Well...

Now that I have had 10 or so hours to sit in silence and process it, I can officially say, “I’m okay.”

I will be okay. It was a great season and really, I can’t thank the Sox, Sox fans and friends I’ve met this year enough. Beginning on a March morning when I was up at 5am to watch the opener in Japan and ending last night probably when we had bases loaded in the 8th and couldn’t bring anyone home to save our lives…. We have won and lost and had fights, and laughs… I have watched games on TV and in person, I went to the Cincy series, I saw them in Houston and in Arlington. It was all awesome.

We made them all work for it. Manny or no Manny- injured Mike Lowell, JD Drew down for a long time, Beckett not being Beckett- we made them all work for it. The Yankees have been playing golf for 3 weeks. We never gave up- not even down 3-1. We showed the world what it means to wear a Sox uniform. I am so proud.

I feel like I have earned a Red Sox stripe or a battle scar. I have always felt like I needed to pay my dues to be considered a ‘real fan’. And now I do feel like I have a scar to show for it. Cause that, my friends, hurt real fucking badly.

I know, I know… Next year. Of course there’s next year. And we’ll kill them. I know that. So for now, we put the bats up, pull the winter coats out and wait. The boys deserve some time off, I will pay attention to people again. And I will dream of next season and all it will bring me…

I still believe, I still have faith.

GO SOX!

A PostSeason Pep Talk...Kinda

Well, Saturday's game blew. I have an ulcer from 5 hours of constant stomach clenching- No, the bottle of vodka I drank while watching it has nothing to do with it, thank you very much.

Maybe I expected too much. I expected Josh to get up there, step on some throats and make some Rays cry 'uncle'. Instead, after every pitch I was screaming at the screen "For fucks sake, someone show him a CALENDAR!!! He doesn't know it's October!!!!" That could be the only explanation...

At least he knew- this from an article in The Globe by Amalie Benjamin...

He followed that with a somewhat profane assessment of his last outing: "I pitched like [expletive]. I gave up eight [expletive] runs."

That's right, Josh. You did pitch like shit. You did, in fact, give up eight fucking runs.

But I forgive you. I believe in you. I know that this is going to piss you off so badly that when you do get to pitch in Game Six, it will be the final game and those Florida Asshats are going down.

Now go get Tek to stop taking notes and start taking some fucking BP, would ya?!

See you this afternoon boys, make momma proud...

Boys and Clothes...

May I just take a moment, before all the hoorah of Game One in Tampa ensues… Before we go storming into the Trop to crush some mohawked Rays… before I start screaming at my TV, then making out with it, depending on the play… and say how much I love seeing my boys in their civilian clothes? Spotted these photos of the boys leaving for Tampa and had to pause…

I love how they have to dress up in a jacket or tie for their team rides- have always loved that. Loved it in high school when the boys had to wear ties on game days… There’s something about it that says, “I can be sliding into second with baseball dirt from my nipples to my knees on minute, but be hot as hell, all dressed up and ready to go 5 minutes later. Who do you want me to be, Angela? Hot Jon or Baseball Jon? Maybe hot Jon will take you dinner and put on the uni for later…”

Errr… sorry. Maybe that was TMI.

But really. Just LOOK at them! It also makes me giggle just a bit to see Mr.Beckett and his belt buckle. THAT, right there my friends, is a Texas boy!

Cheers to Paps and Mikey… Although this is a pic from last year, it never ceases to make me smile. This photo says “Here’s to the dreams we are about to crush when this bitchin’ plane lands and I get my work clothes back on!”

Here, here.

Roadtrip to Compton

The day started innocently enough. As I was driving to work I heard a commercial for the monster truck races this weekend. A few minutes later, the children’s father called and said it would be fun for the boys and could I go buy the tickets. Easy enough. I got to work and googled the nearest location to buy the them. It was 2 miles from work in an area I’m unfamiliar with because I go the opposite direction every day.

At lunch time I followed the directions which led me to freaking East LA- Compton, if you will. Graffiti, bars on all the doors and window, stores with chains and signs in a language I didn’t understand, people all over the street corners and I’m pretty sure I saw someone sitting on a cement block smoking a crack pipe- I could give better confirmation if I knew for sure I had seen an actual crack pipe before…. Anyway.

I ended up at an old, broke ass auto parts store and walk in- in my cute sweater vest and skirt, heels and giant purse-bag in the crook of my elbow. I was greeted by a nice man with gold teeth who had tattoos across his knuckles.

“Hey Lady, you lost?”

Um. Nooo. I don’t think so anyway… Then it happened. As soon as the words came out of my mouth I felt like everything went into to slow motion and I had an out of body experience.

“I’d like to buy tickets to the monster truck races.”

I’d almost whispered the request like I was looking to score some rock or something… Seriously? Did those words actually come out of my mouth? And did they really come out of my mouth here- in Austin-Compton? Who am I? Where am I? I like to tell people that because I was born in Detroit, I am totally a city girl. I’m waaaay more street than you think I am. All of a sudden… not so much.

The man said something in Spanish to a few guys behind him and they all laughed at (I’m assuming) me, then he proceeded to tell me they only accepted cash for those, NOT the debit card I was thrusting at him in hopes of hurrying this exchange along. He pointed outside and told me I could go across the store to the gas station.

Awesome. Crack pipe city. So I went across the street to the dirty gas station and stepped across a girl who sat straight legged near the door screaming into her cell phone and chain smoking. This time I was greeted by the man who was behind glass.

“Hey lady, you lost?”

WTF? Do I look lost? I didn’t bother answering, I was making a frantic sweep of the store for the ATM- I wasn’t going to ask him either. As I headed to the back of the store someone asked if I needed anything. I wish now I would have answered with something to make all of us more comfortable… Something like, “Yes, I need a shiv and a forty. And do you know where I could get a good safety pin tattoo? Cause I am totally about to buy tickets to the fucking Monster Truck Races…”

I didn’t. I got my cash and left as quickly as possible. I went back to the auto parts store where I noticed a few men watching me through the windows. I’m sure they were just making sure I got back safely….

My cashier took my cash and handed me the tickets.

“You have fun at the trucks, Lady!” More laughter from his friends.

I hightailed it out of there and got back to work, tickets in hand. Monster truck tickets. Score! While I won’t be attending, I can only imagine the kind of fun to be had. My boys are beside themselves. They are 7 and 4 and the thought of mud and motors and racing and sweet jumps almost makes them pee with glee.

I just hope they appreciate the adventure Mommy got to go on to procure them for them…

SOXTOBER AGAIN!

Here's what Momma needs tonight, boys.

I need good, solid innings. We don't walk anyone- we get the K's. Jon, I'm not asking for a no-hitter. While I'm all for one and would never turn it down, I want you to know the expectation for that isn't there. All I'm asking for is 7, maybe 8 innings of awesome. I'm asking you to get us to the 9th with a lead and hand Paps the ball.

Paps, what I need is 9 straight strikes. I don't care how pretty they are. 3 up, 3 down. Give em' the crazy eye- stare them straight into hell, I don't care- whatever gets the job done. No one lays wood on the ball- make them fan the crowd until their hair blows. Just whatever you do- no runs, no walks... no skipping to bases, no strolling. No one touches those bags.

Got it boys? Let's take it one pitch at a time.

Tell my other guys what I need are hits. Yes, we all want to be heroes- and Grand Slams are f'ing AWESOME- but play SMART. Let me sum up:

Pick your pitch.

Hit the hell out of the ball.

GET ON THE BASE.

Repeat.

And one last thing- I would just like to remind you: You are the motherf*&^ing RED SOX. It is OCTOBER. You know what that means? It means you aren't men. You are gods. You have powers you don't even know about yet! It's go time, boys! Make me proud!