We're Jammin'
By Karlsie
Last night's game was such a sweet reversal of the other day that I breathed a huge sigh of relief. In fact, the other day was one of the few times I couldn't bear to watch - so I gave in to my son's request to make strawberry jam.
Think about that: watch the Red Sox or make strawberry jam - and I chose to make jam. Now I'm looking at eight jars of strawberry jam wondering what to do with it all because, truth be told, I don't even like strawberry jam all that much.
Of course that pathetic performance leads into the current round of, "hey, let's try to win over the fans on this whole interleague play with local rivalries scam." The Braves and the Sox were the Boston rivalry. (My mom started out as a Braves fan when she was a kid and switched allegiances when the Braves left town, like many other of her peers. When the Reds come to town, I'll tell you the story about her and game 2 of the '75 series in Cincy.) There's the "subway" series over in New York where Pedro would rather admit to a sore hip than play in the house that Ruth built again. (Damn! I thought signing with the Mets kept me out of here!) and out in the windy city, the White Sox are trying to prove they're just as popular as the Cubbies - even if Jimmy Buffett has been hired to play his annual labor day weekend show at Wrigley to lift the curse there.
So here we are, facing the Braves - a consistently good team over the years. The same people who lured away Nick Esasky, the baseball ghod (just before Lyme Disease cut his chance at a stellar career short), are here in Boston and in Fenway… and they still must pay for that unspeakable act. You think someone like me would be sidling up to a scalper to pay top dollar for standing room so that I could be there to avenge the lure of Ted Turner's hypnotic trance on my hero.
But I'm not. I'm sacked out in my jammies on the couch because I'm sick as a dog with a miserable head cold. The only thing making me feel better (outside of handfuls of ibuprofen and good dosing of a popular cold remedy) is watching the team do what they do best: teamwork.
While most folks focus on guys like Damon, Manny or Big Pappi as a hope to come close to the Splendid Splinter, I look to the true meat and potatoes of the team: Varitek, Millar, Mueller and Bellhorn. These are the guys that I could easily see singing, "Oh we are the boys in the chorus, I hope you'll like our show. I know you're rooting for us, but now we have to go…." The ones who, if they were hoofers, would get that on Broadway the stars shine and their job is make them look as though they had just been polished. Every so often they get to do a little buck and wing or something - but usually they are the supporting members that keep the show rolling.
While Miller's no-no fell with the resounding chunk of a double off the score board, a good game played is a delight to watch: win or lose.
Me, I'm just hoping there aren't too many more of those pathetic strawberry jam day games. If there are, you can be sure that next time I'll make enough for the whole team.
