Our Competitive Advantage

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

This seems like as good a time as any for Jose to point out the one small concern he has about this team: They may not be very good.

It’s an odd thing to say right now as the Sox stand with 91 wins, just one victory or Yankee loss away from clinching a playoff birth, but Jose really wonders. What exactly is this team’s competitive advantage? It’s certainly not the offense. Sure, the Sox have some guys at the middle of the lineup who can mash, but we also have a bottom of the lineup that includes a too old Varitek, a suddenly too young Lowrie and a too never very good Mark Kotsay-Hey Kid. (Note: Sarcasm.)

The relief pitching? It’s fine Jose supposes. Papelbon is still picking up saves for the most part, but somehow he seems a little unsteady. Like a drunk working the high iron, he never looks good but he always hangs on. Of course, when a guy on the high iron doesn’t hang on it’s messy. The same holds true for Paps. Oki’s been back on track and Masterson’s been good, but can they compare to the young guns in Tampa or the man from Anaheim who rendered Jose’s Bobby Thigpen card even more worthless? (Note: Jose traded a Lou Whitaker card for that Thigpen card the year Thigpen set the save record. In related news, did you know that Jose was once president of Lehman Brothers?) That leaves us with the starting pitching. This should be the strong point. Beckett, Lester and Dice. That’s a pretty good threesome. It’s like Garnett, Pierce and Allen, but without the foul stench of Connecticut. (Note: Just kidding, Jose is indifferent to Connecticut. By the way is Connect Four the official state game of Connecticut? It should be. And why is the second “C” in Connecticut silent? Jose bets it is for insurance reasons.) But how confident are you about Dice’s ability to not throw 150 pitches in the first three innings of a big game? And Beckett hasn’t looked like himself. And Lester? Jose is good with Lester. Lester is easily the best ventriloquist dummy of all time, well, after Franklin and Gabbo.

So maybe our competitive advantage is at manager. Tito is probably the best in the game right now. Jose thinks we should consider putting him in charge of the $700 billion bailout, since he’s already managed Manny Ramirez a.k.a. the $160 million bailout. The only problem is that his competition will be pretty good too. Scioscia has recovered nicely from his radiation poisoning in Springfield to emerge as a first rate skipper, Joe Maddon is a genius with his Tina Fey glasses and Ozzie Guillen… okay Ozzie’s sort of nuts.

So where does that leave us? It leaves us relying on Wally the Green Monster. Can you name the Tampa mascot or Chicago’s? The Angels have that monkey, but Jose has seen a bunch of monkeys up close in the last year, and they don’t seem so tough. As long as Korean tourists don’t give them any cookies, they’re generally not a problem. If Jose was going to take a bush animal for his mascot he would have gotten a hippo. Those things are scary. If the Angels had a hippo for a mascot, Jose would worry.

Anyway, Jose at least hopes that the mascot is our advantage or else he is going to be spending the next few weeks comparing and contrasting park organists and ushers in search of that one little advantage that will make the 2008 Sox special.

2. Jose has a new friend. He thinks we might be BFFs. His name is Justin… Justin Masterson. He will probably be the best man at Jose’s wedding. Okay Jose’s not engaged or anything, but at the very least, Justin will probably come over to watch WrestleMania.

It’s funny that Jose and Justin became friends so quickly. Jose usually takes time to build up friendships. Half of his friends are people he’s known since kindergarten. The other half are folks he’s known since college. The third half are people who are not great at math. Jose becomes friendly with people fast but he takes his time becoming friends. (Note: No he doesn’t.) But with Justin it was somehow different. The friendship was almost instantaneous. Jose invited Justin to become his friend, and Justin agreed.

It’s probably that they have so much in common. Justin’s favorite book is The Bible and Jose owns a Bible. It’s somewhere. Justin loves Jesus and Jose really likes Jesus. Justin likes to quote Virgil and Jose once saw Virgil with Ted DiBiase at the old Boston Garden. Justin is a right-handed pitcher and Jose often uses his right hand to pour from a pitcher. Justin loves Adam Sandler movies and Jose… well, there’s no link on that one.

The point is that we’re now excellent good friends, like Hamlet and Rosencrantz except without the Justin having Jose killed.

And now that we’re friends on Facebook, we will probably hang out a lot and get beers and jalapeño poppers. Unless, of course, Justin decides, based on this piece, that Jose is stalker… which he’s not. Seriously. Stalking seems like a lot of work and Jose just doesn’t have that kind of stick-to-itiveness.

If you’re worried, just ask Jose’s old BFF Curt Euro. He’ll tell you that Jose had almost nothing to do with his season and perhaps career ending injury. It was completely Euro’s fault for not tapping out of that hammerlock.

3. Jose is glad that DJ Dru got an epidural; Jose is not a big believer in this natural childbirth crap. But now that he’s done giving birth, can Dru please get back into the line up? Jose knows that maternity leave is normally three months and all, but that’s not really going to work this time. And the Kotsay-Hey kid will probably make an excellent wet nurse. (Note: Actually, he probably won’t, not if his mammary glands are anywhere near as dry as his bat.)

I’m Jose Melendez. and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Defamation of a Character

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Every day, it seems, a new Roger Clemens girlfriend is revealed. And each time, just as it appears that there could not possible be another, we hear of a new lady emerging as unexpected and slathered in make up as a clown from a VW Beetle.

This begs the question, who’s next? It can’t just be three, can it? There must be more. So in the hopes that Roger will sue him for defamation of character, leading to even further public humiliation for the Rocket Man, Jose, gives his list of women who have had affairs with Roger Clemens:

• Rue McClanahan: Remember her character on Golden Girls? She was a really slutty southern dame, which seems to put her right in Clemens’ wheelhouse. Also, if you balance her out with Mindy McCready, that gives him one appropriately-aged mistress.

• Margo Adams: Clemens and Wade Boggs were having simultaneous affairs with Adams. This resulted in an awkward instance wherein Adams got pregnant, and Clemens insisted it was a Boggs error, but Boggs countered that Clemens should not have “pitched inside.”

• Trot Nixon: No wait. He f*cks Roger Clemens, not the other way around.

• Suzyn Waldman: You heard the tape of her. What else could it have been?

• Mata Hari: Traitors run in packs.

• Kim Khardasian: With all of those Ks in her name, how could Roger resist.


2. In a bit of a surprise, Hideki Okajima blew a save last night, allowing an inherited runner to score in the eighth on a sacrifice fly following a double. He ended the inning with two strike outs.

Manager Terry Eurona’s decision to bring in Okajima after Manny of the Carmen had allowed a lead off single puzzled some fans. Jose agrees that departing from Okajima’s normal usage was an unwise move that led, at least indirectly, to the run.

There is no way Tito should have brought Okajima in until it was bases loaded no outs. How could Oki have been expected to perform with only one man on base?


3. While many major league teams might be encouraging players to back off from spring training shenanigans in light of the Clemens Affair, the Red Sox have refused to change anything.

“The one thing we don’t want to do is lose the intimacy of spring training,” said Red Sox Chief Operating Officer Mike Dee.

While Dee’s comments were reported by Nick Cafardo to be in response to a question about moving the spring training home to Sarasota, Sarasota is believed to be baseball slang for “sex with aspiring country musicians” just as “stick” means “bat” and “shooting beaver” means being a peeping tom.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Same (Expletive), Different Year

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. There is a tendency on these days of pomp and pageantry for self-important scribes to exaggerate the significance of human events. It is this inclination that leads inevitably to the endless march of picayune prose that marks any occasion of note. Even worse, it can lead to alliteration. From inaugurations, to opening days, to graduations, the spirit of the story is the same year after year and too often the words are as well.

Jose began to write this KEY last night with the declaration, thrice repeated “Thank God for baseball.” After getting stuck in a clumsy metaphor of desert and oasis, Jose turned to the opening day KEYS from last year in search of inspiration and there he found it.

“Thank God for Opening Day. "

It was a striking rebuke to his sense of himself as an original, as a one of a kind. Simply replacing a comparison between himself and a heroin addict with a vague reference to Battlestar Galactica (note: so say we all), was not enough to sooth his soul. The introduction would have to go and with it Jose’s smug certainty of his own cleverness. This has all happened before, it will all happen again. (Note: There’s the Battlestar reference. See what Jose is reduced to when there is no baseball on—James Edward Olmos. Not good.)

Now into his fifth year of writing, Jose is as much a hack as any beat writer or world-weary columnist. He is just as prone to tired gimmicks and weary metaphors.

And does the Red Sox historic trek to Japan provide relief? Only in the sense that Ken Ryan provided relief in 1995. Rather, the significance of the occasion simultaneously raises the stakes and opens new, trap doors of cliché and ponderousness.

The Red Sox are in Japan? Why not write about sushi? Or sumo? Or bowing? Or karaoke? Or sex with space octopi?

Why wouldn’t Jose suggest that it is curious that 156 years after Commodore Matthew Perry opened Japan, Japan is opening the American League. (Note: With the obligatory quip that opening Japan and staring in Friends makes the Commodore versatile indeed.)

Why wouldn’t Jose imply that the Oakland A’s may already be operating under Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution, which expressly bans going on offense?

Why wouldn’t Jose quip that the reason Bartolo Colon didn’t go on the trip is that he heard the country is run by The Diet?

Why indeed?

This is opening day of the baseball season. Today, the records are all 0-0. Today Kevin Cash is batting the same as David Ortiz. (Note: Check that, Kevin Cash actually starts the season batting -.162) Today, everyone is in first place. Today, everyone gets a fresh start. And that includes Jose. Maybe he’ll run out old stories and reuse obsolete nicknames because this is spring training and everything old is new again… except for Curt Euro… and Tim Wakefield…and Mike Lowell… and… well, Ellsbury’s new.

2. In the absence of baseball for the last few months, Jose has been paying attention to politics. On the one hand, this is a bad thing, because it turns out, Jose hates you. Your beliefs are wrong, your candidate’s tactics are vile and if your champion is elected (s)he will most likely destroy America, except for Florida, which even in the absence of 49 other states would still somehow get a massive federal bailout.

On the other hand, it is a good thing, because it has convinced Jose that there is a baseball related excuse for pretty much every gaff made on the campaign trail with the exception of Gerald Ford’s 1976 claim that Poland was not under Soviet domination. The only baseball-related explanation for that would be if he took a fastball in the ear sometime during the campaign.

Consider one recent example. When Dr. Samantha Power, an Obama foreign policy advisor got in hot water for calling Hilary Rodham Clinton “a monster,” she could have wriggled out of it if only she had invoked her Red Sox fandom. (Note: Jose is a big fan of Dr. Power’s work. However, her decision to call her book about genocide “A Problem From Hell” made it impossible, even callous for Jose to use the title for his book about managing the 1997 Red Sox bullpen. It would have been called “A Problem From Hell: The Red Sox in the Age of Slocumb and Trlicek”.)

If Jose had been doing crisis communications for the Obama campaign, he would have urged Dr. Power to recontextualize the statement rather than disavow it. Her statement should have been

When I called Senator Clinton a “monster” I did not mean that she is a terrible person who would stoop to any level to get elected, and I regret that she viewed it that way. As you know, I am a Red Sox fan, and thus view the term “monster” as a reference to Fenway Park’s famous left field wall. What I meant to communicate when I called Senator Clinton a “monster” is that she is far too green, looks more imposing than she actually is, is gradually being sold to corporate interests and is confusing to the Japanese.

Similarly, Jose is certain that former Congresswoman and Clinton advisor Geraldine Ferraro could have explained away her comment that Senator Obama is “lucky” to be black. All she needed to do was to clarify that Obama was “lucky” in the same sense that Jackie Robinson was “lucky” because his skin color won him the first baseman’s job on the 1947 Dodgers vastly more experienced Ed Stevens.

Of course, the analogy is not perfect, as Ed Stevens never claimed marriage to long time Dodgers first baseman Dolph Camili as his primary experience.

3. Kudos to the Boston Globe for rightly calling Terry Eurona the best manager in Red Sox history. After all of the garbage he taken from fans and press alike en route to two titles in four years, the commendation is well-deserved. As long as we’re heaping praise on the bald and the beautiful, Jose would also like to congratulate Tito on being a reincarnation of the Buddha.

Even putting the baldness, aside, it makes sense. When asked about how he was dealing with jet lag, Tito told the Boston Globe “I feel like [expletive] today, but I feel like [expletive] every day, so I'm fine. We're fine.”

Have you ever heard a more elegant explanation of noble truths one, three, four and possibly two?

One: Tito acknowledges that existence is suffering. “I feel like [expletive] today”

Two: Okay, this one is only implicit. Tito does not specifically state that his desire—his desire to not have been on a plane for 18 hours—is the cause of his suffering, but it is totally in the subtext.

Three: Tito extinguishes his suffering by no longer desiring not to suffer. “But I feel like [expletive] every day, so I'm fine.”

Four: Tito walks the middle path, desiring only to do his duty. “We're fine.”

This is heavy stuff. Now if only Jose could determine the religious significance of "I've seen [Youkilis] in the shower and, let me tell you, he's not the Greek God of anything." It probably has something to with Chinese rule in Tibet.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

World Series Game 3: Free and Hungry

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Has it really been three years?

Has it really been three years since Jose got down on his knees in a grimy East Cambridge saloon and begged for the minute to arrive?

Has it really been three years since the moon hung blood red in the sky guiding us to a new age like the Star of Bethlehem?

And in just three years can the miraculous become passé? Can the joy of redemption, in just three revolutions of the Earth, become something as ignoble as the arrogance of victory?

That is the charge against us now you know— that the Red Sox have gone in three short years from loveable losers humbled by tragic history to entitled bullies, supercilious and arrogant. Our enemies, both foreign and domestic, charge that we have lost our appreciation for the sacred, for the miraculous, and have descended into the profane assumption that our wealth is our guarantee of success and our virtue.

This would be the natural course of events, Jose supposes. Even the Virgin Mary, with three year old child must have eventually ceased to be amazed by strange monarchs showing up in the night with shiny baubles, with astronomical phenomena following her child around and with angels disturbing her sleep with announcements of this prophecy or that. She must have begun to feel entitled.

Surely, when talking to the other mothers she must have uttered, almost incredulously, “You mean your child never turns your breast milk into wine? Really? I just thought that was a part of motherhood.”

And the other mothers would whisper behind he back or in columns in the Jerusalem Globe, “That Mary used to be so nice when we all just thought she as barren, but now it’s like she expects her kid to multiply loaves and fishes. I honestly think she expects him to a be a king or messiah or something. So she had a miracle baby? Good for her. We were all hoping she’d be able to have one. But she doesn’t need to be all smug about it. I don’t see why she has to go to other births and ask ‘When are the kings showing up with the presents?’ Well, not everyone can be as special as your little Jesus, Mary. Dear God, she’s starting to get on my nerves. And you know what I heard? Just between you and me, I heard Joseph isn’t even the father.”

But that is not who we are three years on, it is not what we have become. Are our pilgrimages to foreign ballparks a sign of arrogance and vice? How is devotion a sin? If for us to go in droves to Colorado is a sin, then so too are Christian pilgrimages to the Holy Land, Muslims making the Hajj, or Jose, as a Jew, driving all the way to Rein’s Deli in Vernon, Connecticut just for some really excellent rugelach.

Our devotion is not a sin, our passion is not self-righteousness.

In the Grand Inquisitor, a story within the Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky tells the story of Christ appearing in the heart of the Inquisition and being brought before the Grand Inquisitor himself. The Inquisitor, in monologue, insists that Christ has it all wrong, that demanding people obey spiritual commandments without attending to their physical needs, bread, for instance, is impossible, that man cannot stand to be free and hungry.

As Red Sox fans, we defy this dark view of man. For generations, we Red Sox fans were free and hungry and it was our choice. We could have changed teams, resumed interest only when victory grew nigh or abandoned baseball altogether, but we did not. We chose, freely and without coercion, to back our team, though they left us hungry and hungry and hungry again. And then three years ago on a crisp October night they gave us bread. They gave it freely, not as a reward for loyalty, or a bribe for further devotion, and our acceptance did not change our passion, our loyalty, our fealty at all.

We continued to keep our faith in the Red Sox and to practice our fandom, our civic religion, just as before. Yes, our stomachs were full with the nourishing protein of victory, but that did not make our faith in our team, our devotion, any less virtuous, pure or sincere.

So onward Red Sox soldiers, eat the bread and drink the wine, for there will again be a time when we are both free and hungry, but that time is not today. Today our stomachs are full, but our faith in the Red Sox remains pure and good.

2. If the Red Sox win tonight, you might as well call Tito Edwin Moses the way he’s dominating Hurdles.

Actually, the funny thing is that with Tito completely and utterly outmanaging Clint Hurdle thus far, it seems eminently reasonable that he could beat him in the next 120 consecutive contests to match the great Olympian’s mark for mastery over the hurdles.


3.
Lynn, Lynn city of sin,
In World Series Games their pitchers don’t win.
Ask for water they give you a gin
And Josh Fogg is gonna take one on the chin.

Or perhaps you prefer a different rhyme.

Trot, trot to Denver,
Trot, trot from Lynn,
When you get to Game 3,
Junk balls don’t win.


That’s right the starting pitcher for the Colorado Rockies in tonight’s critical Game 3 contest is Lynn, Massachusetts native Josh Fogg. Fogg has had a, well, not awful year, putting up an ERA of just under five, but he has picked up two post-season wins thus far.

Still the question we must address is whether a guy from Lynn can actually win in the World Series. History says he can, but probably won’t. The most recent pitcher from Lynn to take a World Series mound was Ken Hill who went 0-1 for the Cleveland Indians while pitching 6.1 innings in two relief appearances in the 1995 World Series.

However, if you want to go back further, Irving Darius “Bump” Hadley went 2-1 for the Yankees with one start in each of the 1936, 1937 and 1939 Fall Classics. His career World Series ERA was however, 4.15 due to a disastrous 1937 start when he yielded 5 earned runs in just 1 1/3 innings.

So what does this tell us about tonight’s pitching matchup?

Well, if you contrast the performance of pitchers from Lynn with Japanese pitchers, it is no contest. Japanese pitchers have never yielded a single run, or even a hit, in World Series competition. But let’s look a bit deeper shall we and do a compare and contrast on Japan and Lynn.

Nationally prominent politicians
Japan: Tokugawa
Lynn: Lyndon LaRouche
Edge: Japan

Major industrial products
Japan: Cars, TVs
Lynn: Jet engines, Marshmallow fluff
Edge: Japan

Founders of religions
Japan: Asaharo Shoko, Aum Shinrikyo
Lynn: Mary Baker Eddy, Christian Science
Edge: Lynn

Feudal systems
Japan: Samurai
Lynn: Lynn city council
Edge: Japan

Lost territory
Japan: Kuril Islands
Lynn: Swampscott
Edge: Lynn

Greatest shame
Japan: World War II
Lynn: Stupid “city of sin” rhyme
Edge: Lynn

Best current Major League starter
Japan: Daisuke Matsuzaka
Lynn: Josh Fogg

And when you add up all the pluses and minuses, it’s really only that last one that matters. Edge: Japan.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

ALCS Game 7: The Ballad of East and West (brook)

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. The Ballad of East and West(brook) with apologies to Rudyard Kipling

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till DiceK meets Jake Westbrook and they both strive to defeat,
The other, East vs. Westbrook, and the Indians ‘gainst the Sox,
When these two men stand face to face, you’ll doubt that Cleveland Rocks.

The Dice man comes from far Japan, to Boston he was sent,
To ship a hefty sack of gold back to the Orient.
He came here just to be a man, just one of 25,
But now his shining golden arm’s what keep’s them all alive.

We know of epic battles that he has fought in his past,
Of innings one through seventeen he pitched from first to last,
And when 250 times he swiftly hurled the ball,
And led his school to victory, and made the whole East call,

His name as blessed miracle, as hero of Japan,
And from that moment Daisuke was more than just a man.
He blossomed as a symbol, like a star in yonder East,
And stood before the media as if to feed the beast.

And then he pitched for Seibu, was a Lion as it were,
But Japanese he still remained, and thus was quite demure.
He then pitched for his country, gainst the best from in The Show,
And won support from legends past like Sadaharu Oh.

He won the baseball classic that was played against the world,
And had himself named MVP, an honor that unfurled,
The eyes of men in Boston, in the Athens of the West,
Who thought this Matsuzaka was a man who they’d invest,

A fortune in, and buy the rights to bring him to their team,
And watch him rise up to the top like sweet and fatty cream.
They won the bid and brought the eastern hero to their park,
And signs in Japanese, showed up at Popeye’s after dark,

And restaurant reviews in Japanese were all the rage,
As merchants in the Fenway thought that this might help assuage,
The fears of hungry Easterners, who sought something to eat,
And happened by their restaurant while walking down the street.

This, DiceK pitched and often well, for our own Boston squad.
And yet, this eastern hero was not like unto a God.
He sometimes pitched like Pedro pulling strings from in his glove,
But other times, was just a rook, whom umpires gave no love,

The strike zone wasn’t big enough, the baseball not quite right,
And in the playoffs he has had some frustrating nights.
But now the hombre from the East will stride upon the mound
For seventh game, and hear the cheers that signal his renown.

And after he has pitched an inning, that goes one-two-three
He’ll walk away from yonder mound, and then he’ll surely see,
A man of West (brook) coming to the hill for Cleveland’s nine,
A man who’ll look towards heaven hoping he’ll receive a sign,

That in this clash of East and West, his culture can endure,
That he can pitch this evening without yielding a high score,
That fellowship that’s Christian can replace a tired arm,
And that his God, while he is pitching, can save him from harm.

But God, won’t intervene, he’ll find, in this ALCS,
Since God is great he’s got some bigger things he must address.
He doesn’t intervene to throw a strike or else a ball.
Upon his own two feet this man Jake will stand or fall.

He’ll look into his catcher’s eyes and pray his sinker sinks,
“For if it stays up in the zone, I’m surely doomed,” he thinks,
But just the fact that he had scored a win back in Game 3,
In no way guarantees that he again a hero be,

As Westbrook struggles with each pitch, Papi finds one he likes,
While over on the other side, DiceK throws naught but strikes.
And Westbrook gives up hits and hits and each run after run,
While DiceK’s getting bigger in the Land of Rising Sun.

With every pitch with every strike, with every single out,
The East is getting stronger while West (brook) is losing clout.
And in the land of Boston where the East collides with West,
There’s little doubt today concerning which one is the best.

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till DiceK meets Jakes Westbrook and they both strive to defeat
The other, East vs. Westbrook, and the Indians ‘gainst the Sox
When these two men stand face to face, you’ll doubt that Cleveland Rocks.

2. Game 7.

Game 7.

Game 7.

There’s something magic about the number 7 isn’t there? They could end series with Game 9, a fine and honorable baseball number. Hell, they used to end series at Game 9, and yet 7 is the number. Perhaps it’s the certain mysticism that goes along with it. There are seven wonders of the world, seven seas (note: except not really), seven is the most common roll on a pair of six sided die, and it’s the number of points on a sheriff’s star. It’s also Jose’s age when he first went to a Red Sox game.

But as much significance as that perfect prime number has for us Westerners, perhaps it has just a little more for the men of the East.

Bushido, the Japanese way of the warrior, has exactly seven principles. And while Jose is not much for ancient myths, or feudalism for that matter, Jose cannot help but believe, that if Daisuke can follow the seven virtues of Bushido tonight he cannot, he will not be defeated.

1. Gi: The right decision, taken with equanimity, the right attitude, the truth. When we must die, we must die. Rectitude.
• Choose your pitches wisely. Throw what must be thrown, and if is hit, so be it. Do not shy away from the fastball because Kenny Lofton gets lucky. Do not shy away from the curve because the ump is blind.

2. Yu: Bravery tinged with heroism.
• Trust in your breaking pitches. Have faith that even though they may not be hard or cruel, merely having the courage to throw to in the mid 80s to men of iron, is proof of bravery.

3. Jin: Universal love, benevolence toward mankind; compassion.
• Juniper flavored liquors are delicious and taste good with just a little vermouth, or if of lower quality, tonic water. Quaffed in large enough concentrations, this spirit leads to benevolence toward mankind. Or it makes one ornery. It depends. Anyway, when everyone else is doing shots of Jack, you know what to do,


4. Rei: Right action--a most essential quality, courtesy.
• When Kenny Lofton steps out of the box yet again. Bow humbly to him, bow deep and dignified. Then plant one in his ear.

5. Makoto: Utter sincerity; truthfulness.
• If you are out of gas, admit that you are out of gas. If Pedro had had more Makoto four years ago and told Grady to bleep himself history would be different.

ó. Melyo: Honor and glory.
• The glory is yours for the taking. Look at DJ Dru. All season, he struggled and strived, yet failed and flailed, and last night, with one magnificent swing all was forgotten and forgiven. You have performed well this season; you have pitched with honor, but the glory? The glory is yours to seize.

7. Chugo: Devotion, loyalty.

• Tito has been loyal to you, as he has been loyal to DJ Dru and Julio Lugo, and as he was loyal to Mark Bellhorn and Johnny Damon before them, and they have rewarded his loyalty with performance. Loyalty is, it must be, a two way street, reward Tito’s loyalty with your own.

Tonight, Daisuke Matsuzaka is a samurai. If he were a boxer or a wrestler, he would enter on a horse, clad in the venerable armor of old Japan. But he is not, he shall not enter from the bullpen on a sacred steed, but on his own two feet, protected by naught but the sacred B on his cap and a right arm more magnificent than Masamune’s steel.

And thus, I predict, humbly and in the first person, that the Red Sox will win.

3. Musical Interlude

Turning Japanese

I've got a pitcher his name is Dice,
We eat potatoes; he’s fueled by rice
I saw him staring at his locker—Here’s advice.

Oh mix your pitches, don’t just throw speed.
Don’t over nibble. Here’s what we need.
Five innings and a one run lead

I've got a pitcher, I've got a pitcher
He’s worth a hundred million out on the mound
I want a catcher to call for curveballs
So all the batters will hit balls on the ground.

We’ve got him pitching high and pitching low
and pitching fast and pitching a slow and

Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so

I've got a pitcher, I’ve got a pitcher
He threw a million pitches once in a game
I want Francona to use that pitcher, so he can get himself some U.S. acclaim.
You've got him throwing fastballs throwing curves
And throwing splitters, throwing slurves and

Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so

No hits, no walks, no runs, no bases
No balks, no bags no you, keep it inside the park
Everyone at bat is Mario Mendoza
Then we get to Papelbon the Closah
Everyone.

And DiceK’s Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so
Pitching Japanese
DiceK is pitching Japanese
I really think so

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

10/7/07--ALDS Game 3: Angles in the Outfield, Flies Over the Wall

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME

1.
God in His wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.
-Ogden Nash "The Fly"

Jose is pretty sure that we know the answer to that one now.

Friday was a big day for those of us who have ever wondered if every thing on our crazy little sphere has a purpose, if each and every act and creature no matter how seemingly random or unimportant is part of some grand design.

If Ogden Nash were still here today, Jose wonders if he wouldn’t add a bit more to his two perfect lines? Jose has noticed lots of hack writers getting rich writing “sequels” to books by other people, as if “Mr. Darcy Presents His Bride” wasn’t just Jane Austen fan fiction.

Ergo, Jose thought he should give it a g

The Fly II
By Jose Melendez, a sequel to The Fly by Ogden Nash
(Note: Name borrowed by the film “The Fly II: Like Father Like Son”

God in His wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.

But God’s work’s never out of sight
Not here on this Lake Erie night.

A fly descends and brings his brood
And Joba Chamberlain is screwed.

They bite his face and ears and neck
His pitches turn to wild drek.

He walks a batter, Wild Pitch!
“God damn these bleeping flies they itch!”

A sac to third, he’s wild again
And no one’s warming in the pen?

But if the flies cost him control
How come Carmona’s on a roll?

When he K’d A-Rod with a curve
Was not old Alex quite unnerved

By flies or was it simply that
October still destroys his bat?

While half a continent away
The Sox and Angels start to play.

And flies affect this outcome too,
But not the ones that gnaw and chew

The necks of pitchers thick and stout
Who cannot get a batter out.

The flies in Boston split the night
And shoot up past the tower light

Off rounded bat on 1-0 counts
These flies on to the Mass Pike bounce.

Drosophila Walkoffengame
Is this sort of fly’s Latin name.

It doesn’t bite it doesn’t sting
This fly is naught but towering.

Though one’s a bug and one’s a ball
Both kinds of flies can end it all.

In Erie nights and Boston sky
We know now why God made the fly.

The weird thing is that it seems fully possible that Ogden Nash would love this shoddy bastardization of his work. The man was an Orioles fan, so you at least know he would like the part about the Yankees choking.

2. Before moving on to a third key that will also deal with the Yankees succumbing to insects, Jose feels obliged to do some serious writing about the Red Sox to prove that he is not Yankee obsessed and does not take more joy from Yankee losses than Red Sox wins.

But rather than focusing on the simplest story line, Manny’s home run, which Jose has already addressed in verse, he’d like to focus on a few other story lines from the evening.

• Terry Eurona--Managing Legend: We all know Tito is a good manager in the regular season, maybe even an excellent manager, but in postseason, it is like he is an entirely different guy, as mere excellence elevates to mathematical perfection. It is as if the man is Toyota Corolla, solid and reliable but unspectacular, that suddenly gains the ability to go 220 mph when you need it to take someone to the hospital.

Not a big car person? Jose isn’t either, so let’s try a different one. Maybe Tito’s more like the Hulk. The Hulk, of course is actually puny Bruce Banner when there’s nothing on the line, but when the stakes are high and the adrenaline flows, he becomes the super strong Hulk. So that’s another cut at it.

You don’t like comics either? Great. Why are you reading the KEYS again? Fine, Jose is inclusive, but just one more analogy. Tito in the regular season is like a chess computer program. It plays well, very well, when set to expert, and will beat average or even good players most of the, but in the playoffs Tito becomes Deep Blue, the IBM chess computer that makes millions of calculations per second, thinks hundreds of moves ahead and can beat the best straight up.

• Hideki Okajima--Regularity: As satisfying as Paps’ performance was last night, it was Okajima’s performance that was the most satisfying. After all of his recent struggles, he appears to be back to the way he was.

To give you a sense of the magnitude of relief Jose feels from Oki’s performance think of it this way. Imagine you have a high fiber diet and it keeps everything running smoothly, like clockwork. You know what Jose’s talking about; he doesn’t need to get graphic. Then one day, things just aren’t happening. The next day they aren’t either. You keep trying to use the facilities; you sit and you wait and nothing happens. Then, after a few days, when you are starting to feel genuinely concerned that there is something seriously wrong with your innards, you decide to try one last time before going to the doctor. Suddenly everything goes as smoothly and cleanly as ever. Imagine how satisfying, what a relief that would be? That’s how satisfying, Okajima’s performance last night was.

• Julio Lugo and DJ Dru--To die unsung would really bring them down: Last night, the two most disappointing Red Sox of the year not named Piniero, Romero, Pena, Hinske, Gagne or Mirabelli, did exactly what they were supposed to. (Note: That list is totally unfair. Dru was way more disappointing than anyone except Gagne.) Dru drove in two in the first, and Lugo got a single in the ninth and advanced to second on a well-executed hit and run to set up Manny’s game winning homer. Everyone forgot about the two of them between Manny’s home run and Dru’s brother playing much better than him in the post season for Arizona, but not Jose.

Both of these guys were heroes last night and when they next come to Fenway how about actually yelling “Drrruuuuuuuu” rather than “booooo” for once and yelling “Luuuuuuggggooooo” instead of yelling “Yuuuuggggooo” like you do when you disrespectfully compare him to a Fiat’s poor Balkan cousin.

OK has Jose filled his quota for Sox talk? He has? Now back to the Joba bashing.

3. A couple of days ago, Jose received a press release from a PR drone for a major non-Popeye’s chicken franchise.

The open letter is below, with a few minor changes to avoid promoting a company that has not offered Jose any free chicken.

October 5, 2007

An open letter to Steve Bartman:

As you know, the chatter about black cats, billy goats and curses has returned to the Windy City.

But like you (knock on wood) we don’t believe in hexes. And we don’t play the blame game. In fact, we’d rather lick fingers than point them.

But just to be safe, on behalf of die-hard Cub fans everywhere, we’d like to make you an offer we hope is too good to refuse.

If you promise to watch your beloved team from the comfort of your own couch, [Not Popeye’s] will provide you with the “Ultimate Stay At Home Party Pack.” It’ll include a feast of the Colonel’s World Famous Chicken plus all the side items, and your very own Limited Edition 42" 3-Pixel-Plus High-Definition LCD TV.

Take us up on this offer and maybe the 07 playoffs will be remembered for a feast of fowl at your home, rather than a foul ball at Wrigley Field.

After going 99 years without a World Series title, we think this [Not Popeye’s] offer could potentially be Cubdom’s secret recipe for success. We look forward to hearing from you. Enjoy the playoffs and here’s hoping for some good luck in ‘07!

Sincerely,

[Some Rich Jerk]

President, [Not Popeye’s] Corporation

Jose finds this agitating. Who sits around and says “Hey let’s bribe some poor guy to further humiliate himself in order to sell chicken.” . One would hope that they would offer similar deals to Kyle Farnsworth and Alex Gonzales, who actually bear responsibility for the loss.

And you know what? Bartman is a classy guy and has donated all of the schwag given to him by various marketing jerks to support the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation out of love and respect for former Cub Ron Santo, a diabetes sufferer and one of the foundation’s major supporters. But he can’t give Fried Chicken to the Foundation can he? Kids with diabetes probably can’t even eat the probably sugar-laden chicken from Not Popeye’s.

And it’s not like it would keep the guy home anyway. If you want to keep Kevin Millar away from a game, sure, offer him chicken, if you want to keep Wade Boggs from a game, take away his chicken, but poor Steve Bartman? Please.

That said, as is often the case with marketing ideas, the problem may be more execution than concept. Except for the obvious criminality of offering bribes in an effort to change the outcome of a game, perhaps a different product offered to a player might be more effective.

Let Jose give you an example of a promotion that could influence the outcome of actual playoff games.

An Open Letter to Joba Chamberlain

As you know when summer turns into fall in Northern Ohio, the winds die down and swarms of flies descend upon Jacobs Field.

And like you, we don’t like getting bit by bugs. Thus, we at the SC Johnson Corporation were disappointed and embarrassed to see you slathering yourself in Deep Woods OFF insect repellent and still being swarmed by flies as you attempted to pitch.

Deep Woods OFF is a powerful insect repellent with 25% deet, and thus is highly effective, unlike that deet free nature crap. Our chemical engineers and entomologists met and concluded that the only way that many insects could have been attracted to you after using our product is if you smell like garbage.

Still, we want another chance to prove to you and the world that OFF is an effective product, so we would like to make you an enticing offer.

Should the series go to five games and you return to buggy Cleveland, we would like to dip you in a tank of 100% deet.

If you accept, we guarantee you will not have any problems with bugs, either because it successfully repels them or because rather than throwing wild pitches, you will be pitching wildly and unable to play, as excessive deet exposure is connected to between 14 and 46 cases of seizure according to the Environmental Protection Agency.

After going the entire agonizing century without a World Series, we think that this Deep Woods Offer could be the suck repellent the Yankees are looking for.

We’re hoping to hear from, and good luck at not catching West Nile Virus.

Sincerely,

Some Other Rich Jerk
SC Johnson Corporation

See, that’s a good promotion. It’s timely, not four years out of date, it helps someone who smells like feces, not just some poor sap who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it could actually affect a game.

(Note to SC Johnson: If you would like to use this letter, Jose bill’s at $175 an hour. It took him 37 hours to write it.)

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Enema of the Mind

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. This will be Jose’s last KEYS of the regular season. Jose doesn’t write on the weekends, out of respect for Jews, Christians and the labor movement, and he’s not going to start now, at least not without overtime. (Note: Though two times zero dollars is still, lamentably, zero dollars.) So Jose thought this might be a good time for him to put everything that’s been building up in him over the course of the season on the table, to purge his system, to perform a high colonic cleansing of the mind and the soul before the playoff run.

First things first, Jose cannot tell you how delighted he is to not be writing a eulogy for the 2007 season in this space. Writing eulogies is an art, to be sure, but it is a gutter art, like needlepoint. Fueled by sadness and the icy void of loss it is easy to write, so, so easy. After all, art flows almost mellifluously from tragedy. But to write when one is happy, to create out of joy rather than out of sorrow, that is the jackpot of artistic creation.

And throughout this season watching this team has been a source of happiness far more often than it has been a source of pain. True, Jose does not love this team like he loved the 2004 squad. There is no jovial Pedro or wisecracking Millar, and the team only has one Jew. But there are things to rejoice in as well. While the team got less Jewish, it got more Japanese. Ramiro Mendoza will not see any playoff innings. There is a zero percent chance of Dale Sveum getting Papi thrown out at the plate by 25 feet with no outs. Perhaps, if the season drags on to the brink of November, Jose will learn to truly love this team. Like a couple in an arranged marriage, Jose and this team may learn to love each other simply by being required to stay together far longer than they would if they’d met in the wilds of the bar scene.

But there are more things Jose needs to clear from his soul. He might have been wrong about wanting Papelbon to stay in the rotation. He might have been wrong about loving the DJ Dru signing. Jose may have been in error about thinking J.C. Romero would be a splendid fit. Out go the toxic ideas, the festering thoughts of the season leaving Jose free clean and at peace for the start of the post season.

And with his soul pure and his mind relieved of fallacies past Jose has room for new ideas. He has built the proverbial birdhouse in his soul and is waiting, just waiting for a chickadee of wisdom to move in. And he is now ready to accept truths that were once unacceptable, concepts that once would have been heresy. So as the season concludes and the post season commences, Jose offers you these few sweet thought of Zen.

• What is the sound of an Eric Gagne 1-2-3 inning?
• Coco Crisp is a funny name, but it is not nearly as funny as if Boog Powell and Sean Berry had a child and named him Boog Berry.
• Wily Mo Pena may have been as bad defensively as Pete Incaviglia, but he was much better looking.
• If Jessie Ventura was covering Red Sox games he would insist that Tito Eurona’s real name was Chico and he came from Tijuana just like he did with Tito Santana.
• Joba is a really stupid name.

These are pearls of wisdom. It is your choice whether you string them into a necklace, whether your rub your teeth over their smooth yet barely irregular surfaces to test for authenticity or whether you cast them before swine, which is apparently also a popular custom.

See you in the playoffs.

2. At the game last night, a couple of people sitting behind Jose were talking about the Red Sox bullpen cop, who they affectionately called Chief Wiggum, and commenting that he must have the best job in Boston.

“Think about it,” one of the fellows commented. “He gets to stand there watching every game and hanging out with the relievers and he probably gets what? $50 per hour? $70 per hour?”

Jose thought about it. He pondered whether this was indeed the dream job he had been looking for, easy, lucrative and fun. But then he realized something, something ghastly.

“You shouldn’t dismiss the difficulty of the job,” said Jose. “In fact, Jose is not sure that they pay him enough. The man has to sit there in the bullpen every night, with a revolver at his side, and he has to not shoot Eric Gagne. That’s hard work.”

3. Jose heard an interesting analogy on, of all places WEEI, yesterday. A caller suggested to Herald scribe Steve Buckley that perhaps Eric Gagne was a lot like Scott Williamson circa 2003. As you recall, Williamson struggled after being acquired by the Sox mid-season and yet settled into a nasty groove at playoff time.

So far Gagne has completed the first part of the challenge, struggling in the regular season. He also, like Williamson, has a history of grotesque arm problems. But will he start to look like Williamson in the post season? Who knows? But the first sign that he is truly Williamson-like will be if he develops the enormous cold sore, the festering lip ulcer that gave Williamson the strength for his playoff run.

Jose’s theory is that the cold sore was so painful that Williamson could no longer focus on the pain in his arm, thereby allowing him to cut loose for the first time all year. If Gagne is going to be successful, he needs that cold sore. But there are disturbing indicators. Jose cannot recall ever seeing a cold sore on Gagne, so if we want him to develop one in time for the playoffs he either needs to go make out with Scott Williamson or possibly perform certain sexual acts upon allegedly herpetic Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter.

Alternatively, Papelbon could just kick him in the nuts. That might work too.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Which Jared Diamond Book are the Red Sox?

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Grow up people!

Seriously, grow up.

“The Sox are collapsing,” you whine. “It’s 1978 all over again,” you complain. “It’s like they’ve surrendered,” you lament.

Wrong, wrong and wrong.

The Red Sox are not collapsing, they are not reliving history, they are not surrendering—they are retrenching. It’s totally different. Let’s put in this way, if the Red Sox were a book by noted geographer Jared Diamond they would not be Collapse. Rather, they would be Guns, Germs, and Steel. Their future will be determined by the strength of the big guns in the middle of the lineup, their ability to overcome injury and disease, and whether their will is strong like steel.

If it were a different year, it would be 1918 not, 1978. And if the Red Sox were a Cheap Trick song, they would be I Want You to Want Me, not Surrender.

For all of the complaining, for as disappointing as it would be to lose the division after holding a lead so large and so long, it does not matter. Not at all.

Ask even the most dimwitted of elite military theorists, and he will tell you that selecting the ground for one’s battle is a critical advantage. Do the Red Sox want to fight now on the mine riddled battlefield of the last week of September to secure a minor tactical advantage for the future—home field? Or do they want to dig their trenches atop the hills of October, conceal their artillery and martial their strength for the decisive battle to come?

Jose concedes that it has been painful to watch for the last week or so, that he has cursed the players, the manager and even the grounds crew. But for all of his rage, all of his angst, he knows that Tito is making the right decisions. He is healing his stars, he is setting his rotation, and he is testing his relievers. Tito may be many things, a manager with a slow hook, a man who cares too much for his players’ feelings, but one thing he is not is Pyrrhus at Asculum securing today’s victory at the cost of the grand campaign. No, perhaps these Red Sox will not win their Asculum, but rest assured, the borough of the Bronx, the Apulia of modernity, shall harshly, and inevitably fall.

2. Still, as the lead grows slimmer and slimmer, it is fair to ask: Who are these Red Sox? Clearly they are not the band of jovial idiots of 2004. But who are they?

The Red Sox are infantry beating a strategic retreat in order to gird for the battle to come.

The Red Sox are masters of jujitsu, little men standing firm against the charging behemoth, waiting until the last moment to step aside and use the behemoth’s strength against him.

The Red Sox are brokers, buying as the market crashes, picking up cheap assets while everyone else is selling.

The Red Sox are boxers taking punch after punch, secure that their chins will last longer than their opponents’ lungs.

The Red Sox are swordsmen, dueling left handed and preparing the switch to the right.

The Red Sox are cryptographers, allowing Coventry to burn such that the information from cracked codes may continue to flow for the greater good.

The Red Sox are roadrunners, allowing the coyote to indulge his insatiable hubris in preparation for his eventual humiliation.

The Red Sox are robots, making cold, rational calculation of maximum benefit, not feeling the emotion that drives men to weakness and folly.

The Red Sox are musicians, striking a stunning fortepiano before again building to a raging fortissimo.

The Red Sox are wrestlers, pretending to hobble such that their inevitable recovery will be all the sweeter.

The Red Sox are grifters, hiding their true identity to pull off the one big scam.

The Red Sox are surgeons, sacrificing the leg to save the body.

The Red Sox are cats, seemingly lazy and nonchalant, yet always scheming.

The Red Sox are all of these things. They are all of these and more. But what will define them, ultimately is what they are not. They are not losers, they are not chokers. You will see. Just wait until October.

3. A lot of you, okay one of you, have been wondering where Jose has been over the course of the last three days as the Sox began to crumble. The answer is he’s been busy.

He’s got stuff to do, important stuff. Fine, fine, it’s stuff to get ready for the playoff race, and just like Tito Eurona, he’s not going to get all anxious and fly off the handle because we might get the wildcard rather than the division. What Jose is focused on right now is healing up, resting up and getting prepared for the postseason.

You all remember 2005 don’t you. It was unclear, even on the last day of the season if the Red Sox were going to make the playoffs, so Jose had to keep throwing everything he could into KEYS right up until the final game.

As a result, when the playoffs started, Jose had to resort to the comedic equivalent of throwing Antipope Matt (In)Clement XV in Game 1— doing jokes about how Carl Everett doesn’t believe in dinosaurs. Jose was gassed, absolutely exhausted, and it showed. Jose doesn’t want this to happen again, so he’s been resting and restocking, trying to fight through the “dead brain” phenomenon that has hit him hard in recent weeks.

What has he done to rejuvenate in his time off? He’s had text messages on scores sent to him right up until the start of a wedding? He’s rambled and ambled from Holyoke to Pittsfield to New Bedford in search of renewal, you know basically all of the stuff Manny is doing to recover from his sore oblique.

And you know what? It’s paying off. It’s paying off big time. When the Red Sox get to the playoffs Jose is completely prepared for either the Angels or the Indians. Jose is prepared to parody either of C+C Music Factory’s hits, in the event that we draw Cleveland starter C+C Music Sabathia. Jose is equally prepared to joke about how Angles hurler Kelvim Escobar is so cold that he is at 0 on the temperature scale created by someone who’s last name is sort of close to Escobar’s first name. See? Degrees Kelvin jokes! Gold! You don’t even want to hear Jose’s Garrett Anderson material!

So don’t you worry. Manny will be healthy and rested. Youks will be “wrist strong” as Stephen Colbert would say, Okajima’s arm will be undead, zombie-like really, and Jose will be ready to go, fresh, rested and ready to kick some *ss.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Jose Fogets to Drop Off the Dry Cleaning

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Okay, today’s game means something now. Are you happy?

After being completely indifferent to the first two games of the series, Jose has now decided that this third game is actually important. Now mind you it isn’t really important or consequential, not in the sense that remembering to pay your taxes or not to drink drain cleaner is important— no matter what happens today the Red Sox are going to win the A.L East. Rather, it is important in the same way that remembering to take clothes to the dry cleaners is important. If the Red Sox win today, we will all have utter peace of mind, nothing to worry about and no distractions, whereas if they lose we will all metaphorically be a little anxious about what to wear tomorrow. Do those pants have a stain on them? Do we have an ironed shirt? That sort of thing. But regardless of the many small inconvenient details we will be forced to deal with, we still know with certainty that while dealing with the lack of fresh dry cleaning may be stressful and agitating, we will not be forced to show up to work naked.

2. According to the New York Post, Major League Disciplinarian Bob Watson (note: aka the MLB Vice Principal) came into the dugout last night to warn Sox manager Terry Eurona that wearing his trademark red pullover was a violation of the uniform code and that he should put on a jersey forthwith. Eurona firmly told Watson to leave the dugout during the game. The way Jose sees it there are a few separate problems here.


A. Tito wears the comfy red fleece because he is always cold due to circulation problems stemming from the blood thinners he takes to combat blood clots. If they don’t let him treat his condition, there’s got to be an Americans with Disabilities Act case in here somewhere.

B. Bob Watson’s past edicts on dress code have been questionable at best. Let’s look at the history:

• 923: Bob Watson invents the Burqa and demands that all women cover themselves under God’s law.
• 1542: A young Bob Watson introduces pants as the fashion standard for men. The world’s men will never be as comfortable again.
• 1776: Bob Watson insist that the British Army where lobster red uniforms to battle upstart colonists. “You want them to see that you’re coming,” he explained.
• 1952: Watson advises schizophrenics that tinfoil hats are the best way to keep the government out of their brains.
• 2003: Watson orders Demi Moore to wear bicycle shorts to the Oscars. “Dresses are for prostitutes and drag queens,” insisted the rotund fashionista.

C. If one looks at several pictures of Bob Watson, one starts to wonder if he is really the guy who should be issuing sartorial edicts. Paisley ties? In this day and age? And Jose sees some evidence here that the man doesn’t even tie his ties long enough.

Would you take fashion advice from this man?

Look, Jose is not saying that Bob Watson is a bad man. He is just saying that allowing him to rule fashion by fiat is like giving Julian Tavarez a television therapist program or making Grady Little the host of Jeopardy It’s just not something he has the skills for.


3. And now a little self-promotion. In the four years Jose has been writing this blog a fair number of really neat things have happened to him. He’s appeared on ESPN.com; he’s been insulted by Bill Simmons and he has even, inexplicably appeared in the acknowledgements of a book about the New York Times. But nothing tops what has happened this week.

In a column called “Cyberloafing” on the Web site of The PostStar, a reporter named Todd Kehoe wrote a nifty little review of KEYS that offered such splendid tidbits as

Tossing out historical references, political jokes and
sometimes raunchy humor, Melendez crafts his own story behind the story. In a discussion of the Red Sox’s recent poor form, with the Yankees looming right behind them, he invokes Tsar Lazar, Newtonian laws and George Santayana ... in two paragraphs.

Nice right?


But it’s not the kind words from a writer who, while clearly talented, Jose has never heard of, that excite him. Rather, it is the fact that this appeared on the Web site in Glens Falls, New York, which means that it is possible, just possible that the greatest citizen of Glens Falls in history might have read the review. No, Jose is not speaking of former Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes nor hockey commentator Barry Melrose, nor even that b*tch Rachel Ray. No, Jose’s heart is aflutter at the possibility, just the possibility, that the great “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan might have read the review.

For those of you who are ignorant, “Hacksaw” Duggan is a wrestling legend known for hitting people with a 2X4 and yelling “Hooooooooooooooo.” Yes, he is as great a man as he sounds like. And Jose is honored by the chance, however slim that Duggan has taken even one moment from his brilliant life to read about Jose. This is, of course, assuming he can read.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Hot Sox on Sox Action

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Sometimes it’s good to get back to your roots. It’s not so much that it’s good to reconnect old names with old faces, or stroll down memory lane, or wallow in the cheap high of nostalgia; it’s just that sometimes it’s good to get down in the mire in which you were conceived so you can see exactly how far you’ve risen above it. Looking down from the treetops, where one spends days swinging from branch to branch, is no match for actually descending from the safety of the canopy and wiggling one’s toes in the primordial ooze.

This wiggling of toes in ooze is what Jose is doing today. On this good day, as Virgo arises from the still warm embers of Leo, Jose has returned to the bosom of the Sons of Sam Horn (SoSH) Game Thread where he was born and grew and came of age.

A few of you who read KEYS on blogspot, perhaps even more, do not know about SoSH Game Threads. Bless you. It is like being blissfully unaware of war or robbery or pain. But blissful though ignorance may be, it is transient, jerking roughly into the sharp steel of knowledge. And this KEY shall be that blade.

Each game day on the SoSH board, an internet misfit starts an electronic thread dedicated to chronicling, in real time, the events of the day’s game. Since this tradition began, thousands of posts, millions of words, have been devoted to the travails of our Red Sox, and 90 percent of them are things like “score” or “f*cking Tito.”

As in so many otherwise meaningless pursuits, complex codes of conduct have emerged to imbue significance to what is fundamentally a squandering of God’s gift of life.

• A game thread may not be started until midnight of game day in Eastern Time.
• A new game thread may not be started until the old game is complete.
• The same poster begins a thread for each game until the Red Sox lose.
• No matter what he does, a poster named “SexyBanana” is not allowed to start game thread—ever.
• All of these rules are periodically invalid when anarchy seems like a good idea.
• If Curt Euro wants to get drunk and start game threads where he talks about the size of his teammates’ testicles, that is fine.
  
  

Once the rules are observed a game thread follows a basic format until the game begins.

A. The thread starter posts about how there will be a big winning streak because he is starting the thread.
B. SoSHers desperately search for and post stupid pictures that some how connect to the thread starter’s handle.
C. Borderline pornography gets posted.
D. Pictures that mock the opposing team (note: dead oriole, dead blue jay, dead… athletic) are posted.
E. More borderline pornography.
F. Jose posts KEYS.
G. Still more borderline pornography.
H. Inside joke from SoSH’s elusive Pinsetting and Gutterballs forum.
I. MoVaughn’sTruck posts Red Sox game notes.
J. Lineups are posted.
K. Lineups are complained about.
L. More borderline pornography
M. First pitch.

After the game begins, the thread varies a bit more, as one would expect, depending on whether the Sox are winning or losing, but much of the basic storyline is consistent. So let’s assume it’s a home game and walk through the sequence.

A. Sox take the field
B. Complaint that the Sox pitcher looks bad.
C. Retort that Sox pitcher looks good.
D. Much cursing
E. Demand that the offense start hitting
F. Complaint about whoever is hitting second.
G. Come on Papi
H. Yankees update.
I. 15 posts about how worthless DJ Dru is.
J. Server crashes
K. Server comes back in the fourth inning.

This continues more or less for six or seven innings until the game nears its conclusion. If the Sox are getting killed, the number of posts per minute declines precipitously. If not, the server continues to crash periodically. Let’s pick up the sequence in the late innings.

A. Complaint about the starter being left in to long.
B. Complaint about starter being taken out to soon.
C. Gnashing of teeth about who is warming up.
D. Question of why Papelbon isn’t being brought in in this “high leverage 7th inning situation”
E. Cursing at Mike Timlin.
F. Apology and explanation of how poster has always loved Mike Timlin.

Eventually, for better or for worse, the game ends, but with decidedly different paths depending on whether it was a win or a loss. For a loss the sequence is:

A. We can still come back, only two outs.
B. Come on, come on.
C. F*ck you whoever made the last out.
D. Complaint about how this is a terrible loss
E. Yankees update.
F. Calls for players to be traded/manager fired.
G. Complaint that the sky is falling.
H. Riposte that everything is fine.
I. More complaining until midnight
J. At midnight a new poster start’s the next day’s thread.

Of course, if they win the path is quite different.

A. Water.
B. Pictures of polluted bodies of water are posted.
C. Poster kevlog posts pictures of fireworks.
D. More pictures of untreated sewage pop up.
E. Yankees update
F. Insistence that this was a huge win.
G. Agreement.
H. Predictions that this will start a long winning streak.
I. Agreement
J. Someone talks about how drunk they are.
K. Agreement.
L. The poster who started the day’s game thread starts the next day’s after midnight, usually congratulating themselves for the victory.

2. The reason Jose has gone through the tedious exercise of explaining this is that today, for the first time since 2004, Jose is starting a game thread. These game threads are where KEYS began, where Jose found his voice. He original started KEYS in May 2004 in the SoSH game threads after his first SoSH bash at Copperfield's and then Fenway. Back then, Jose was just trying to find a way to distinguish himself as a poster without the burden of having to become insightful. Thus he started a quippy little daily posting in three parts. It was crap, but you’d know that if you’d bought the 2004 KEYS Book. (Note: Happy ending guaranteed.) It was only a couple hundred words back then, and it was in the first person. Jose must have been crazy. Who talks in the first person?

But within a few weeks, Jose had switched to his popular third person, after noticing how everything Ricky Henderson said was funny because it was in the third person, and those 200 word postings began to swell to 600, 800 1,200 words.

Eventually, Jose built http://keystothegame.blogspot.com to house his KEYS, to give him a year round home, but he never stopped posting in the game threads. Sure he started posting only two KEYS in the threads as part of his ruthless campaign of self-promotion. (Note: That reminds Jose, he is pretty sure that if someone buys a KEYS thong each day Jose is starting a game thread, it will keep the Sox winning. It’s in the Bhagavad Gita.) But today, Jose has returned to his roots, posting not one, not two, but all three KEYS in the SoSH game thread, as he tries to defy Thomas Wolfe’s painful cliché that you can’t go home again.

3. But enough of the narcissistic introspection. That’s not what KEYS is about. KEYS is about cold hard analysis of the games themselves, about providing insights that you will not get anywhere else. Thus Jose offers the following reasons why the Red Sox will win tonight:

• Passed balls by A.J. Pierzynski. The game is at what former Bruins goalie Reggie Lemelin would call “U.S. Cellaller: Field, and we all know that U.S. Cellular has terrible reception.
• The White Sox have a guy named Danks starting, which almost certainly means, which almost certainly means the first pitchers out of the pen will be Dark and Dreary, and those guys aren’t even on the Major League roster right now.
• St. Josh a Beckett is pitching tonight and the White Sox do not have a single player named Fitzurse, de Moreville, de Tracy, or le Breton. (Note: Look it up. You know you want to.)
• The White Sox have a guy named Boone on the roster. He is useless, because, as any Lost fan knows, Boone died in 2004. Also he had sex with his step sister.

See that’s the kind of penetrating insight you only get at KEYS. The factors are all stacked up in favor of the Red Sox. Sure, Danks is a rookie lefty, which makes him Sandy Koufax against this Red Sox line up, but what would you rather rely on for your game predictions, solid historical evidence, or about players’ names? If you’re reading KEYS, you know that how one’s name relates to a saint who’s been dead for 800 years is far more relevant that one’s ERA+, ERA- or ERA*. ERA/ may be more important, but only barely.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Tuck(ered) Out

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Thanks to the new warrantless wiretapping law, Jose, with his Bush Administration connections, was able to tap the bullpen phone two nights ago and listen to the conversation between Manager Terry Eurona and bullpen coach Gary Tuck. See if you can spot the terror threat in the following exchange.

Tuck: (In a falsetto) Hello, bullpen, how may I direct your call.

Tito: God damn it Tuck, I know it’s you, will you stop doing that.

Tuck: Mr. Tuck has stepped away from his desk for a moment. If it is I can try to find him.

Tito: We need to get a pitcher warming.

Tuck: One moment, let me put you on hold while I look (starts humming The Girl from Ipanema.) Thank you for your patience I’ll transfer you now.

(beep)

Voice Mail: Hi you’ve reached Kyle Snyder’s line, I’ve stepped away for a moment but if you leave a message, I’ll return your call as soon as possible.

(Tito slams the phone down in aggravation, then picks it up again)

Tuck: (In a falsetto) Hello, bullpen, how may I direct your call.

Tito: TUCK!

Tuck: One moment please… (then in a normal voice) Hello, Tuck here.

Tito: What the hell are you doing Tuck?

Tuck: Sorry about the new girl, she’s just figuring out the phones. We shouldn’t have sent down Lopez, he could really work a switchboard. Great phone voice too.

Tito: Curt’s hurting here, we need to get someone up.

Tuck: Sure. We’re a little backed up this inning. So let’s look at the schedule. Can you be available between the 8th and 9th? I should be able to send a reliever out somewhere in that window.

Tito: You’re the bullpen coach. Get someone up NOW!

Tuck: Sir, yelling isn’t going to help. I have a lot of other customers ahead of you in line.

Tito: NO YOU DON’T I’M THE ONLY PERSON YOU WORK FOR.

Tuck: I see… Okay, what’s your order.

Tito: We’re only down one, get up Gagne.

Tuck: I’m sorry, Gagne’s not available right now. I could get him to you tomorrow.

Tito: Then Okajima.

Tuck: You could do that, but let me tell you from experience, that’s not what you want to do here. Yeah, he’s high quality, but it’s not the right fit.

Tito: Papelbon then?

Tuck: I can put Papelbon on back order and have him to you by the ninth. Would that work, maybe the eighth if we really push it. But the 7th? No way, can’t be done.

Tito: (sighs) I can’t leave Curt in. If I do, the lead is going to blow up in a hurry. What can you get me now?

Tuck: I can get you Julian Tavarez. He’s not fancy, but solid, workmanlike, should do the job, and I can get him to you fast. Either that or Kyle Snyder.

Tito: Snyder’s not there, I got his voicemail.

Tuck: Then let’s go with Tavarez, I’ll get him loose, and you’ll have him in no time.

Tito: Great.

Tuck: Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Tito: Uh no… I guess I’m good.

Tuck: Then thank you for using Bullpen Express for all of your relief needs.

Tito: You’re fired.

Did you spot the terror threat? It’s subtle, but Tito threatened to “blow up” things if he did not get his way. Thank God we have a transcript

2. In all of the hullabaloo about whether Barry Bonds did or did not use steroids on his march to 756 (note: he did), there are equally important issues that have gone completely unaddressed. Not he least of these is the critical question of why Barry Bonds hates America.

This is the nation of his birth, the nation that gave him opportunity and made him a wealthy man, and how does he repay us? His spits on us (note: metaphorically).

For much of his march towards Aaron’s record and last night when he left it splintered like so many slivers of ash after a Papelbon fastball, Bonds was using… get ready… a Canadian bat.

That’s right. Rather than supporting the U.S. economy and creating American jobs, he exports and outsources, bat construction to foreigners, who care not for us and our way of life, foreigners whose customs and tongue, who’s creed and dress are perplexing to the average American who has cheered Bonds through his career.

Rather than taking his pick from the white ash forests of Maine, he betrays us, selecting harder wood from the Canadian Maple or as Jose calls it “the treachery tree.”

And do you know what they are doing to the north? They are laughing at us! They are laughing! Jose has not done any checking, but he has no doubt that the Canadians are jubilantly talking about how “American slugger Barry Bonds with his Canadian made bat broke the home run record.” This is what they do, these Canadians. David Rakoff, a Canadian writer, win an appearance on This American Life claimed that the space shuttle, our space shuttle, is referred to in Canada as the American Space Shuttle with its Canadian arm,” as its mechanical arm is of Canadian stock.

This is no different. Like NASA, Bonds has allowed himself to be a tool of the pernicious, pervasive and unrelenting Canadian cultural imperialism that is slowly, slowly eating away at the fabric of American life like so many beetles chomping on the white ash of New York state.

For shame.

3. In a final note on the Bonds saga, his 756th home run came off Washington’s Mike Bacsik, whose father once faced Hank Aaron when Aaron was looking, unsuccessfully for his 756th home run. Whatever you think of him, you’ve got to give Bonds credit. Hitting a home run off of a giant snake who’s look can kill you has got to be tricky.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

The Ultimate Souvenier

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME

It started with a phone call.

“Mr. Melendez,” the voice reported, soft, sultry. “Three days hence you will receive a package, sent to your abode by U.S. Post, and what is inside will reshape your world.”

“What? Who is this? What to you mean?” Jose was perplexed.

“You will soon be receiving… the ultimate souvenir.” It sounded threatening.

“How did you get this number? How do you know Jose’s address? And wait? A souvenir? Sweet.”

“Those questions are unimportant,” the voice continued. “Know only that I am an… admirer of your work. Though I must confess, I do take… exception… to some of your quips about players… shall we say… intimate infirmities.”

“What are you talking about? Jose has nothing but respect for the sexually dysfunctional.”

“No not the dysfunctional per se. It will all become clearer when you receive your present… Mike Lowell’s cancerous left testicle.” The word testicle hung in the air like a Kei Igawa curveball.

“You can’t be serious? Are you insane?” Jose’s collar seemed to be tightening. He knew it was unlikely. Will the Postal Service even deliver testicles?

“It only cost three dollars on E-Bay, but it is three dollars very well spent.”

“Do not send Jose Mike Lowell’s nut, or John Kruk’s nut, or anyone’s nut. Do you understand? Do you hear Jose? Do you--” Click. Dial tone.

Jose was left with nothing to do but wait. And wonder. And worry.

The package arrived on a Tuesday, as promised, a stark cube of USPS red, white and blue.

Gingerly, Jose took it into his kitchen and applied his car key firmly to the packing tape preserving the form. POP! The tape snapped, under the jagged metal and parted. Carefully, so carefully, Jose separated the folds of cardboard that masked secret and found…

Styrofoam peanuts.

Delicately he unpacked, removing each peanut in turn until a layer of newspaper was revealed. A round layer. Dear God, maybe it was Mike Lowell’s testicle. The newspaper gave way to a pocket of bubble wrap concealing a solid orb, plastic casing perhaps? Jose peeled back the bubble wrap to reveal… A baseball? MacGregor. Was it some sort of sick joke? A ball inside the ball?

Jose examined the item, trying to identify the mechanism that would open it to reveal what this final layer of packaging hid. He turned the horsehide slowly, meticulously in his fingers until he saw it.

The lines were smooth and fluid, dark and familiar. Jose blinked. He blinked again, unsure of whether he could actually be seeing what he thought he saw.
“J” flowed into “O” flowed into “S” flowed into “E.” By the time he saw the “M” beginning the next word he knew it. “Jose Melendez #19.”

No, rather than being some medical anomaly, the voice had sent him a genuine Jose Melendez autographed baseball.

Jose was elated. His heart beat a little faster, his breathing grew shallower. The ultimate souvenir indeed! This was far better than Mike Lowell’s testicle,

And then he noticed something. This signature? It was not his own. Who then would be signing baseballs Jose Melendez? A con man? A rogue? Or was it possible, just possible, that Jose himself was not the real Jose Melendez?

The voice had spoken truth. Jose’s world was being reshaped and his reality was becoming unhinged.

As the Yankee season gets more and more fun… err pathetic... the New York Post, it seems, has decided to take its pound of flesh from the least incompetent player on the team, Alex Rodriguez.

The Post reported this morning that Alex Rodriguez was seen in Toronto taking a woman who was not his wife to a strip bar and later his hotel room. In similarly astonishing news, the Post also reported that the Jason Giambi has used performance enhancing drugs, Roger Clemens is an egomaniac, Johnny Damon loves big fake boobs and the sun rises in the East.

But as obvious as it seems, Jose thinks we should give Alex Rodriguez the benefit of the doubt. There are plenty of other perfectly reasonable explanations for A-Rod’s dalliance with this mystery blonde.

Here’s Jose’s theory. Alex Rodriguez, who famously wanted to check out Harvard when he visited Boston during the 2003/2004 trade talks, has been taking advantage of the nine games a year in Toronto to work on a degree in sociology at the prestigious University of Toronto, Canada’s finest university. He goes to school in Canada rather than the U.S. because most Torontonians don’t recognize him because he’s not on the Leafs’ checking line. Rodriguez, is probably doing that classic undergraduate term paper on the lives and motivations of exotic dancers, and thus was at this adult entertainment venue for research purposes with his partner in what is surely a group project. Afterwards, since Rodriguez is so seldom in Toronto, they had to go to his hotel room to actually write the darn paper.

Doesn’t that make just a little more sense than the idea that one of our great athletes, and a family man, is an adulterer? If you use Jose’s favorite analytical tool, Ockham’s Razor, which dictates that the simplest explanation is most likely the accurate one, there’s really no other way to go, is there?

3. The Globe today reported that Terry Eurona has declared himself the best cribbage player in the Red Sox locker room. Unreported was the fact that Eurona’s cribbage superiority complex may have been the true cause of the A-Rod deal’s collapse back in 2004. Apparently, Tito was intimated by A-Rod’s skill, reported in today’s New York Post, at getting pegs into holes.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Men of Cruelty

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. Terry Eurona won his 300th game as Red Sox manager last night, and Jose is genuinely happy for him, and, in a real way, happy for America.

We live in an age where cruelty is rewarded, not only rewarded but revered. In a time when Bill Parcells is lionized for his efficient, professional meanness, when CEOs are praised to the hilt for the callousness of their layoffs, when “you’re fired” is a beloved catch phrase more than a statement of lives and families destroyed, it is refreshing to see one of the genuinely good people have such success.

Despite the constant clamoring among this fan base, among every fan base for men of cruelty, for old school Dick Williams, Bill Fitch, Bobby Knight types who will bludgeon and brutalize spoiled, athletes into humble submission, these men are wrong for this day and age. And Jose is glad. It is a sign of progress, when personal viciousness is no longer a virtue.

And thus, Tito Eurona, surprisingly enough, is a man of today, a modern man and a modern manager. When Tito took this job, he said something to the effect of “I’m a nice guy, and I don’t want this job if it means I have to stop being nice.” It was a good sound bite, it was a sign of decency, but what one didn’t know was that it was a management manifesto, and a sound manifesto at that.

Be nice.

Pretty simple, pretty good. Don’t be a push over, but don’t be a d*ck. Air grievances privately, rather than on the back page of the Herald. Treat players fairly. Only criticize constructively. Do not tear people down.

Tito has not only won, he has not only been nice, but he has won by being nice. And he’s done it 300 times.

2. Last Thursday, Jose attended the battle of Japan with one of Jose’s People, Empyreal Environs, who has somehow, in the just the last 10 years, reached the level of delusion required to write about every single Red sox game (Note: The correct amount of time for it to take is 27 years.). Think about this. She arrived in Boston at the height of the Steve Avery era, and yet still chose, CHOSE, to descend into the madness.

While the conversation throughout the evening was scintillating, as one might expect from a meeting of Boston’s two premiere Japanese American baseball minds, one subject of conversation stood out as particularly exceptional—when is it okay for a Red Sox fan to accept a Yankee autographed ball?

The impetus for this particular discussion was Empyreal’s story of the difficult choice a friend had (note: Jose thinks it was a friend and not a relative… or Empyreal herself… Jose spent much of the evening in a haze, as one tends to when the $101 million starter walks 800 batters) as to whether or not to accept a Yankee ball autographed by among others, legendary alcoholic and peeping tom Mickey Mantle, despite his being a Red sox fan.


It got Jose thinking. Would he accept a Mantle ball? No. What about a 1996 Yankee ball? Please. A Lou Gehrig ball? Is ALS contagious? (Note: No) What about a Ruth ball? Red Sox era yes, Yankee era no. Braves era, absolutely. An Andy Stankiewiecz ball? Tempting on an ironic level, but still no.

So Jose gave it a lot of thought and determined that there is only one Yankee ball he would ever want (Note: Aside from Jim Bouton.). Jose would accept, hell, Jose would pay for a ball signed by both Thurman Munson and Corey Lidle. There. He said it. It’s tasteless, but he said it. And it was funny, as plane crash jokes tend to be. Actually, Jose would like one ball even more than that. If he could get a Yankee ball signed by Thurman Munson, Corey Lidle and…

Nuts, Jose really wanted to put Jorge Posada in there. He hates Jorge Posada…weasel faced creep, but damn it, Jose simply cannot wish death in a plane crash on anyone. Too bad. It would have been funny too. Maybe if Munson and Lidle had died peacefully in their sleep, Jose could have joked about having Posada’s name on a ball with them, but a plane crash? That’s too tacky even for Jose… barely.

3. Curt Euro, shockingly, called out Barry Bonds yesterday for cheating on his wife, cheating on his taxes and cheating at the great game of baseball.

He was unusual in being willing to call out Bonds in earnest and publicly when disturbingly few active players are willing to do so. That said, his statement lacked balance. While Euro did list all of the things that Bonds does cheat at, he utterly failed to list the many aspects of life wherein he has not cheated.

Consider the following:
• Bonds has not, as best we know cheated at cards.
• He has never performed Cheat, by the Clash at karaoke.
• He is not a “pumpkin eater.”
• Not a big fan of Cheetos. (Note: Wait… that’s Cheetah, not cheater?)
• Not technically a member of the Guerrero wrestling family (Motto: Cheat to Win.)
• Has never hit opposing player with a steel chair.


On the other hand, Jose is pretty sure he has a Jessie “The Body” Ventura inspired tattoo reading “Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat.)

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Japan Night at Fenway

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.

1. It’s Japan night at Fenway Park as Mr. Matsu battles Ichiro Suzuki with not one, but two Japanese American Red Sox bloggers looking on. Tonight, Jose will attend his third game of the season (note: record 2-0) as the guest of empyrealenvirons, who played a critical role in the graphic design of this very blog.

On such a special occasion, it became clear quite quickly that this arrangement would demand some sort of special bloging shtick. Leading to the following exchange of emails.

Jose: Jose feels like you and Jose need to come up with some sort of shared shtick for this game. The two Japanese-American Red Sox bloggers watching Matsu vs. Ichiro. There's got to be something we can come up with.

Empyreal: Thought of something: do it in "whiteface." Not literally paint, but pretend we're white people and say the things we hear all the time because of our appearance.

Jose: Have you seen a picture of Jose? He’s only 1/8 Japanese. Jose does life in whiteface.

Empyreal: :) Sorry, never saw a picture; hope I didn't offend 7/8s of you.

Yes, it’s Japan night at Fenway, and let us all hope that if Mr. Matsu decides to pitch in whiteface tonight it’s as Josh Beckett and not as Ricky Trlicek.

2. Kudos to the Boston Herald for an uncharacteristic display of conscientious journalism. Sure they ran a front page photo of Patriots quarterback/demigod Tom Brady wearing a Yankees cap with the headline “Yanks for nothing Brady…Tom, Say It Ain’t So!” a sensationalistic, pointless story, that doubtless has nothing to do with the Herald’s plunging circulation. But that’s okay, because the sub-head was 100% accurate as it read “‘Shocking’ details in the Inside Track.”

That’s right, they put “shocking” in quotes. They actually admitted through the use of those cute little quotation marks that their front page story is neither newsworthy nor shocking.

You know how some people make quotes with their fingers when they are saying something they regard a preposterous? For instance, how Carl Everett might say “I was 6 years old when man first ‘walked on the moon?’” It’s like that. Jose is glad that this is now an accepted journalistic technique and will use it to make the following statements:

• Jose is “devastated” to hear the Yankees Rookie Phillip Hughes will be out four to six weeks.
• By all reckoning, Dour Mirabelli is a “fantastic human being” and “adds a lot to this team.”
• Joe Torre is a “handsome” man with “excellent” personal hygiene.
• The ladies at the Inside Track are “absolutely not” bloated harpies who traffic in human misery.
• Beer at Fenway Park is “reasonably priced” at seven dollars.
• Tito Eurona is the best Red Sox manager in Jose’s life time. See, no quotes on that one.

3. The term “Horatio Alger story” is used to describe any story of someone who climbs from rags and desolation to a respected place in society through hard work and determination. It is a tribute to the works of novelist Horatio Alger who wrote 135 novels that have this triumph of pluck as their central theme. Modern examples of Horatio Alger Stories include Pretty Woman and the original Star Wars trilogy.

Tonight, the Red Sox go against Seattle lefty Horacio Ramirez, who’s life is not a Horatio Alger story. Quite to the contrary, a Horacio Ramirez story, after tonight’s game, will be a term used to describe a quick and catastrophic failure that results in the protagonist crying like a little girl. Modern examples include Titanic, many football games coached by Dick Vermeil and the 1972 Ed Muskie campaign.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

Novelty Food

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME

1. You know what Jose loves about having a new star athlete in town? He loves all of the gimmick foods they come up with to leech off of the new guy’s celebrity, the ichi-roll in Seattle, Wade Boggs’ “.352 Bar” candy, Tim’s Pickled Na(Herring) and, of course, the delicious Rico Bolonga. (Note: Jose’s Bologna has a first name, it is R-I-C-O.)

And now you’ve got Mr. Matsu. It’s terrific that some Japanese restaurants have introduced some special Matsuzaka-themed products like Matsuzaka Maki, and the like, but let’s be honest that’s not that imaginative. Naming a sushi roll after a Japanese ball player? How’s that more clever than, say El Pelon Taqueria naming a burrito after Rich Garces or Zaftigs naming a knish after Kevin Youkilis.

Actually, Jose brings up Youks for a reason, in that, Boston’s Jewish community has taken the lead in provide creative ideas on the Matsuzaka-themed food front. Apparently, in honor of the Japanese star’s debut, the Jewish community has not only named a food after him, but plan to incorporate it into their ancient religious rites. The novelty food, a flat, cracker like item, completely without leavening agents is used in the “Passover” ritual, an annual rite that commemorates the great miracle in 1994 when eleven teams “passed over” Nomar Garciaparra for players lie Ben Grieve and Antone Williamson to allow the Red Sox to pick him in the twelfth spot. The cracker used in the commemoration of this Passover honors the Japanese righty by taking the simple, sweet name “Matsu.”

That said, a note to the good people at Manischewitz, you misspelled Daisuke’s name. It’s M-A-T-S-U, not M-A-T-Z-O-H. Still, it’s a solid, creative effort.

2. Great news everyone, Sox skipper Terry Eurona has seen a picture of Mt. Fuji. When asked whether he had any advice for Mr. Matsu on how to dress in the cold weather, Tito replied “They’ve got snow on their mountains, don’t they? There’s got to be some cold weather.” He’s sharp, that Tito.

Later when asked how he expected his team’s many Domincans to manage through the dog days of summer, Tito answered “The tropics are hot!” He also responded questions about Jonathan Paplebon‘s ability to return to the closer job by stating “there was a hurricane in Louisiana” and questions about Jason Varitek’s alma mater Georgia Tech is in a state founded as a debtors prison.

By the way, as long as we’re talking about non-answers to questions. Jose, as a former media professional, would like to offer Tito some advice. You know how Jimy Williams would answer every question “manager’s decision?” Jose would like to see Tito adopt his own avoid all phrase. Jose’s thought is that Eurona should rip off those guys who put the Cartoon Network LED’s all over Boston, and answer every annoying question “I’m sorry, that’s not a hair related question.” This is great because a) Tito is bald b) there’s lots of wacky hair on the Red Sox and c) it could potential force Dan Shaughnessy to address his nappy ‘fro. An equally good evasive answer would be “I'm not here to talk about the past. I'm here to be positive about this subject.”

Do you think Curt struggled becasuse he's been blogging too much?


Sorry, sir, but that's not a hair-related question.

3. Which do you think is getting bigger press coverage in Japan, Daisuke Matsuzaka’s Major League debut this week or the induction of the legendary Mr. Fuji into the WWF Hall of Fame? Also, since Mr. Matsu has any number of crafty and duplicitous pitches, would it be alright to steal Mr. Fuji’s nickname “The Devious One” and apply it to him or would that be racist? Jose thinks it would be fine, because the Pearl Harbor driven stereotype of Japanese as sneaky really went out with the invention of the Toyota. It would really only be racist if Jose started calling him “The Mathematically Gifted One.”

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.