I guess I have weekly shots of reality, wherein I'll audibly utter an alarmed version of "fuck" wherever I am. Not always an appropriate thing, like the time it happened in front of the avocados at Ralph's on Lincoln. I know, I know. I seldom forget about self-cognizance of little kids, but when it's February and the avocados still just get pumped out in delicious mass quantity...tact escapes me.
My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.
Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.
I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.
My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:
-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.
-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.
-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.
I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.
07 April 2009
Pacific Purification
Swimming in the Pacific is like an enema. It's uncomfortable to the point of tears, the initial shock is enough to send a man's genitals upwards into his body and you find yourself asking why the fuck you are doing such a thing.
However, the aftermath delivers an invigoration and rejuvenation that few other things can afford. I suppose you do kind of waddle around for a while...but it's all part of the experience. Of swimming in the Pacific...not an enema.
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