5/7/2008 12:36:27 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

“I mean, I never walked eight guys in a season!”

Thus spake the Eck last night, expressing his bemusement and exasperation at Dice-K’s most unusual pitching line.

That’s true — three different times, in fact. (And, twice more, his last two seasons, he walked exactly eight.)

In fairness, of course, Mr. Mustache-Mullet put up those numbers as a reliever, not a starter.

(Speaking of Eckersley, by the way, this reenactment of his darkest hour is terrifically creative and very well done...almost as good as RBI Baseball Game Six.)

Anyway. Last night.

This is really weird:                         

IP     H   R   ER   BB   K

5.0    2   1     1      8     1

He got his fifth win, lowered his ERA, and took a no-hitter into the fourth — all while throwing the ball all over the damn place, allowing base runners at a ridiculous.

But he always wiggled out when it mattered. One wonders if, like it was in Japan, this could actually be a viable strategy for him if only there were no such thing as pitch counts here. (Alas, there is such a thing.)

It was excruciating to watch. But it worked. Our starter got the win, our closer got the save, our middle reliever got some seasoning.

Mikey Lowell was mere inches away from having a 4-5, 2 HR, 5 RBI night, and Ortiz just destroyed that ball in the ninth.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Let’s see if we can keep these good things happening.

Last night’s game also marked the debut of the lovely Heidi Watney. I think she did a fine job. She seemed a little nervous, which is OK. But she did what’s expected of a sideline reporter. Some commenters I’ve read on a couple message boards seem to be demanding she offer the incisive commentary and encyclopedic baseball knowledge of a Gammons or a Kurkjian. This seems to me to be a ridiculously excessive expectation.

5/6/2008 1:38:36 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

5/5/2008 1:27:03 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

At Tuesday night's game, I remarked to the Sox Blogette that it seemed Jason Varitek hadn’t changed his at-bat music since at least 2003. Plate appearance after plate appearance: “Kryptonite” by Three Doors Down.

Then, on the very next night — I was lucky enough to attend twice in a row, thanks to the largesse of Phoenix staff editor extraordinaire Sean Kerrigan — I noticed that Tek had changed it up. Remarkable!

I couldn’t tell what the song was (and, truth be told, much like “Kryptonite,” I wasn’t much of a fan) but I wondered to myself whether this sudden shift in affairs might portend something big.

Lo and behold.

When Lowerie was gunned down at the plate in the bottom of the ninth — Vernon Wells having exacted his revenge for the butter-fingered indignity of the previous night — I grimaced.

Not so much for our failure to score, although that was bad enough. But rather for the fact that I had to pee. Really, really badly. I hadn’t had to go so bad since I was six or seven, unwilling to leave the theater during Return of the Jedi for fear of missing something good. I was in pain. I worried I was doing permanent damage. I needed a walk-off win toute d’suite.

And then Tek loped that single into center, just like Youk did last night. And then Manny booked it plateward, just like Papi did last night. And then we went bananas, just like we did last night.

And then I went to the bathroom. And all was right with the world.

Matsuzaka has found his groove.

Ortiz has found his swing.

Papelbon has found his arm-slot (to first).

And we've found our way back to first where we belong.

5/1/2008 1:06:13 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

4/30/2008 12:50:21 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Mr. Halladay was unhappy last night.

Let’s just be thankful our friend Vernon gave us the other kind of outfield assist. Or else it’s a decent bet Big Papi would’ve been gunned down at the plate, and we’d be calling for Tito’s head for not pinch-running. (And yes, yes, I understand now why he didn't. But trust me: if that game had gone into extra innings there were gonna be a lot of unhappy people in that 43-degree wind-tunnel, not least the players.)

“Sometimes the greatest games are played in April,” the drunk guy a couple rows behind me opined at in the middle of the ninth.

And so it was.

An entirely dominant — and somewhat unexpected— deep start from young Lester. (Just a B+?)

A couple overpowering Ks from Papelbon and a jaw-dropping defensive play from Pedroia.

A moonshot foul. Then a walk.

A bloop single.

A deep inhalation of breath.

And a seeing-eye rocket into center.

Chug-chug-chug. The big man trundled homeward.

And suddenly the green infield was a churning sea white and red.

Sorry Roy. Big ups to you. You're a helluva competitor. But complete games are only really worthwhile when you get the W.

4/30/2008 11:31:53 AM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |