So. We promised we were going to blog, but tonight's game doesn't really inspire conversation. Still, isn't it nice to see our Papi back where he belongs? And isn't there--well, not much else nice to say?
We've used our boundless cunning* and vast network of insider connections** to infiltrate the Sox clubhouse and document some conversations that took place once the big man rejoined the band.
I. Overheard from the Bash Brothers
Papi: I cannot believe this. I leave you alone for a couple weeks and what do you do?
Manny: Hit a home run?
Papi: And what else?
Manny: Hit another home run real hard?
Papi: Manny...
Manny: It's not my fault Boston hates me! All I ever do is play baseball!
Papi: Sometimes what you do is, you don't play baseball.
Manny: ...Is this like when a tree falls in the woods?
Papi: No, it's like when we play a game and you sit in the clubhouse playing Star Wars on the WII.
Manny: But I hurt my knee and I'm a Sith Lord!
Papi: You been talkin' to Scott Boras too much.
Manny: Look, it's okay with me if Boston doesn't like Manny. My feelings ain't hurt. Sticks and stones don't break my bones.
Papi: ...
Manny: Manny can play baseball anywhere. Boston...Japan...Iraq...
Papi: Think abot this, Manny. They don't have baseball in Iraq 'cause they are too busy shooting each other with guns.
Manny: The moon, then.
Papi: They don't have baseball on the moon, either, 'cause they don't have air.
Manny: I'm gonna wear a spacesuit. I'm not dumb.
Papi: You got me there, man. Have fun on the moon, or...wherever. Just one thing, though.
Manny: I can get you a spacesuit too, don't worry.
Papi: No, no, listen. Fenway...Fenway keeps the Monster.
[They think about this for a minute. Manny looks up at the sky.]
Manny: Goodbye, moon! I got to stay in Boston!
Papi: It's one in the afternoon, Manny. That's the sun.
Manny: I know. That was a symbolic gesture to the heavens, much like the actions of the Biblical figure Job. You should read more.
Papi: ...
Manny: Did you say one o'clock? Time for juice and cookies!
II. Overheard, Talking About Practice, Practice, Man, We Talking About Practice
Papi: So what'd I miss?
Tek: Well, um, Manny wants a trade.
Papi: I know.
Tek: And Pap and his wife are expecting a baby.
Papi: I know that too, I was there.
Tek: ...What the dang--
Papi: When he told us, man, when he told us. You catchers got dirty minds.
Tek: We do not! I just didn't understand you there, man, 'cause I've been a little preoccupied, what with me bein' in the worst offensive slump in the history of mankind.
Papi: Yeah, what's that about?
Tek: I think my bat's allergic to leather.
Papi: Come here, come here. Watch me and copy what I do.
Tek: Copy what? The way you heal sick children with hugs? 'Cause that's pretty cool.
Papi: Man, just pay attention.
[Papi crushes a batting practice fastball into the bullpen.]
Papi: Now you.
Tek: Gotcha.
[Tek flies out to shallow center.]
Papi: No, no, no, no. I said copy me!
[Papi hits a ball directly into the red seat.]
Tek: Okay.
[Tek grounds it foul down the first base line.]
Papi: Why you playin'?
Tek: I don't know, Papi, why am I playin'? Please make me stop.
Papi: I show you one more time.
[Papi hits a ball over the monster, over I-95, over New Hampshire, and into Portland, Maine, where it lands in the outstretched glove of a grateful Sea Dog.]
Papi: You got it now?
Tek: Um, maybe if you show me that one again.
Papi: Hit a damn baseball!
[Tek hits a double high off the Monster.]
Papi: My work here is done! I gotta go, it's time for rounds at Children's Hospital.
[He dusts his hands off and walks away. Tek takes another cut and bounces a ground-rule double around Pesky's pole.]
Tek: There goes my hero.
Interlude: Another County Heard From
A-Rod: Hey, Papi! Remember that time we had dinner during the All-Star Break?
Papi: You mean last week?
A-Rod: That was awesome.***
Papi: It was okay.
A-Rod: We should do it again! We should bring our families! Actually, we should go on vacation together!
Papi: ...I'll let you sit next to me at PF Chang's if you be quiet.
A-Rod: You're my best friend!
Papi: You're buying.
III. Overheard via the Parents Television Council
Beckett: I'm fuckin' glad you're back, dude.
Papi: Thanks. Pass me a bottle of water?
Beckett: Hey, waiter! Bottle of water for the fuckin' man here!
[Justin Masterson looks confused.]
Papi: Never mind, I'm good.
Beckett: You sure? 'Cause I don't mind, I can make the rookies do whatever you need. I got 'em good and scared of me.
Papi: Umm...so how you been?
Beckett: Me? Great.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah. Executin' pitches.
Papi: Yeah?
Beckett: Yeah.
[Long pause.]
Beckett: I mean, I don't expect fifteen fuckin' runs every fuckin' time I pitch...
[Beckett sniffles. Papi nods.]
Beckett: I know it's my fuckin' job to throw fuckin' strikes, I know, but--
Papi: Hey.
Beckett: Two fuckin' runs, man, that's all I need is two--
[Beckett lets out a sob and is instantly folded into a hug of record-breaking size.]
Papi: It's okay. Papi still loves you.
In conclusion, overheard in all of Boston: BEAT L.A.!
*This is a lie. We don't really have that.
**Or those.
***The resemblance to a Chris Farley sketch here is purely coincidental. Rodriguez has never really gotten into Saturday Night Live. He does have a tape of that one time Jeter was on, though.
Showing posts with label dramatization. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dramatization. Show all posts
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
We do not sell rhymes by the gram in this house
SCENE:
A posh steakhouse in Ft. Myers, Florida. A table.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
Jason VARITEK
DOUGIE FRESH Mirabelli
CHORUS of Baby Catchers*
VARITEK: We few, we happy few, we band of catchers--
DOUGIE FRESH: All right, stop! Collaborate and listen,
Dougie's back with my home run hittin'.
Wakefield throws a pitch that goes knuckle-y,
Killin' hitters dead like William F. Buckley.**
Will it be a strike? Yo, I should know
Into my glove it'll go.
To the extreme, I hit grand slams like Slim J.D.
Making pitchers cry all "Dude Looks Like a Lady."
Love it or leave it, I had to lose weight,
But you better be watching when I block home plate.
If you want a lobster, yo, they'll boil it
Tek's gonna pay, I'm'a go hit the toilet.
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: Mirabelli--
[DOUGIE FRESH exits.]
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: I need another drink.
*Because we're not sure who all were there, exactly. Or how to spell their names. Sorry, we're still hung over from Doug Mirabelli Appreciation Night.
**RIP, we suppose.
A posh steakhouse in Ft. Myers, Florida. A table.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
Jason VARITEK
DOUGIE FRESH Mirabelli
CHORUS of Baby Catchers*
VARITEK: We few, we happy few, we band of catchers--
DOUGIE FRESH: All right, stop! Collaborate and listen,
Dougie's back with my home run hittin'.
Wakefield throws a pitch that goes knuckle-y,
Killin' hitters dead like William F. Buckley.**
Will it be a strike? Yo, I should know
Into my glove it'll go.
To the extreme, I hit grand slams like Slim J.D.
Making pitchers cry all "Dude Looks Like a Lady."
Love it or leave it, I had to lose weight,
But you better be watching when I block home plate.
If you want a lobster, yo, they'll boil it
Tek's gonna pay, I'm'a go hit the toilet.
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: Mirabelli--
[DOUGIE FRESH exits.]
CHORUS: Deep deep Dougie.
VARITEK: I need another drink.
*Because we're not sure who all were there, exactly. Or how to spell their names. Sorry, we're still hung over from Doug Mirabelli Appreciation Night.
**RIP, we suppose.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
We do not hunt for Red October in this house
9/22/07: Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 6
SCENE:
The TROP. Visitor's clubhouse. Doors closed to the media.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The goddamned playoff-bound BOSTON RED SOX (!)
George, a MOUSE
[Enter the team.]
LOWELL: Hey, put a chain on the door--otherwise Tina Cervasio might chew her way in.
HINSKE: That's a bad thing?
LOWELL: You need to get out more.
VARITEK: Does everyone have some champagne? Good. Guys, at this time I think it'd be appropriate to make a little toast--
RAMIREZ: To being Manny! [Raises glass, pulls oblique muscle.] Ow. Not to being Manny.
TIMLIN: To our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
YOUKILIS: Seriously? I'm sitting right next to you.
TIMLIN: [Passes Youkilis a Chick tract and a cigar.]
PAPELBON: Um, I wanna make a toast to the Cap'n, 'cause he hit a roundtripper, and more importantly, he kicks ass, which you can tell 'cause he's my catcher and I kick so much ass. [Fist-pump.] Oh, and I hope the Yankees get attacked by robot dogs.
VARITEK: Paps, that's enough.
PAPELBON: Or robot mooses.
VARITEK: Paps!
PAPELBON: 'Kay, I'm done. [Downs champagne.]
VARITEK: Well, that was all very entertainin', but I have a couple things to say. [Raises glass.] First off, good game tonight. We played good baseball. That's important. That's what we have to keep doing for the rest of the season. And, you know, into October.
[Everyone cheers.]
VARITEK: It's real nice to be in this position, but don't forget that this is just the beginning. We worked hard all year and we want the division. We want home-field advantage. We, uh--well, we want bragging rights.
[Everyone cheers louder. Pedroia jumps up and swings around on the ceiling fan.]
VARITEK: Guys, seriously. Let's not get carried away. And Schill, let Beckett up outta the ice bucket already. He's turning blue.
[Beckett emerges from the ice bucket with a stream of obscenities which not even this blog can reveal.]
VARITEK: We deserve to celebrate. We've come a long way. But we still need to keep our eyes on a higher goal--
[Pedroia flies off the ceiling fan and roundhouse kicks Varitek in the chest protector. Since he weighs about 130 pounds, he bounces off and lands on his ass at Varitek's feet.]
PEDROIA: Soccer sucks!*
EVERYONE: Yeah!
[Drinking commences.]
VARITEK: [sits down in the corner with a sigh.] Well, I hope they can at least behave in front of people.
MOUSE: Squeak.**
VARITEK: Yeah. [He grins.] Why start now?
[Curtain.]
*We at Respect the Tek do not share this opinion. We respect soccer, too. Maybe we should make a blog called Respect the Wambach.
**Translation: "Whatever. I was told this party would have cheese."
SCENE:
The TROP. Visitor's clubhouse. Doors closed to the media.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The goddamned playoff-bound BOSTON RED SOX (!)
George, a MOUSE
[Enter the team.]
LOWELL: Hey, put a chain on the door--otherwise Tina Cervasio might chew her way in.
HINSKE: That's a bad thing?
LOWELL: You need to get out more.
VARITEK: Does everyone have some champagne? Good. Guys, at this time I think it'd be appropriate to make a little toast--
RAMIREZ: To being Manny! [Raises glass, pulls oblique muscle.] Ow. Not to being Manny.
TIMLIN: To our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
YOUKILIS: Seriously? I'm sitting right next to you.
TIMLIN: [Passes Youkilis a Chick tract and a cigar.]
PAPELBON: Um, I wanna make a toast to the Cap'n, 'cause he hit a roundtripper, and more importantly, he kicks ass, which you can tell 'cause he's my catcher and I kick so much ass. [Fist-pump.] Oh, and I hope the Yankees get attacked by robot dogs.
VARITEK: Paps, that's enough.
PAPELBON: Or robot mooses.
VARITEK: Paps!
PAPELBON: 'Kay, I'm done. [Downs champagne.]
VARITEK: Well, that was all very entertainin', but I have a couple things to say. [Raises glass.] First off, good game tonight. We played good baseball. That's important. That's what we have to keep doing for the rest of the season. And, you know, into October.
[Everyone cheers.]
VARITEK: It's real nice to be in this position, but don't forget that this is just the beginning. We worked hard all year and we want the division. We want home-field advantage. We, uh--well, we want bragging rights.
[Everyone cheers louder. Pedroia jumps up and swings around on the ceiling fan.]
VARITEK: Guys, seriously. Let's not get carried away. And Schill, let Beckett up outta the ice bucket already. He's turning blue.
[Beckett emerges from the ice bucket with a stream of obscenities which not even this blog can reveal.]
VARITEK: We deserve to celebrate. We've come a long way. But we still need to keep our eyes on a higher goal--
[Pedroia flies off the ceiling fan and roundhouse kicks Varitek in the chest protector. Since he weighs about 130 pounds, he bounces off and lands on his ass at Varitek's feet.]
PEDROIA: Soccer sucks!*
EVERYONE: Yeah!
[Drinking commences.]
VARITEK: [sits down in the corner with a sigh.] Well, I hope they can at least behave in front of people.
MOUSE: Squeak.**
VARITEK: Yeah. [He grins.] Why start now?
[Curtain.]
*We at Respect the Tek do not share this opinion. We respect soccer, too. Maybe we should make a blog called Respect the Wambach.
**Translation: "Whatever. I was told this party would have cheese."
Friday, August 24, 2007
We do not blame it on the rain in this house
.JPG)
Sorry we've been such terrible bloggers. As you can see, we've been out to lunch.*08/24/07: White Sox 3, Red Sox 11; White Sox 1, Red Sox 10
Thanks to the rains on the plains, neither of us was able to watch the rain-delayed opening bout of the Hosiery Hostilities, only monitoring the scoreboards through the entirely unsurreptitious workplace use of CBS Sportsline's live scoreboard. This means that we didn't get to watch Jason Varitek's homer until the replay much later. Now, granted, we've watched it a half-dozen times apiece, with the added bonus that MLB's clip has the call by the entirely downtrodden White Sox announcers.** And it is spectacular. As were Papi's and Youk's blasts later on in the night, especially Youk, who may or may not actually have hit that ball with his spectacular slump-busting chin.***
Still, we feel deprived. Actually, we were kind of wondering whether Tek would catch Game 2 instead of Game 1, given that Kevin "Rules Everything Around Me" Cash was already slated for today's Wakefield start. We're sure the idea crossed the pitchers' minds, too...
BECKETT: Tek, you're catchin' my start, right?
SCHILLING: The hell he is.
BECKETT: The hell he ain't. I called dibs.
VARITEK: J.B., it's up to Tito. Also, you can't call dibs on me.
BECKETT: Don't worry, Tek, it's just a saying.
SCHILLING: He pointed at you across the field during spring training and said, "Mine."
BECKETT: So you admit I have dibs!
VARITEK: There are no dibs!
BECKETT: Listen, you and me, we've got a game plan. Curt can come up with his own game plan. He's smart like that. I'm dumb as a fuckin' rock. Everyone knows that.
SCHILLING: ...He makes a point.
VARITEK: It's up. to. Tito.
BECKETT: Hey, Tito! [points to Varitek] Mine!
And then they all lived happily ever after. Or at least for twelve hours that Ozzie Guillen will never get back.
Finally, since Mike Lowell mentioned the use of Google in the latest Friendly's Scoop w/Jonathan Papelbon, we feel compelled to leave him a note in case he does Google himself and somehow end up perusing our illustrious site.
Dear Mike Lowell,
You're definitely muy sexy, as you correctly pointed out to Cinco Ocho, and you don't need the Just-For-Men. And if you ever get tired of playing baseball, well, we think the sports world definitely needs the equivalent of the Daily Show--we respectfully submit that SportsSnarker Featuring Mike Lowell would be a high point in broadcast TV history, particularly if you retain one Cinco Ocho as a correspondent. Make it so, number 25!
Peace, love, and empathy,
The girls of Respect The Tek
*Yes, we each signed up for Red Sox Kid Nation under the flimsiest of false pretenses. Yes, we did it for Lunch: J. Papelbon (2). Though we might also use the ice cream coupons. Is that evil?
**As much as Don and Jerry can sometimes annoy, with their mascot fixation and their relentless plugging of Red Sox Nation (TM) paraphernalia, at least they muster up some nonpartisan baseball enthusiasm for great plays, regardless of who makes them. They're not ridiculous homers; they applaud the game as it happens, and nothing Jerry Remy has ever said, not even about "exploding chest hair" is as irksome as every third word out of Tim McCarver. Did we mention we're watching today's game on Fox, and they're using Coldplay as incidental music? Coldplay? In 2007?
***To be perfectly honest, we were happy about the wins, but positively giddy that both Varitek and Youkilis whipped out the offensive production. Victory is sweet, but when you see how hard they've been pushing themselves, and punishing themselves, and it finally pays off, seeing them smile is sweeter. Goatees and all.
Friday, August 3, 2007
We do not think, therefore we are not in this house
Scene: A drawing room in Second Empire style. A massive bronze bust of Babe Ruth stands on the mantelpiece.
BONDS: [enters, accompanied by A-ROD] So here we are.
A-ROD: Yeah. Waiting for history.
BONDS: Pass me that copy of Highlights?
A-ROD: Sure. I got Redbook.
[They read.]
BONDS: [laughing] Oh, Gallant. You so crazy.
GLAVINE: [enters, slamming the door.] This is ridiculous--they keep cancelling my appointment!
BONDS: Oh, crap, a paparazzi. [A-ROD hides his magazine.] Look, how many times do I have to say this? There are way worse killers in the world than steroids! Like Voldemort!
GLAVINE: I'm not a paparazzi.
A-ROD: Don't listen to him, Barry! I've seen him around New York! He's here to ruin our family lives!
GLAVINE: I play for the Mets.
A-ROD: The what now?
GLAVINE: I've been in the game for years. I was a World Series MVP. I pitched to you both this season, for Chrissakes. I even gave up a home run to Barry.
BONDS: Nope, not ringing a bell.
A-ROD: Anyway, how did a pitcher get into history's waiting room? Mr. Torre always says that pitching doesn't count.
GLAVINE: Right. Well, I've been going for my 300th win for about a month.
[BONDS and A-ROD exchange smirks.]
BONDS: 300? That is a tiny number, man.
GLAVINE: Oh, yeah? So is one. Which is exactly how many home runs you have not hit in your last thirty-something at-bats. [A-ROD snickers.] What are you laughing at, Slappy? You're not getting it done either. I haven't seen you swinging this badly since...well, October.
A-ROD: [flinging himself down on a chaise longue] Why is it so haaaard?
BONDS: I've been wondering about that, actually. It's so weird, but that one last roundtripper can seem harder than hitting the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds--
[GLAVINE pretends to vomit into a potted ficus.]
BONDS: --and hundreds and hundreds that came before.
GLAVINE: I hate to agree with you, but it does feel that way. It's kind of ironic.
A-ROD: It's like meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife.
BONDS: Why is that one home run--
GLAVINE: Two for you, actually.
BONDS: --So hard to come by?
A-ROD: It's not fair! What have I done to deserve this? Nothing! That's what! All I've ever done is play by the rules! Unlike some people.
BONDS: Hey, what the hell, man?
A-ROD: No offense, Barry. I mean, I am glad that your giant head got everyone in the game to stop hating me, but we all know--
BONDS: Oh, and you never did anything wrong? Listen, when your closet's clean, then come clean mine.
A-ROD: I don't know what you're talking about!
BONDS: Sure. And I thought that stuff was flaxseed oil!
GLAVINE: [pretending to cough] Cheater.
A-ROD: [turns pale] I will have you know that Derek is a valuable teammate of mine and nothing more!
GLAVINE: ...Actually, that was for Barry.
BONDS: Hey, man, I ain't even know Derek all that well.
GLAVINE: No, I--forget it. You know, maybe it is karma, though. We've all done things that didn't exactly help the game of baseball. We've all put money ahead of the sport--
A-ROD: Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Met. Pitchers don't get paid.
GLAVINE: [blinks] Roger Clemens?
A-ROD: He's not a pitcher, he's a Yankee!
GLAVINE: My point is, we've all done things that tarnish our public image. Me, I once cost the game a whole season and thousands of fans, and also killed the Montreal Expos. Although, really, it was more like putting them to sleep. Now, we've been lucky enough to keep playing and persevere to the point that all three of us are just about to reach these amazing milestones. Maybe it's a struggle because karma is kicking our asses until we remember that baseball has given us more than we could ever give back.
[Silence as all three contemplate this.]
GLAVINE: And also, my bullpen sucks.
BONDS: And bitches aren't throwing me anything over the plate.
A-ROD: And I lost my binky.
GLAVINE: Nuts to this existential stuff. I'm gonna go beat the snot out of Guillermo Mota.
[Exit GLAVINE.]
BONDS: You mean we can just walk out of here? Sweet, I have someplace to be.
A-ROD: Yeah, don't you have a game tonight?
BONDS: Nah, fool, Sanford & Son is on.
[BONDS exits, then returns to take his copy of Highlights For Kids! Magazine. Exit BONDS, for good this time.]
A-ROD: [looking around the empty room.] You know, I've learned something today. When we focus only on the milestone numbers, we forget so many wonderful things about baseball. Like the loving support of our teammates. And making tons and tons of money. And elbowing people in the crotch at second base. The paparazzi can't take that away from me, no matter how hard they try!
[Exit A-ROD, pursued by a bear.]
BONDS: [enters, accompanied by A-ROD] So here we are.
A-ROD: Yeah. Waiting for history.
BONDS: Pass me that copy of Highlights?
A-ROD: Sure. I got Redbook.
[They read.]
BONDS: [laughing] Oh, Gallant. You so crazy.
GLAVINE: [enters, slamming the door.] This is ridiculous--they keep cancelling my appointment!
BONDS: Oh, crap, a paparazzi. [A-ROD hides his magazine.] Look, how many times do I have to say this? There are way worse killers in the world than steroids! Like Voldemort!
GLAVINE: I'm not a paparazzi.
A-ROD: Don't listen to him, Barry! I've seen him around New York! He's here to ruin our family lives!
GLAVINE: I play for the Mets.
A-ROD: The what now?
GLAVINE: I've been in the game for years. I was a World Series MVP. I pitched to you both this season, for Chrissakes. I even gave up a home run to Barry.
BONDS: Nope, not ringing a bell.
A-ROD: Anyway, how did a pitcher get into history's waiting room? Mr. Torre always says that pitching doesn't count.
GLAVINE: Right. Well, I've been going for my 300th win for about a month.
[BONDS and A-ROD exchange smirks.]
BONDS: 300? That is a tiny number, man.
GLAVINE: Oh, yeah? So is one. Which is exactly how many home runs you have not hit in your last thirty-something at-bats. [A-ROD snickers.] What are you laughing at, Slappy? You're not getting it done either. I haven't seen you swinging this badly since...well, October.
A-ROD: [flinging himself down on a chaise longue] Why is it so haaaard?
BONDS: I've been wondering about that, actually. It's so weird, but that one last roundtripper can seem harder than hitting the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds--
[GLAVINE pretends to vomit into a potted ficus.]
BONDS: --and hundreds and hundreds that came before.
GLAVINE: I hate to agree with you, but it does feel that way. It's kind of ironic.
A-ROD: It's like meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife.
BONDS: Why is that one home run--
GLAVINE: Two for you, actually.
BONDS: --So hard to come by?
A-ROD: It's not fair! What have I done to deserve this? Nothing! That's what! All I've ever done is play by the rules! Unlike some people.
BONDS: Hey, what the hell, man?
A-ROD: No offense, Barry. I mean, I am glad that your giant head got everyone in the game to stop hating me, but we all know--
BONDS: Oh, and you never did anything wrong? Listen, when your closet's clean, then come clean mine.
A-ROD: I don't know what you're talking about!
BONDS: Sure. And I thought that stuff was flaxseed oil!
GLAVINE: [pretending to cough] Cheater.
A-ROD: [turns pale] I will have you know that Derek is a valuable teammate of mine and nothing more!
GLAVINE: ...Actually, that was for Barry.
BONDS: Hey, man, I ain't even know Derek all that well.
GLAVINE: No, I--forget it. You know, maybe it is karma, though. We've all done things that didn't exactly help the game of baseball. We've all put money ahead of the sport--
A-ROD: Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Met. Pitchers don't get paid.
GLAVINE: [blinks] Roger Clemens?
A-ROD: He's not a pitcher, he's a Yankee!
GLAVINE: My point is, we've all done things that tarnish our public image. Me, I once cost the game a whole season and thousands of fans, and also killed the Montreal Expos. Although, really, it was more like putting them to sleep. Now, we've been lucky enough to keep playing and persevere to the point that all three of us are just about to reach these amazing milestones. Maybe it's a struggle because karma is kicking our asses until we remember that baseball has given us more than we could ever give back.
[Silence as all three contemplate this.]
GLAVINE: And also, my bullpen sucks.
BONDS: And bitches aren't throwing me anything over the plate.
A-ROD: And I lost my binky.
GLAVINE: Nuts to this existential stuff. I'm gonna go beat the snot out of Guillermo Mota.
[Exit GLAVINE.]
BONDS: You mean we can just walk out of here? Sweet, I have someplace to be.
A-ROD: Yeah, don't you have a game tonight?
BONDS: Nah, fool, Sanford & Son is on.
[BONDS exits, then returns to take his copy of Highlights For Kids! Magazine. Exit BONDS, for good this time.]
A-ROD: [looking around the empty room.] You know, I've learned something today. When we focus only on the milestone numbers, we forget so many wonderful things about baseball. Like the loving support of our teammates. And making tons and tons of money. And elbowing people in the crotch at second base. The paparazzi can't take that away from me, no matter how hard they try!
[Exit A-ROD, pursued by a bear.]
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
We do not condone violence against PDAs in this house
THE BATTLE IN SEATTLE
Three short monologues starring Jason Varitek.
I. Kason At The Rubber
"Time!"
[Jogs to mound.]
"Hey, Gabby. Deep breath. You can do this, I've seen you throw. Just find your confidence.Don't worry about the guy on first. Or second...or third.
Look, let's break it down to the basics, okay? Take a look at my mitt."
[Flexes glove hand. Gabbard flinches.]
"Hey, whoa, I'm not gonna--I only did that the one time, and A-Rod had it coming. Gabby, the mitt is not your enemy. The mitt is your friend. No, better. The mitt is your hot babysitter that you used to have a crush on, a couple years ago when you were in the sixth grade. All you care about in the world is this mitt here. And all you wanna do is make the mitt happy.
By which I mean, stop throwing at my shoe, okay?"
[Pats Gabbard on the shoulder.]
"No sweat, kid. You got 'em. Curveball inside this time.
All right, let's go."
II. Post-Game Post-Mortem
[Stomps into clubhouse.]
"Hey, Tito, who are we going to fire?
Well, I need you to fire somebody, so who's it gonna be? Can we fire the conditioning coach? Can we trade Gabby away right now for a nickel on the dollar and maybe get a new hairdresser for Coco? I don't care. I don't give one single goddamn, Tito. Someone's gotta pay. Someone's gotta pay tonight. We aren't hitting with men on base, and that little son of a bitch can't throw--
Of course I told him it was okay! What do you take me for? Forget it, I'm calling Theo Epstein. Gonna suspend my own no-trade clause and see if I can get my ass traded for Mark Buehrle. 'Cause it's the only thing I can do for this team at this point, that's why. Anybody got a phone?
Schill, what are you--are you blogging again? Gimme that Blackberry.
...Wait a second, you're--how many times have you voted for the All-Star Game? Thirty- what? That's just wrong, Curtis Montague Schilling. That is bad for our sport. And hey, what have you got my name on there for? Jorge Posada is having the best offensive year of his career! I'm batting .266! What the hell is wrong with you?
How do I make a call on this piece of shit?"
[Dials.]
"Hi, Mr. Epstein? Mr. Epstein, it's Jason Varitek. We have a slight emergency here. A slight emergency known as incompetence. So if you're available... well, I guess you're not. Or maybe you're sleeping. I forget we're on Western time. Sorry to bother you, sir. Goodnight."
[Hangs up, stares at the Blackberry.]
"Walked in three fucking runs in the bottom of the first."
[Drops the Blackberry on the clubhouse floor, stomps on it hard, grabs a nearby bat and whales on it until it is in pieces. Schilling flinches.]
"Don't you look at me like that, old man, you just sit there on the D/L and...and be on the D/L. Put something on your shoulder. Heat that the fuck up.
What?
Oh, five bucks for the swear jar? Yeah, okay. Actually, here's a ten. I'm gonna go tell that umpire what I think of him and his mother."
III. In The Air Tonight
"Hi, honey.
Well, it was a rough series. What can I say? Their pitchers just had some nasty stuff, and ours--well, our bullpen definitely didn't have their best stuff. I don't know, I thought my research was pretty good on this series, but it just didn't play out the way I expected. And I wasn't seeing the ball as well as I could have...
Thanks. I'll tell Dice and Pap you said that, too. That's real sweet of you.
No, you're right, no point worrying about it now. See you when we land. G'night."
[Hangs up. Gazes contemplatively out of plane window. Flips through binders with Tampa Bay scouting reports.]
"Hey, Dougie, you awake?"
[Snoring.]
"Guess that'd be a no. Man, I hate taking the red-eye."
[Picks up phone again and dials.]
"...Hey, Nomar? Tek. Heard a little rumor that you were playing third tonight. That's pretty cool, you know, because some old guys just retire or drift down to the minors. It's only real all-star guys like you that hang around even when they're basically being put out to pasture. You're a lot like Cal Ripken.
You know, in the sense that you and Cal Ripken are both old third basemen.
Call me when you get this, Nomy. Oh, and do you have Damon's new phone number? Because all I have is his new batting average, and I'd like to give him a ring. Just to say hi."
[Hangs up the phone. Smiles. Eventually, falls asleep.]
Three short monologues starring Jason Varitek.
I. Kason At The Rubber
"Time!"
[Jogs to mound.]
"Hey, Gabby. Deep breath. You can do this, I've seen you throw. Just find your confidence.Don't worry about the guy on first. Or second...or third.
Look, let's break it down to the basics, okay? Take a look at my mitt."
[Flexes glove hand. Gabbard flinches.]
"Hey, whoa, I'm not gonna--I only did that the one time, and A-Rod had it coming. Gabby, the mitt is not your enemy. The mitt is your friend. No, better. The mitt is your hot babysitter that you used to have a crush on, a couple years ago when you were in the sixth grade. All you care about in the world is this mitt here. And all you wanna do is make the mitt happy.
By which I mean, stop throwing at my shoe, okay?"
[Pats Gabbard on the shoulder.]
"No sweat, kid. You got 'em. Curveball inside this time.
All right, let's go."
II. Post-Game Post-Mortem
[Stomps into clubhouse.]
"Hey, Tito, who are we going to fire?
Well, I need you to fire somebody, so who's it gonna be? Can we fire the conditioning coach? Can we trade Gabby away right now for a nickel on the dollar and maybe get a new hairdresser for Coco? I don't care. I don't give one single goddamn, Tito. Someone's gotta pay. Someone's gotta pay tonight. We aren't hitting with men on base, and that little son of a bitch can't throw--
Of course I told him it was okay! What do you take me for? Forget it, I'm calling Theo Epstein. Gonna suspend my own no-trade clause and see if I can get my ass traded for Mark Buehrle. 'Cause it's the only thing I can do for this team at this point, that's why. Anybody got a phone?
Schill, what are you--are you blogging again? Gimme that Blackberry.
...Wait a second, you're--how many times have you voted for the All-Star Game? Thirty- what? That's just wrong, Curtis Montague Schilling. That is bad for our sport. And hey, what have you got my name on there for? Jorge Posada is having the best offensive year of his career! I'm batting .266! What the hell is wrong with you?
How do I make a call on this piece of shit?"
[Dials.]
"Hi, Mr. Epstein? Mr. Epstein, it's Jason Varitek. We have a slight emergency here. A slight emergency known as incompetence. So if you're available... well, I guess you're not. Or maybe you're sleeping. I forget we're on Western time. Sorry to bother you, sir. Goodnight."
[Hangs up, stares at the Blackberry.]
"Walked in three fucking runs in the bottom of the first."
[Drops the Blackberry on the clubhouse floor, stomps on it hard, grabs a nearby bat and whales on it until it is in pieces. Schilling flinches.]
"Don't you look at me like that, old man, you just sit there on the D/L and...and be on the D/L. Put something on your shoulder. Heat that the fuck up.
What?
Oh, five bucks for the swear jar? Yeah, okay. Actually, here's a ten. I'm gonna go tell that umpire what I think of him and his mother."
III. In The Air Tonight
"Hi, honey.
Well, it was a rough series. What can I say? Their pitchers just had some nasty stuff, and ours--well, our bullpen definitely didn't have their best stuff. I don't know, I thought my research was pretty good on this series, but it just didn't play out the way I expected. And I wasn't seeing the ball as well as I could have...
Thanks. I'll tell Dice and Pap you said that, too. That's real sweet of you.
No, you're right, no point worrying about it now. See you when we land. G'night."
[Hangs up. Gazes contemplatively out of plane window. Flips through binders with Tampa Bay scouting reports.]
"Hey, Dougie, you awake?"
[Snoring.]
"Guess that'd be a no. Man, I hate taking the red-eye."
[Picks up phone again and dials.]
"...Hey, Nomar? Tek. Heard a little rumor that you were playing third tonight. That's pretty cool, you know, because some old guys just retire or drift down to the minors. It's only real all-star guys like you that hang around even when they're basically being put out to pasture. You're a lot like Cal Ripken.
You know, in the sense that you and Cal Ripken are both old third basemen.
Call me when you get this, Nomy. Oh, and do you have Damon's new phone number? Because all I have is his new batting average, and I'd like to give him a ring. Just to say hi."
[Hangs up the phone. Smiles. Eventually, falls asleep.]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)