yet decided. The abysmal start of the star from Tampa in 2011 is reminiscent of the problems that first beset Roman. Carl’s numbers are far worse as of one month.

After two years, the Mejias experiment was deemed a total failure by fans, press and Red Sox management, but the evidence that he was not the next big star in Boston was clear and apparent by June 1963, only a few months into the season.

That gives Carl Crawford a bit more time before the coroners of Red Sox Nation put the tag on his big toe.

Let’s hope Carl is not bound for the crypt of baseball legend and folklore. 

Sox fans realize it’s a different era today, and $150 million players tend to hang around like a bad penny, and they can remain hitless wonders—and endless reminders of what should have been.

Crawford will be on the Sox roster for many seasons more than Roman Mejias ever played. So, everyone should root and pull for his success.

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From Palm Springs to City of Palms, Red Sox Nation has sought professional help for their stressful inability to handle the agony of defeat.

As for ownership, they have applied from the city of Boston for a license to offer mixed drinks at Fenway to help fans cope with the most expensive, losing team in Sox history.

See WHDH-TV – Board approves sale of mixed drinks at Fenway for details.

Hard-drinking Red Sox fans could start to flood counseling centers across America after watching the Sox play for three or four hours at the Fenway Saloon.

Many fans that wear pink hats may begin to see pink elephants as the nightcaps flow along the concession stands.

Can plain brown paper bags as head-wear be far behind for bleacher bums? Who cares if the Sox lose when you’re in Marguerita-ville?

At the new Fenway Bar and Grille, you can sit on barstools in the Monster seats while the pitching staff is grilled.

Many fans are still trying to buy tickets to Fenway Park to satisfy their desperate need to see good pitching. More are realizing that the fix may not be found at Friendly Fenway, but at least they can find a Sloe Gin Fizz while the Sox fizzle.

A couple of Cape Codders may be just what the bartender recommends to the couple that drove up from Barnstable on Old Cape Cod.

On the cocktail list is the cool and refreshing green Grasshopper, made from crème de menthe and some light cream.

Now your drink will color coordinate with the Green Wall.

Strung out Red Sox fans will demand that Theo Epstein needs to find a Man with a Golden Arm.

No, we do not mean another pitcher, but a cocktail wizard who can make a pitcher of martinis.

Red Sox fans are growing used to seeing the starter chased in the second inning. Now the chaser will arrive in the third inning.

As the pitching staff gets shellacked, fans will now be singing a few bars of “My Melancholy Baby” instead of “Sweet Caroline.”

Many long-time Sox addicts have been grateful for A Hatful of Rain recently. It may be a Long Day’s Journey into Night before genuine sobriety and victory emerge again for Red Sox Nation.

No one wants another Lost Weekend or even the Days of Wine and Roses. If Red Sox losses continue, what strange brew will become the choice of designated drivers?

Meanwhile, Red Sox Nation will have another round. When you’re in the cellar of the American League, there’s only one direction to go: Bottoms up, fans!

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Mad Magazine should feature Manny Ramirez on their covers. He’s one of the original Boston Red Sox Idiots. And, now we have confirmation he is crazy as a Looney Toon.

Imagine having been banned once for 50 games for using a forbidden substance, and then to use the proverbial putative something again.

Imagine being so stupid that you are caught once more with hormones, steroids or the creeping crud inside you.

The threat of a 100-game suspension and humiliation is a great motivator toward retirement.

The motto of Manny Being Manny rivals only the other imbecile’s mantra: ”What, me worry?”

Don’t worry, Manny. Be happy. Your career is in the garbage dump and your miscue is now beyond rescue. You just flushed 500 home runs down the poop chute.

Some people get ulcers, and others give them. If Manny is ulcerated, it is only along his medulla oblongata.

If using drugs and steroids will fry your brain, Manny may have fricasseed frontal lobes. He is clearly out to lunch.

He’s sniffed too much pine tar resin, raising the count higher than 3 and 2. He makes the other former Red Sox brainiac, Roger Clemens, look like a rocket scientist.

Enablers took him in at the Los Angeles Dodger Disneyworld, and he took them in, though it’s doubtful they realize it.   After all, Los Angeles created Manny-wood, a fantasy home where he could live out his delusions for a few more years.

Manny has always belonged in Mudville, where his slime-riddled career can be appreciated.

Now, the reality show we call life may be intruding too much. There will be no return to Boston, giving fans a chance for their much-needed catharsis on Monday.

If you were to ask Manny about Cooperstown, his legacy or fan respect, he would look at you blankly. These are words that he never can define and are outside the drug user lexicon.

Words in his vocabulary are limited to vanity, and the rest of his meager, but benighted diction belongs in a rather thick-skinned dictionary he and Barry Bonds have compiled.

The first word that neither has comprehended may well be “comeuppance.” Guilty parties often get it sooner or later.

After being hit with a proverbial ton of steroid slime-balls, Manny will slide under the bombardment that would assault the ego of a lesser maroon idiot.

The Mighty Manny has struck out, and we can only say good riddance.

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