It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Jonathan Papelbon picked up a six out save last night.
Think about that. Jonathan Papelbon picked up a six out save last night. Dick Radatz got six out saves, but Jonathan Papelbon? Not so much. If it didn’t stretch the limits of his endurance, it was only a 28-pitch outing, it at least pushed the limits of tradition. In fact, the precedents for such a brazen rejection of traditional boundaries are limited. Jose has done a little research and come up with the following comparables:
• 1940, President Franklin D. Roosevelt seeks, and wins an unprecedented third term as President.
• 1996 Jasmin St. Claire, rather than stopping at having sex with a virginal 250 men in a day, goes all the way to 300.
• 2001 Takeru Kobayashi does not stop after breaking the world hot dog eating record of 25 in 12 minutes, but continues to eat until he has doubled the 12-minute record.
What all of these feats have in common is that they required competitors to push themselves a little harder than normal, to take some risks in order to master the task at hand. Jose has no doubt then when Ms. St. Claire pursued the sex record, many of you were screaming “Get her out of there Tito, let Daniel Bard finish this one off” but sometimes that’s not how it works. Sometimes a champion just has to… extend… him or herself to do what needs to be done, and last night Jonathan Papelbon did just that.
The exception, of course, is the 2003 ALCS, when Grady Little asked Pedro to do more than was possible, infuriating sox fans and online sports bettors alike. That was like asking FDR to run for a fifth term post mortem, insisting that Jasmin St. Clair go for 500 or insisting that Kobayashi should replicate his feat with foot long dogs.
There’s good crazy (note: the kind that leads to slashing prices) and bad crazy (the kind that leads to slashing wrists) and it’s not always clear until after the fact what kind of crazy one is looking at.
2. Jose is much angrier in America then he is in Africa. Jose won’t say that he is happier at home, per se, just less angry. In Uganda, if there is electricity in the wires, water in the pipes and no parasites in the intestines, it’s going to be a good day. But almost as soon as Jose got off the plane in Boston a few weeks ago, his ability to take solace in the flow of electrons dissipated. Here, you see, we have baseball. And baseball, it turns out, makes Jose an angry man.
Leigh Montville, as Jose recalls, once wrote that every day he looked at the front page of the paper to makes sure we weren’t at war and then went to the sports. Jose has a similar philosophy. Every day, Jose looks at the front page, discovers that we are at war, twice, gets angry, and then goes to the sports section, where if the Red Sox have lost, he gets really angry. If they’ve won, his mood is moderated, maybe he’s even happy, but if they’re lost… look out. Angry, angry, angry.
Sometimes Jose will even get angry about being angry, but that’s a negative feedback loop, bad things leading to bad things, which lead to more bad things. It’s kind of like a Nick Green at bat.
This is where Jose should preach about how in living in a poor country made him see things differently and not only appreciate the little things, but reject foolish passions like sports and celebrity. But here’s the thing: It didn’t. If anything it made him appreciate the need for escapism, the need to, from time to time, substitute the emotions of others for one’s own. Do you think that the villagers in Uganda are any less in need of escapism then we are? In Uganda, people pay what little money they have to sit on hard wooden benches in a sticky, airless room and watch a soccer match. Do you think even Red Sox fans would do that for a ballgame? Well, yes, they do it at Fenway 81 times a year, but do you think they’d do it to watch the game on TV? Well, not the pink hats anyway.
The point is that people, all people, want escapism. We want to live vicariously at least some of the time. All of the accoutrement of the modern sports fan, the fantasy sports the online betting, they are but catalysts, enzymes of the mind designed to accelerated and intensify the vicarious thrill. But to live vicariously is to live dangerously, to cede control of a tiny portion of one’s personal sovereignty to something over which one has no control. Jose may not have much control over the electricity in Uganda, but at least Jose can juice up while the power is on; Jose can prepare for darker days ahead. But as a Red Sox fan, Jose has no choice but to live with the consequences of the actions of others. And this powerlessness, is infuriating; it is intoxicating.
It is what makes Jose love being a Red Sox fan, and it is what makes him angry. But it is a good kind of anger, a pleasantly impotent rage, a substitute for staring at the madness of this world, at Darfur, Burma or Afghanistan and going daft from the righteous anger raised by man’s inhumanity to man. It does not deaden Jose’s concern, but it does deaden his pain, and enables him to think rationally about the needs and the horrors of the world. Jose gets angry at the Red Sox so he can think clearly about the war, so that anger, an irrational emotion, spends its time directed towards an irrational game while the logical focuses on all the trouble in the world.
3. Congratulations to Jon Lester, who last night set the Red Sox record for strikeouts by a lefty in a single season. While setting any record for a baseball franchise that has existed for more than 100 years is impressive, this one is special. Setting a left handed pitching record on a team that has had, among its stars, a pitcher actually named “Lefty” is extraordinary. Really, they don’t call someone “Lefty” because he’s only okay with his left hand.
Think about it this way. Jacoby Ellsbury setting the Red Sox single season steal record was impressive, but it would have been so much more impressive if Tommy Harper had been nicknamed “Two Legs” Harper. (Note: As Jose recalls, Ellis Burks’ nickname should have been “Three Legs” Burks.) Or what if David Ortiz had taken the single season home run record from a man named “Gigantic Freaking Biceps” Foxx. Hell imagine if Julio Yugo had set an errors record by beating out Edgar “Girlie Arm” Renteria. Yes, Jose knows that the previous record did not belong to Lefty Grove, but the argument still holds. If you set a record at anything and beat out a guy who is named for the critical body part in the record setting act, you’ve done something pretty special.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Showing posts with label Ellsbury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ellsbury. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 2
Monday, December 3
Is Santana Claus Coming to Town?
BUY THE 2007 KEYS BOOK—BECAUSE WHO KNOWS IF SANTANA IS COMING DOWN YOUR CHIMNEY
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.
1. You probably think that Jose has been taking it easy since the Red Sox won the World Series. And why wouldn’t you? He only wrote one entry in the entirety of November.
Yes, it’s true that Jose is looking to ease up on his workload this off-season after absolutely spending himself in the playoffs, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t staying actively involved in the hot stove season. For instance, Jose has been following the Johann Santana saga with enormous interest.
Jose thinks the Sox are playing the game brilliantly so far in offering a competitive package that will either win the star lefty or force the Yankees to overpay. Jose particularly likes the fact that with Jacoby Ellsbury now part of the deal, the Twins will have to include “another significant piece” in order to get Jon Lester as well. While most speculation has been that the piece would be either reliever Joe Nathan or his bullpen mate Pat Neshek, Jose believes that the media is way off on this one. The most likely extra piece appears to be former White Sox farm hand Norm Martel, who could combine with Santana to reform the legendary tag team Strikeforce. This would of course be followed by an ugly split and Martel starting a career as a male model.
However, the kink in this proposal is that if the Red Sox are prepared to call up Sanata’s previous tag team partner Charlie Zink (formerly Zenk) from the minors, Martel would be an unnecessary addition, as the Red Sox could look forward to having a new “Can-Am Connection” in the rotation.
But what if the Yankees do offer the better deal and manage to snag Santana? The Red Sox best bet then might be to acquire Winchester resident Brutus Beefcake and reunite him with his old tag team partner Bobby “The Hammer” Valentine in order to reform the “Dream Team.”
So don’t think that Jose hasn’t been thinking about the hot stove—he has. He just clearly hasn’t been thinking very hard about it.
2. Santana Claus Is Coming To Town
Jon Lester is out,
Jacoby’s now in,
His groupies will pout,
And we’ll lose Masterson,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
His changeup is great,
His fastball is nice,
We want him to pitch with Beckett and Dice,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
He comes from Venezuela,
Where Chavez reigns supreme,
But Johan will give Yanks more pain,
Than Hugo in his dreams.
Hank said he’d give up,
Both Melky and Hughes,
An offer that still, will probably lose,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
Santana Claus is coming to town.
3. Santana notwithstanding, there are lots of wonderful things going on this off-season. Perhaps most importantly Red Sox starter and KEYS BFF Curt Euro has endorsed Sen. John McCain for president and plans to campaign with the Arizona Senator. This comes shortly after the news that wrestling legend “Nature Boy” Ric Flair has endorsed former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee.
These bold moves have left other campaigns in a quandary. With elderly yet active professional athletes becoming political king makers in the Republican party, Jose’s sources have reported that competition has grown intense for the endorsement of Carolina Panthers Quarterback Vinny Testaverde and Boxing legend Evander Holyfield.
Meanwhile, former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney has been aggressively seeking the endorsement of Roger Clemens, citing their numerous similarities:
· They both purport to love Massachusetts yet have done everything possible to make its residents look like jackasses.
· They are both obsessed with earning every last dollar no matter who it hurts.
· They both have large numbers of robotic sons with weird names.
· They are both on Jose’s sh*t list.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.
1. You probably think that Jose has been taking it easy since the Red Sox won the World Series. And why wouldn’t you? He only wrote one entry in the entirety of November.
Yes, it’s true that Jose is looking to ease up on his workload this off-season after absolutely spending himself in the playoffs, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t staying actively involved in the hot stove season. For instance, Jose has been following the Johann Santana saga with enormous interest.
Jose thinks the Sox are playing the game brilliantly so far in offering a competitive package that will either win the star lefty or force the Yankees to overpay. Jose particularly likes the fact that with Jacoby Ellsbury now part of the deal, the Twins will have to include “another significant piece” in order to get Jon Lester as well. While most speculation has been that the piece would be either reliever Joe Nathan or his bullpen mate Pat Neshek, Jose believes that the media is way off on this one. The most likely extra piece appears to be former White Sox farm hand Norm Martel, who could combine with Santana to reform the legendary tag team Strikeforce. This would of course be followed by an ugly split and Martel starting a career as a male model.
However, the kink in this proposal is that if the Red Sox are prepared to call up Sanata’s previous tag team partner Charlie Zink (formerly Zenk) from the minors, Martel would be an unnecessary addition, as the Red Sox could look forward to having a new “Can-Am Connection” in the rotation.
But what if the Yankees do offer the better deal and manage to snag Santana? The Red Sox best bet then might be to acquire Winchester resident Brutus Beefcake and reunite him with his old tag team partner Bobby “The Hammer” Valentine in order to reform the “Dream Team.”
So don’t think that Jose hasn’t been thinking about the hot stove—he has. He just clearly hasn’t been thinking very hard about it.
2. Santana Claus Is Coming To Town
Jon Lester is out,
Jacoby’s now in,
His groupies will pout,
And we’ll lose Masterson,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
His changeup is great,
His fastball is nice,
We want him to pitch with Beckett and Dice,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
He comes from Venezuela,
Where Chavez reigns supreme,
But Johan will give Yanks more pain,
Than Hugo in his dreams.
Hank said he’d give up,
Both Melky and Hughes,
An offer that still, will probably lose,
Santana Claus is coming to town.
Santana Claus is coming to town.
3. Santana notwithstanding, there are lots of wonderful things going on this off-season. Perhaps most importantly Red Sox starter and KEYS BFF Curt Euro has endorsed Sen. John McCain for president and plans to campaign with the Arizona Senator. This comes shortly after the news that wrestling legend “Nature Boy” Ric Flair has endorsed former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee.
These bold moves have left other campaigns in a quandary. With elderly yet active professional athletes becoming political king makers in the Republican party, Jose’s sources have reported that competition has grown intense for the endorsement of Carolina Panthers Quarterback Vinny Testaverde and Boxing legend Evander Holyfield.
Meanwhile, former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney has been aggressively seeking the endorsement of Roger Clemens, citing their numerous similarities:
· They both purport to love Massachusetts yet have done everything possible to make its residents look like jackasses.
· They are both obsessed with earning every last dollar no matter who it hurts.
· They both have large numbers of robotic sons with weird names.
· They are both on Jose’s sh*t list.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.
Thursday, October 25
World Series Game 2: These Things Jose Believes
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
`. There are two ways to write after an epic drubbing like the 13-1 Red Sox victory we saw last night in Game 1 of the World Series.
The first is the preference of homers, boosters and the weak-willed sorts who are easily swept up in the emotion of a single, profoundly unscientific sample. These are the articles declaring the series all but over by reporters who frolic like pigs in the thick slop of the Red Sox’s brilliance and the Rockies’ languor
The other option is the bailiwick of cynics and contrarians, “haters” in the vernacular of the day. It is to write defiantly, perhaps even arrogantly that the series is decidedly not over, to speak gravely of the 1960 Yankees, or the 2004 Yankees both of whom folded after posting dominant wins. It is to warn with the crusty cynicism (note: or is it narcissism?), of someone who has been around for far too long the series is far from over, and that it may well end in calamity.
It is Jose’s intention to avoid either of these worn and wanting formulae, each as tired as the sitcom episode where the cast goes to Vegas, and blaze his own trail through the thick jungle of rhetoric that surrounds the World Series.
For Jose, the story is not about what happened last night or what will happen as the series progresses, but about what is happening right now. Tonight. St. Josh a Beckett is the only given in this series. He will pitch well; it is as close to certain as can be that the Red Sox will win games that he starts. But he is not pitching tonight.
What about tonight?
What about it?
Jose has his own dreadful cliché for this evening. Tonight is the classic battle of youth and power versus experience and control as fireballer Ubaldo Jimenez pitches against born again finesse pitcher Curt Euro.
Who will Ubaldo Jimenez be tonight? Will he be Bret Saberhagen in 1985 or Josh Beckett in 2003, stunning baseball with his haughty brilliance? Or will he be Jeff Francis last night, a young man clearly in over his head?
And what about Curt Euro? Will he be the grizzled 1991 Jack Morris, throwing World Series gems well into his dotage or the tired 1992 Jack Morris, getting shelled in the World Series where he had thrived so recently?
The answer is that we don’t know. We have no idea. We can speculate and prognosticate, ruminate and marinate, but we do not know. We cannot know.
And it is at times like these, times of great uncertainty, that people do well to retreat to the calming confines of those few things we do know to be true. For some it is a faith in God, for others a belief in the power of love and for others still it is the certainty that no hitter is looking curve on a 3-2 count.
Here is what Jose knows to be true.
Jose knows that the beer will be cold and his house will be warm. He knows that Tim McCarver will say many foolish things. He knows that someone in spoken or written word will rhyme Fox with Rox or Sox. He knows that Dustin Pedroia will swing big and swing hard. He knows that Jacoby Ellsbury will run fast. He knows that Colorado pitchers fear Manny and Papi.
He knows that regardless of whether his arm is ready, Curt Euro’s mind will be sending current across synapses and every electron will contain some little, critical piece of data about how to get batters out.
These things Jose does not believe. These things, he knows.
2. Fox News host Bill O’Reilly today announced his intention to organize a boycott of the 2007 World Series, on the grounds that it is part of what the fiery right winger calls “the War on Christmas.”
“This is disgraceful; this is absurd. This is a classic example of the fanatics on the cultural left trying to push their secular agenda on the county,” fumed O’Reilly without explaining what he was talking about.
“You want me to explain myself? Fine we’ll take it right into the no spin zone. Matt Holliday. That’s the problem. Why won’t the liberals and the secularists just call him Matt Christmas? You know why? Because they want to take religion out of American life. If using a baseball player’s name to commemorate the birth of Jesus Christ, even if his name has nothing to do with Jesus is banned by the secular left, then any tradition can come under attack, dropping the ball at New Year’s, singing the national anthem at baseball game, talking about what you’d like to do to female employees with a loofah, anything.”
O’Reilly went on to express his disgust that even on a highly Christian team such as the Rockies, players felt pressured by Major League Baseball to conceal symbols of their faith.
In bolstering his argument, O’Reilly pointed to Washington Nationals shortstop Cristian Guzman being forced to play under the name “Cristian. Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Zoroastrian, Buddhist, Shinto, Wiccan, Scientologist, Agnostic or Atheist Guzman, and the Nationals’ Jesus Colome being required to play under the name, Deity of Your Choice Colome.
Sane people were not available for comment.
3. Different people root for the Red Sox for different reasons it turns out. Some people, most people, root for them because they love the Red Sox. But that is not the only reason. Others, such as Rudy Giuliani, the renowned Yankee fan, has decided to root for the Red Sox in an effort to pick up a few more votes in New Hampshire. Still others root because of the possible unintended consequences of a Red Sox win. For instance, Jose’s friend Mark, a Japan scholar who travels frequently to Tokyo, is rooting for the Red Sox because he believes that a World Series Championship for Mr. Matsu could lead to a direct Boston to Narita flight.
This got Jose thinking: What other reasons might unconventional fans be pulling for the Old Towne Team?
· Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, Atheists: Rooting for the Red Sox because the defeat of aggressively Christian Colorado Rockies might prove there is no God.
· The Burmese Military Junta: Because when blood continues to flow crimson and ankle deep in the streets of Rangoon, they can claim it is just tribute to the Red hosiery of the World Champions. (Note: In all seriousness, screw those guys.)
· The Denver Broncos: If the Rockies go down, every one in Colorado will have to start paying attention again to awful Broncos team.
· Woody Paige Denver columnist: Already has a book written called “The Curse of Dante Bichette” which just takes Dan Shaughnessy’s curse book and substitutes Bichette for Ruth.
· Mork from Ork: Lives in Colorado, feels like Orser would be more interested in reaction of humans to losing, than winning.
See, there are lots of reasons to root for the Red Sox. For Jose it’s that they give meaning to an otherwise empty existence.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
`. There are two ways to write after an epic drubbing like the 13-1 Red Sox victory we saw last night in Game 1 of the World Series.
The first is the preference of homers, boosters and the weak-willed sorts who are easily swept up in the emotion of a single, profoundly unscientific sample. These are the articles declaring the series all but over by reporters who frolic like pigs in the thick slop of the Red Sox’s brilliance and the Rockies’ languor
The other option is the bailiwick of cynics and contrarians, “haters” in the vernacular of the day. It is to write defiantly, perhaps even arrogantly that the series is decidedly not over, to speak gravely of the 1960 Yankees, or the 2004 Yankees both of whom folded after posting dominant wins. It is to warn with the crusty cynicism (note: or is it narcissism?), of someone who has been around for far too long the series is far from over, and that it may well end in calamity.
It is Jose’s intention to avoid either of these worn and wanting formulae, each as tired as the sitcom episode where the cast goes to Vegas, and blaze his own trail through the thick jungle of rhetoric that surrounds the World Series.
For Jose, the story is not about what happened last night or what will happen as the series progresses, but about what is happening right now. Tonight. St. Josh a Beckett is the only given in this series. He will pitch well; it is as close to certain as can be that the Red Sox will win games that he starts. But he is not pitching tonight.
What about tonight?
What about it?
Jose has his own dreadful cliché for this evening. Tonight is the classic battle of youth and power versus experience and control as fireballer Ubaldo Jimenez pitches against born again finesse pitcher Curt Euro.
Who will Ubaldo Jimenez be tonight? Will he be Bret Saberhagen in 1985 or Josh Beckett in 2003, stunning baseball with his haughty brilliance? Or will he be Jeff Francis last night, a young man clearly in over his head?
And what about Curt Euro? Will he be the grizzled 1991 Jack Morris, throwing World Series gems well into his dotage or the tired 1992 Jack Morris, getting shelled in the World Series where he had thrived so recently?
The answer is that we don’t know. We have no idea. We can speculate and prognosticate, ruminate and marinate, but we do not know. We cannot know.
And it is at times like these, times of great uncertainty, that people do well to retreat to the calming confines of those few things we do know to be true. For some it is a faith in God, for others a belief in the power of love and for others still it is the certainty that no hitter is looking curve on a 3-2 count.
Here is what Jose knows to be true.
Jose knows that the beer will be cold and his house will be warm. He knows that Tim McCarver will say many foolish things. He knows that someone in spoken or written word will rhyme Fox with Rox or Sox. He knows that Dustin Pedroia will swing big and swing hard. He knows that Jacoby Ellsbury will run fast. He knows that Colorado pitchers fear Manny and Papi.
He knows that regardless of whether his arm is ready, Curt Euro’s mind will be sending current across synapses and every electron will contain some little, critical piece of data about how to get batters out.
These things Jose does not believe. These things, he knows.
2. Fox News host Bill O’Reilly today announced his intention to organize a boycott of the 2007 World Series, on the grounds that it is part of what the fiery right winger calls “the War on Christmas.”
“This is disgraceful; this is absurd. This is a classic example of the fanatics on the cultural left trying to push their secular agenda on the county,” fumed O’Reilly without explaining what he was talking about.
“You want me to explain myself? Fine we’ll take it right into the no spin zone. Matt Holliday. That’s the problem. Why won’t the liberals and the secularists just call him Matt Christmas? You know why? Because they want to take religion out of American life. If using a baseball player’s name to commemorate the birth of Jesus Christ, even if his name has nothing to do with Jesus is banned by the secular left, then any tradition can come under attack, dropping the ball at New Year’s, singing the national anthem at baseball game, talking about what you’d like to do to female employees with a loofah, anything.”
O’Reilly went on to express his disgust that even on a highly Christian team such as the Rockies, players felt pressured by Major League Baseball to conceal symbols of their faith.
In bolstering his argument, O’Reilly pointed to Washington Nationals shortstop Cristian Guzman being forced to play under the name “Cristian. Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Zoroastrian, Buddhist, Shinto, Wiccan, Scientologist, Agnostic or Atheist Guzman, and the Nationals’ Jesus Colome being required to play under the name, Deity of Your Choice Colome.
Sane people were not available for comment.
3. Different people root for the Red Sox for different reasons it turns out. Some people, most people, root for them because they love the Red Sox. But that is not the only reason. Others, such as Rudy Giuliani, the renowned Yankee fan, has decided to root for the Red Sox in an effort to pick up a few more votes in New Hampshire. Still others root because of the possible unintended consequences of a Red Sox win. For instance, Jose’s friend Mark, a Japan scholar who travels frequently to Tokyo, is rooting for the Red Sox because he believes that a World Series Championship for Mr. Matsu could lead to a direct Boston to Narita flight.
This got Jose thinking: What other reasons might unconventional fans be pulling for the Old Towne Team?
· Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, Atheists: Rooting for the Red Sox because the defeat of aggressively Christian Colorado Rockies might prove there is no God.
· The Burmese Military Junta: Because when blood continues to flow crimson and ankle deep in the streets of Rangoon, they can claim it is just tribute to the Red hosiery of the World Champions. (Note: In all seriousness, screw those guys.)
· The Denver Broncos: If the Rockies go down, every one in Colorado will have to start paying attention again to awful Broncos team.
· Woody Paige Denver columnist: Already has a book written called “The Curse of Dante Bichette” which just takes Dan Shaughnessy’s curse book and substitutes Bichette for Ruth.
· Mork from Ork: Lives in Colorado, feels like Orser would be more interested in reaction of humans to losing, than winning.
See, there are lots of reasons to root for the Red Sox. For Jose it’s that they give meaning to an otherwise empty existence.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Thursday, October 18
Like a Locker Room Speech by Marcel Marceau
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. It is quiet here. It is painfully, relentlessly quiet. Denuded of the cracks and cheers the air is empty of vibration. All that remains to tickle the tympanic membranes, are those other sounds, the sounds so subtle, so remote, that they do not even exist to a man who is free from anything but the most monastic solitude. The heart thumps its regular rhythm, a metronome, infinite and plodding. Beneath the percussion is the slow gargle of blood tickling arteries and veins on its journey through the French horn of the circulatory system. And then there is the buzz. Like the whir of fluorescent light or the flapping of a mosquito’s wings, the buzz annoys, high and harsh, even as it calms by providing evidence of one’s continued existence.
Jose heard these sounds described once in a radio story about a composer who wrote a piece of music consisting entirely of rests. The composer went deep into a subterranean isolation chamber to hear true silence, the silence that burns like acid in one’s ears, and there, alone, he heard these sounds.
But Jose needs no subterranean cavern, no layer of the Morlocks, to succumb to this bitter silence any more than he needs an orchestra at rest. To him, silence is nothing more than the absence of baseball. And on the treacherous Wednesday off day Jose was left to its cruel neglect, given a taste of what shall come should the Red Sox lose again to Cleveland.
Simon and Garfunkel were wrong; silence does not “like a cancer grow.” Silence is not some foreign growth crushing organs with sheer bulk. It is more insidious than that. Silence like a virus spreads. It infiltrates just a few cells at first, then turns those cells into breeding grounds for its minions of quiet and despair. With each off day, the silence of the off-season penetrates more deeply, overwhelms more perniciously until there is naught but void.
But Jose will not yield to the silence. He will not bow to the bitch goddess inevitability; the silence cannot yet come. He will not allow it.
Sometimes even those sworn to silence, those who’s very being is defined by the absence of sound, must break their vows, must deny their essence to stave off the abyss. In 1976, Marcel Marceau, a man more famous for silence than any other, uttered the lone word “non” in Mel Brooks’ “Silent Movie.” More recently, Darryl and Darryl, the silent woodsman in the television program Newhart, are, in the series finale, so infuriated by the grating chatter of their wives that they scream their first word in the series “QUIET!!!” And in comic books, even the Inhuman King, called Black Bolt, who dares not speak because his voice can level cities, will utter a word when the situation is so dire that the silence must be shattered.
Jose cannot fall back upon the shock of the spoken word to rend the silence. Jose is verbose, and a word spoken would have no impact among the hundreds of thousands he has written.
All Jose has to tear apart the shroud of void, is one word, one slender syllable, that can have the impact of the mime aloud, or the mute come to speak. The day is dark, the silence is encroaching and the time for action has come.
I predict the Red Sox will win tonight.
2. The epic poems were nice, perhaps they were even actually epic, but they haven’t brought the Red Sox any wins, so away with them.
Perhaps, as Granny Melendez often suggests and Jose’s brother Sam confirms, these KEYS have been simply too long to read. So to hell with the verses as long as Dustin Pedroia’s swing and as plodding as Doug Mirabelli. Those days are gone. Rather than offering you one grand epic, Jose will offer a few short distinct poems, some merry little couplets for Game 5.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Thank God we’re not starting D. Jonathan Dru.
Roses are red, dead ones are black,
Where is Millar? Let’s break out the Jack.
Marigold’s orange, lilies are white,
Why isn’t Ellsbury, playing in right?
Begonias are red, or their white or pink,
Seriously guys, you should start with a drink.
Grass it is green, bark it is brown,
You will come back, from three to one down.
Outfield is green, in, a burnt umber,
The bats will arise from their postseason slumber.
Poppies are red, they’re used to make smack,
It’s time for Pedroia to show us some sack.
Maples have leaves, in winter they’re bare,
Do you really think Manny just doesn’t care?
Pine trees have needles, oak trees have leaves
We need for our shortstop to pull up his sleeves.
Daises are red, when slathered in paint
Tonight young Josh Beckett will prove he’s a saint.
Hyacinth’s blue, except when it’s not,
Like back in ’04, let’s go drink a shot.
3. The Cleveland Indians’ Casey Blake was sharply critical of Manny Ramirez for celebrating by stretching his arms toward the sky after hitting a home run to pull the Red Sox within four runs in Game 4.
What a jackass. Does Casey Blake not recognize not only step 2, but also step 11 of the yoga movement the Sun Salutation? Or maybe he does recognize it and he just hates the sun. Does he know that the sun is where we get light and heat from? Does he know that plants need it for photosynthesis? It’s like, really, really important. And there he is just pissing all over the sun, like he’s so much better than it.
All, Manny does is give a friendly greeting to Ra or Apollo if you prefer, and Casey Blake gets all self-righteous.
Blake went on to say that Manny’s sun salutation was “so opposite of how I am.” So how is he exactly? Jose’s supposes that means that rather than offering a salutation to the sun, he would say so long to it after hitting a home run. Would he just say but and storm out the door? Would he sit down and have a long talk with the sun? Nah, he seems like the sort of guy who would send a text message to the sun. “SRY I CANT SEE U. KC.”
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. It is quiet here. It is painfully, relentlessly quiet. Denuded of the cracks and cheers the air is empty of vibration. All that remains to tickle the tympanic membranes, are those other sounds, the sounds so subtle, so remote, that they do not even exist to a man who is free from anything but the most monastic solitude. The heart thumps its regular rhythm, a metronome, infinite and plodding. Beneath the percussion is the slow gargle of blood tickling arteries and veins on its journey through the French horn of the circulatory system. And then there is the buzz. Like the whir of fluorescent light or the flapping of a mosquito’s wings, the buzz annoys, high and harsh, even as it calms by providing evidence of one’s continued existence.
Jose heard these sounds described once in a radio story about a composer who wrote a piece of music consisting entirely of rests. The composer went deep into a subterranean isolation chamber to hear true silence, the silence that burns like acid in one’s ears, and there, alone, he heard these sounds.
But Jose needs no subterranean cavern, no layer of the Morlocks, to succumb to this bitter silence any more than he needs an orchestra at rest. To him, silence is nothing more than the absence of baseball. And on the treacherous Wednesday off day Jose was left to its cruel neglect, given a taste of what shall come should the Red Sox lose again to Cleveland.
Simon and Garfunkel were wrong; silence does not “like a cancer grow.” Silence is not some foreign growth crushing organs with sheer bulk. It is more insidious than that. Silence like a virus spreads. It infiltrates just a few cells at first, then turns those cells into breeding grounds for its minions of quiet and despair. With each off day, the silence of the off-season penetrates more deeply, overwhelms more perniciously until there is naught but void.
But Jose will not yield to the silence. He will not bow to the bitch goddess inevitability; the silence cannot yet come. He will not allow it.
Sometimes even those sworn to silence, those who’s very being is defined by the absence of sound, must break their vows, must deny their essence to stave off the abyss. In 1976, Marcel Marceau, a man more famous for silence than any other, uttered the lone word “non” in Mel Brooks’ “Silent Movie.” More recently, Darryl and Darryl, the silent woodsman in the television program Newhart, are, in the series finale, so infuriated by the grating chatter of their wives that they scream their first word in the series “QUIET!!!” And in comic books, even the Inhuman King, called Black Bolt, who dares not speak because his voice can level cities, will utter a word when the situation is so dire that the silence must be shattered.
Jose cannot fall back upon the shock of the spoken word to rend the silence. Jose is verbose, and a word spoken would have no impact among the hundreds of thousands he has written.
All Jose has to tear apart the shroud of void, is one word, one slender syllable, that can have the impact of the mime aloud, or the mute come to speak. The day is dark, the silence is encroaching and the time for action has come.
I predict the Red Sox will win tonight.
2. The epic poems were nice, perhaps they were even actually epic, but they haven’t brought the Red Sox any wins, so away with them.
Perhaps, as Granny Melendez often suggests and Jose’s brother Sam confirms, these KEYS have been simply too long to read. So to hell with the verses as long as Dustin Pedroia’s swing and as plodding as Doug Mirabelli. Those days are gone. Rather than offering you one grand epic, Jose will offer a few short distinct poems, some merry little couplets for Game 5.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Thank God we’re not starting D. Jonathan Dru.
Roses are red, dead ones are black,
Where is Millar? Let’s break out the Jack.
Marigold’s orange, lilies are white,
Why isn’t Ellsbury, playing in right?
Begonias are red, or their white or pink,
Seriously guys, you should start with a drink.
Grass it is green, bark it is brown,
You will come back, from three to one down.
Outfield is green, in, a burnt umber,
The bats will arise from their postseason slumber.
Poppies are red, they’re used to make smack,
It’s time for Pedroia to show us some sack.
Maples have leaves, in winter they’re bare,
Do you really think Manny just doesn’t care?
Pine trees have needles, oak trees have leaves
We need for our shortstop to pull up his sleeves.
Daises are red, when slathered in paint
Tonight young Josh Beckett will prove he’s a saint.
Hyacinth’s blue, except when it’s not,
Like back in ’04, let’s go drink a shot.
3. The Cleveland Indians’ Casey Blake was sharply critical of Manny Ramirez for celebrating by stretching his arms toward the sky after hitting a home run to pull the Red Sox within four runs in Game 4.
What a jackass. Does Casey Blake not recognize not only step 2, but also step 11 of the yoga movement the Sun Salutation? Or maybe he does recognize it and he just hates the sun. Does he know that the sun is where we get light and heat from? Does he know that plants need it for photosynthesis? It’s like, really, really important. And there he is just pissing all over the sun, like he’s so much better than it.
All, Manny does is give a friendly greeting to Ra or Apollo if you prefer, and Casey Blake gets all self-righteous.
Blake went on to say that Manny’s sun salutation was “so opposite of how I am.” So how is he exactly? Jose’s supposes that means that rather than offering a salutation to the sun, he would say so long to it after hitting a home run. Would he just say but and storm out the door? Would he sit down and have a long talk with the sun? Nah, he seems like the sort of guy who would send a text message to the sun. “SRY I CANT SEE U. KC.”
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
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