What Goes Down...

1. When Jose was a tyke, he had a friend named Dan. Dan was creative and ingenious. While other kids played checkers, Dan played stock market. Dan once made a bid to get Jose to sell him his comics in an effort to corner the comic book market. While some played house, Dan played hotel. Jose distinctly remembers Dan buying a bunch of pastel mints placing them on his parents’ pillows and then assuming the right to charge them room fees. And while others played war, Dan played university. Dan’s father was a professor of philosophy, thus it struck Dan that universities were a gold mine.

Of course, Dan and Jose, as kids, lacked the academic credentials required to teach anything except MBA classes, so it occurred to Dan that we needed to pioneer new disciplines. The most memorable of these trailblazing fields of inquiry was barfology—the science of barf.

Barfology was not a terribly practical science, and there was relatively little to explore in comparison with, say, physics. Still, Dan was able to extract one great insight from his study, the cogito, if you will in the field of barfology.

What goes down must come up.

It applies to tainted food and it applies to the Boston Red Sox. For the first week, the Red Sox have gone down, and down and down, and now, they are coming up. Like a ghastly chum of half digested spaghetti, corn and bile, they are coming back harshly and violently, scalding the Yankees with the acid reflux of their heaving resurgence.

The Red Sox have been down, today, at last, they come back up.

2. Jose is fired up. He’s hulking up. Sing along to the tune of Hulk Hogan’s theme “I Am a Real American” by Rick Deringer

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, sad at the death of Lou Gor-man

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, Dru is in right, most every night!

When it comes crashing down, and it hurts inside,
It’s a ten game ho-ome stand, Yankees cannot hide,
You recall Eric Wedge, ‘member Curtis Pride,
You can’t keep swinging at, pitches way inside.

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, never liked Jose Offer-man

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, chanted all night, for Jo-ey Gathright

Well I’m on board with Carl Craw-ford,
And his wage is money Henry can a-fford,
Lackey’s contract may be bad as Lugo’s was,

but I don’t care right now, cause I’m kind of buzzed.

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, I think that Wakefield is the man,

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, Papi’s all right, has the green light!

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, I watched Belinda (comma) Stan

I am a Boston Red Sox fan, I think I might, watch Sunday night!!!!

3. It is with great sadness that Jose learned today that Red Sox legend Manny Ramirez has announced his retirement from baseball following word that he had, for the second time in his career, failed a drug test.

It breaks Jose’s heart to see the slow, sad end of one of the best hitters he ever saw. On one level it hurts him to see a player whom he enjoyed watching as much as any not named Martinez or Wakefield fall into such shame and disrepute. But even more, it crushes Jose to know that Manny Ramirez, even with the aid of performance enhancing drugs never once had a 50 home run season.

That had always been Jose’s defense for Manny. With his eye, with his swing, how could he be a juicer if he never hit 50 home runs? Brady Anderson hit 50 on the juice and Manny couldn’t? How is that possible?

Jose likes to imagine that the reason for this failure is that Manny never really took drugs, or at the very least didn’t take them competently. Perhaps when Manny took a female fertility drug, he really was doing it for fertility reasons? Maybe he wanted to have another kid, and just thought that a female was a male who worked for a fee—in his case $20 million?

Or maybe he thought that baseball had banned the use of rugs, rather than drugs and therefore opted for all wood floors and thought he was fine?

While these are all disturbingly possible explanations in the world of Manny, Jose must also accept the probability that Manny being Manny means Manny doing drugs.

It’s a sad way to end a career. Let’s hope that, at the very least, he manages to conceive.

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

ALCS Game 4--My Name is Wakefield

It's time for Jose Melendez's KEYS TO THE ALCS.

1. Jose though a lot about not writing for today’s game.

Why should he? If the Red Sox aren’t going to bother to show up for a critical ALCS game, then why should Jose? The Red Sox came back from a 3-0 deficit in 2004 and a 3-1 deficit in 2007, so why should Jose even worry until the season is on the line?

In fact, it made sense for Jose to skip out on writing. He had a long day of touring Montgomery (note: move along, nothing to see here) and traveling to Atlanta and he was tired. After sucking down half a burger for dinner with his cousin Chris, Chris’s girlfriend Jen and his fellow travelers, catching a little bit of blues at the Northside and then going to sleep seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative to writing a baseball blog about a team that was humiliated and didn’t even seem to care.

But something happened at the Northside, a dank Atlanta bar where upon entering one seems about as likely to be murdered as to see some good blues. The band showed up late. They showed up late, but they showed up. On a Monday night they showed up. In front of ten people they showed up. For almost certainly no money, they showed up. And they wailed. In front of ten patrons, half shooting pool or playing Donkey Kong, the other half quietly pulling on Pabst tall boys, they wailed. Johnny Triggers and his accomplices played as thought it were Friday night at CBGB, as if they were Robert Johnson on the Mississippi Delta. They played with all the fire and fury of a Baptist revival.

The patrons showed up too. Not many, but the folks who were there, well three of them anyway, roared into action as the band struck up Folsom Prison Blues. A graying lump of a man, a San Antonio native turned Atlanta long timer, sucked from a pitcher gripped tightly in each fist as a tromped around the dance floor, hopping up on to chairs, making sweet love to a supporting column for the roof and writhing on the floor like a fish on the door of sweet death. He was joined by two other men, younger fellows, but at least as drunk, swinging each other around, gesticulating like an epileptic on crack… convulsing.

“I have seen some crazy things in this bar,” said Jen. “I have seen a couple go at it on the bar. I have seen men who did not know it dance with prostitutes but I have never seen this.”

It was a Monday night.

It was a Monday night and fueled by nothing more potent than beer and Jack with a chaser of self-loathing, these men had shown up and given it their all.

So why couldn’t Jose?

Why couldn’t Jose show up on the proverbial Monday night of the ALCS? Why couldn’t the Red Sox?

What the Red Sox need, what Jose needs, is to go mad. We need to writhe on the floor; we need to convulse; we need to double fist pitchers of watery suds. It’s what Kevin Millar would do. It’s what the Red Sox must do. It’s what Jose will do.

2. You know what? Maybe we don’t understand the Rays? Maybe we have to get inside of their skulls to have a chance at beating them. Jose has done some research and he has turned up some insights from one of the most celebrated Rays of all, Ray Kroc the founder of McDonald’s, which Jose assumes is some kind of Scottish restaurant.

Kroc said, and this is important, that “We take the hamburger business more seriously than anyone else.”

Think about that. Consider the fact that the Rays have had access to that kind of wisdom for the entire year and we just got it now. Wait, that doesn’t seem right. The difference of hamburgers in yesterdays game was at most two runs and we lost by like eight.

“Creativity is a highfalutin word for the work I have to do between now and Tuesday.” There we go, that makes some sense. The Rays know what they have to do between now and Tuesday (note: today). Do the Sox?

We need to hit. That’s creativity. We need to pitch. That’s creativity. We need to catch—creativity. We need to throw—curiously, not creativity. If watching soccer has taught Jose anything, it’s that Kroc is right. Matches are won by creativity, specifically creativity in the midfield, and if the Sox have it Jose has not seen it. It’s Tuesday men, let’s create.

3. It’s up to Wakefield. That’s fine Weezer is down with it.

My name is Timmy
I'm hurling for my team
Haven’t pitched in weeks
But this is now a theme

Come and pitch Game Four
Don’t let Tampa Score
I don’t need the dome
I’ll pitch fine at home
In the LCS
I have pitched my best
On two weeks of rest.
Let me tell you 'bout it

The knuckler can travel through time
A break that makes you lose your mind
The batter said, "Hey man, how’s it move that way"
They couldn’t get the ball into play.

My name is Wakefield
I keep my nails filed real fine
Ain’t got much of a fastball
But this game is still mine
It’s still mine...

“Tell me what to do.
We can’t hit this guy.
Never pitches flat”
And you know what else?
Guess what I received in the mail today
Words of deep concern from my manager

The series goes not as he planned
Big Papi has injured his hand
Beckett can’t throw for a strike
So he grooves them right down the pike.

The Red Sox are playin’ at home
The Red Sox are playin’ at home
The Red Sox are playin’ at home

Yeah

The Red Sox are playin’ at home
The Red Sox are playin’ at home
The Red Sox are playin’ at home
Yeah yeah yeah

My name is Wakefield.

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

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

1. Today is opening day at Fenway, and as such, the start of the game will be delayed by the ring ceremony.

As you know, the ring ceremony is an ancient and honorable rite forever binding player with team. Jose did a little historical research on the ring ceremony, and strangely enough all he could come up with was this stuff about rings sealing a marriage. Still, given that this is Massachusetts, Jose is pretty sure that it is legal for a man to marry an entire corporation, so he just adapted some of the man-woman vows for today’s occasion. (Note: Think of Sox owner John W. Henry as the giver of the rings.)

• This ring is a token of my enormous, ungodly wealth. With this ring, I consecrate the fact that you were part of my weird, vicarious obsession of living out athletic glories through millionaires. Response: I will forever wear this ring as long as I am not at an occasion where I have to shake a lot of hands and it will cut into my skin.
• I accept this ring as a symbol of your love and my faithfulness. When I am a free agent and other teams come calling for me, I promise to remain eternally faithful to you, as long as you offer at least four years at $13 million per.
• Special for DJ Dru: I give you this ring to wear with love and joy. As a ring has no end, neither does your contract. I am pretty much stuck with you from this day and forevermore, so I might as well make the best of it.
• For Tim Wakefield: I give you this ring as a visible and constant symbol of my promise to be with you as long as you are still competent, because I have you under a never ending contract...
• With this ring, I thee wed, and with it, I bestow upon thee all the treasures of my mind, heart, and hands, but not my wallet. I’m going to keep that.
  Because this ring is perfectly symmetrical, it signifies the perfection of last season. Wait, I borrowed that vow from Bob Kraft…
• For Kevin Youkilis: Harey at mekuddeshet li b'taba'at zo k'dat Moshe v'Israel (Translation: Behold, thou art consecrated unto me with this ring according to the law of Moses and of Israel).
  

2. The latest news from Fenway Park today is that Bill Buckner will throw out the first pitch. Let Jose be the first to say that this is kind of cool. Buckner was a great player who took a lot of crap for an error and never, even once blamed in on jet lag.

Jose welcomes this outstanding news. However, it does come with a hint of sadness, as it means that previously scheduled first pitch tossers Dennis Eckersley and Mike Brumley will be throwing out the first pitch for the Cubs.

3. This year’s championship ring features two Red Sox made out of rubies in the center. While this looks cool, it is going to be a disaster for Manny when he inadvertently throws his ring in the washing machine and it turns his uniform pink.

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

ALCS Game 3: Quoth the Byrdman

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

1. The Byrdman

Once upon a Tuesday night, Coco batted left not right,
Manny took a three two pitch again, it was ball four,
Tito signaled starting runners, like heroes of long gone summers,
Cleveland fans applauded drummers, drummers banging from the bleacher’s core.
“Tis just that guy” Wedge muttered, “banging from the bleacher’s core -
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, just like a tasty brew, Wedge remembered ‘92
When his career went askew, as he walked out the door
Sent from Boston then in sorrow; - going to Denver tomorrow
Left for dead just like Barbaro – done, defeated like Al Gore -
For his dreams they lay in shatters just like those of Albert Gore
‘Til he came to now, Game Four.

And his soul remained uncertain whether he should call the curtain
Curtain call – for starters he’d already used before;
Pitcher who had earned a beating should he pitch Game Four repeating
Games that were not worth repeating – times where he had lost the war
C.C.’s wildness repeating as when he had lost the war -
“Should I use him in Game Four?”

Currently his courage grew ; “I’m not afraid of JD Drew,
"C.C,” said Wedge, `Sabathia, Your Game One performance I deplore;
But the fact is I was testing, If after just three days resting,
You’d be finished with digesting, digesting dinner from before,
That I knew not if I should pitch you – would it open up the bullpen door; -
Can I stand it, for Game Four?”

C.C. stood his hat askew, wondering what Wedge would do, taboo,
Of but three days rest risked as never dreamed before,
But the only thought transpired, surely could not be admired,
And as Eric Wedge perspired he thought “C.C. is not hardcore.”
This he thought of, and an echo murmured back the thought, “Not hardcore”
Far too soft for this Game Four.

Back into the clubhouse going, would Borowski saves be blowing?
But old C.C.’s gut was growing
“Has he stamina for more?No way,” he thought
“No way. Who’s that knocking at my office;
Perhaps he has the heart to pitch, to go and win the sum a bitch
If that’s his thumping, he shall pitch; -
Tis not him? He is not hardcore!”

Eric Wedge he turned the knob, and thought he’d see C.C. the slob,
In there stepped a dumpy Byrdman who had pitched 12 years before,
Not the least attention paid he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
When he saw a naked lady, posted on the exit door -
Filthy photograph of Paris just above the exit door -
Stood and stared, and nothing more.

Then this veteran, the fool, from out his mouth began to drool,
And Wedge said, “You got a sinful thing for pictures of this whore.”
“Though your something of a perv,” Wedge said,
“Have you then got the nerve,
Mighty arm and tricky curveball that you need to keep the score -
Tell me can you through five innings zero keep the score?”
Quoth the Byrdman, `I’m Game Four.”

Wedge was quite surprised by the Byrdman’s enterprise
That he would compromise – indeed to let him pitch once more;
For he couldn’t stop agreeing that this sorry human being
That with whom he’s guaranteeing that his team would lose once more
Staring at the naked heiress whom he saw as just a whore
With such claim as “I’m Game Four.”

But the Byrdman , staring horny at the heiress, wasn’t thorny
Wasn’t prickly, but convinced Wedge he should pitch once more.
Byrdman stood his jaw agape – mind on porn on videotape -
Christian Values squish like grape “Games like this you’ve pitched before -
So tonight you’re pitching for me? Just as you have done before?”
Said the Byrdman, “I’m Game Four.”

Startled that he was so cocky, like Apollo facing Rocky,
“Doubtless,” said Wedge, “That in this game you can’t keep down the score,”
Sure, you have thrown well enough, but when the going’s getting tough
Your fastball’s not so fast and you’re curveball’s not backdoor.
So If I should let you pitch, the fans shall me abhor,
That I heed your ‘I’m Game Four’”

But the Byrdman cocky still, like George Foreman pitching a grill
Turned to Wedge’s computer and then quickly typed in “whore”
Then, upon the screen there came, a list of links with some of fame
Flipping from page to page looking for the most hardcore
This fiend, the crazy addict searching for the most hardcore
He looked up “I’m Game Four.”

There Wedge stood in shock, as the Byrdman itched his jock
As he watched the naked ladies dancing on the screen before
Him he looked up from his screen looking strange and rather mean
From his pics that were obscene that would offend Tipper Gore,
But the pics were so obscene that they’d anger Pauly Shore
He declared “I’m Game Four.”

Then, the head of Wedge grew dizzy as he flew into a tizzy,
Driven by the knowledge his control had run right out the door
“Wretch,” Wedge cried, “Thy God hath damned you – you’re a freak and I don’t want you
To pitch – To pitch this season in big games, not any more!
Fastballs, curveballs changeups, no you shan’t pitch any more,”
Quoth the Byrdman, "I’m Game Four."

"Veteran!" said Wedge, Washed up hack –You know that I will take the flack! -When you struggle and you will, if you start this game once more.
For no matter what I do, the games will even two to two
If letting you start is what I do, Please don’t make me I implore
Is there - is there another pitcher? - tell me - tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Byrdman, “I’m Game Four.”

"Veteran!" said Wedge, Washed up hack –You even if they hack
That your pitches will be hammered off the wall or else o’er-
And we cannot score enough, to makeup for your lousy stuff
From an old and tired righty who should not pitch any more.
You’re an old and tired righty who should not pitch any more
Quoth the Byrdman, “I’m Game Four.”

“No that shall not be my choice, hear me Byrdman, hear my voice
Get thee back into the bullpen for you shan’t pitch any more.
Leave no porno as a token of obsession that’s you broken!
me stay rather soft-spoken, for you can’t keep down the score.
Take thy arm from off my team for you can’t pitch any more!”
Quoth the Byrdman, “I’m Game Four.”

And the Byrdman, quite insistent, persistent but inconsistent
On the mound he’s slowly pitching as the Sox run up the score;
Arm is weak and he looks roasted, mind adrift to picture posted,
Of the naked heiress posing above Wedge’s exit door
And the game that Wedge will lose is the battle and the war
So it ends, Game Number Four.

2. You’re name is Paul Gregory Byrd and you are feeling pretty good about life. You are a millionaire; you pitched very well against the Yankees when everyone, save your manager, was calling for you to be benched, and you are a true follower of Christ.

What’s more, you are facing a Red Sox team whose bats have gone into a mysterious slumber.

And yet…

Well, there are issues. For starters there’s your son, a charming lad, who does not respect his old man. He is a charming lad who has told you “'You know, dad, your stuff's not very good.'' And “Why would anyone want your autograph? You’re not any good, you're just average.”

You try to laugh it off, you pass it off to Ken Rosenthal as an amusing anecdote, but it hurts you. It hurts you badly. It is one thing to not have the respect of your teammates, fans, opposing players, clubhouse attendants, grounds crew, parody poets that guy at 7-11, but your son? That one is painful.

And then there’s the porn. You are a good Christian. It defines your life; it is important to you. So why, oh why, do you spend every waking hour wishing you were Hideki Matsui? Free from the cumbersome constraints of God’s law, that pagan bastard is free to not only enjoy pornography in vast quantities but to brag about it. But you? All you feel is shame. When you are away on the road, and let’s be honest, even when you are at home, you can’t wait to open up an adult magazine. It is all you can think about. That’s why you moved to Ohio isn’t it? To be closer to the Cincinnati Headquarters of Hustler magazine. You wish you could have signed with the Reds, but it just didn’t work. This is nothing new. You signed with the Angels in 2005 in the faintest hope that it might wrangle you an invite to the nearby Playboy Mansion. But Hef does not cater to middling veterans, so to Ohio and downscale to Hustler it was.

But the shame is all consuming, and you must make amends. It is not enough for you to punish yourself in private, you must supplicate yourself before the public at large, and since you are not nearly famous enough to apologize on Leno or Letterman, you write a book.

And in that book, you splay out the blackness of your soul for the world to see. You chronicle your shameful struggle with pornography and the thin film of bile it leaves upon your eternal essence.

But then it hits you. Perhaps, this is no contrition at all, but merely a form of exhibitionism. Do you get a thrill from the public humiliation? Or do you enjoy humiliating your wife by sharing your marital sins with the world?

Suddenly, the book seems not like a confession, an antecedent to absolution, but just another cheap thrill for sad little man.

So you look for other ways to be contrite, to purge your sin and your shame. While searching for, yes, more porn, you come across some information on the Carmelite monks, a religious order who beat themselves with whips to show humility before God. Perhaps, there is something to this. So you think about buying a whip so you can humble yourself properly, but you notice that searching for whips on the Internet only leads you deeper into porn, or even worse, parliamentary procedure.

So you abandon the hope of literal self-flagellation and look for a more metaphorical option. And then it hits you. Tonight. You can make amends tonight. You are facing the Boston Red Sox and they are going to whip you, and with the each crack of the bat, each ball over the wall, you will become a little more virtuous, a little more holy.

You are Paul Gregory Byrd and tonight you will cleansed of sin by the Boston Red Sox.

Jose is looking forward to tonight’s game, but to be completely honest, he’s looking more forward to Game 5. That’s because, historically, Game 5 is the one where Kenny Lofton dislocates his shoulder.

For similar reasons, Jose is very optimistic about Tim Wakefield’s start tonight. Red Sox pitchers with blown out pitching shoulders have an excellent postseason history against Cleveland.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.

ALCS Game 3: Less than Jake

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

1. By the time we got the rolls the game was over.

The game was not literally over by the time we got our rolls, but the tone had been set and a tone, once set, is nearly impossible to alter.

Game 2 of the ALCS was indeed lost, but it was not lost on the blustery field in the Fenway. It was not lost by Curt Euro, Manny Delcarmen, Javy Lopez or even Eric Gagne. No, it was lost in the far plusher confines of Burton’s Grill on Boylston Street. There, a quorum of Sons of Sam Horn members who were elite enough to secure coveted Game 2 tickets had convened to ingest and imbibe, to add layers of buttery insulation for the long, cold night ahead.

Our waitress, a congenial 20-something, with short black hair a button nose and a voice that was somewhere between a marshmallow dipped in honey and cotton candy laced with sweet but deadly lead acetate, came promptly and took our drink orders. So far so good. But much as Curt Euro’s first snappy curveball marked the high point of his evening, this would mark the high point of ours.

The drinks came out slowly, unevenly, like Doug Mirabelli going down the first base line, but without the groin injuries, but the rolls? Dear God, they took forever. 15 minutes no rolls, 30 minutes, no rolls, 40 minutes… rolls.

When they came they were good, warm and dripping with garlic butter, but it took so, so long for them to get there. And that established the zeitgeist of the evening, things would plod at a painfully slow pace, clearly going poorly. Then there would be a moment of competence, perhaps even excellence, followed, in the end, by bitter disappointment and copious complaint.

The dinner quickly became a metaphor for the game itself. If the slow rolls were Curt’s shaky start, the fact that five meals came out and five others did not would be analogous to his disasterous pitch to Jhonny Peralta. That would make Jose’s smooth buttery rib eye, Manny and Mikey’s back to back homers. (Note: Yes, Jose is trying to mention butter as many times as possible in a single KEY.)

Of course, that was followed by the waitress and manager telling us the other dishes would be out in a few minutes, which was a total lie, and was a lot like Manny D giving the lead away as soon as it was taken. Manny D’s double play ball to end the fifth was his solemn vow of competence, and his walk to start the sixth was his cruel reneging.

Then as it crept painfully close to game time and the remaining dishes still hadn’t come, the manager assured us there was “plenty of time left.” And there was, in the sense that the Red Sox still had plenty of arms in the bullpen after Papelbon completed two innings.

So the dinner and the game were analogous, but they were decidedly not the same. Which was worse? A comparison.

· Managers
Ballgame: Maybe everything that Tito tried didn’t work out, but every decision was defensible.

Burton’s: The Burton’s manager (note: Jose will call her Gidget, to protect her anonymity) lied to us about the problem, then lied some more. Then when she was done with that she lied just a little more. It was like watching a Rick Pitino press conference, but without the snappy suit. Jose would have been happier if she’d just explained the five missing entrees away by stating that not serving them was a “Manager’s Decision.”

Seriously, she was the worst manager in the Fenway not named Grady since Butch Hobson.
Edge: Ballgame

·Comps
Burton's: Comped us (note: after Jose was a jerk about it) for all the booze and the five missing entrees. Ergo, Jose got a rib eye for $15. He tried to pay more since his food game sort of on time, but the other SoSHers wouldn’t let him.

Ballgame: The Red Sox got none of Eric Gagne’s salary back

Edge: Burton’s

· Kapows
Ballgame: Manny and Mikey crush balls in losing effort.

Burton’s: Actual Sam Horn visits table and says “Kapow.”

Edge: Ballgame

So there you have it, despite not getting any discount for the hideous 11th, the ball game was analogous to the dinner yet slightly better. On the other hand, no one got sick from the food, which is more than Jose can say about the top of the 11th.

2. This would be the part of the KEYS where Jose would typically write a 200 plus line epic poem about the opposing team’s starting pitcher. Unfortunately, Jose has found very few epics with characters named Jake in them. Achilles, Agamemnon, Gilgamesh, Faust, Aeneas, these are the sorts of names that show up in epics. There are precious few Jakes.

No, for Jake we are left with no choices beyond quipping about him carting a python to the mound named Damien and throwing it on Julio Lugo after knocking the shortstop unconscious with a fastball high and tight, or getting all biblical and talking about Jacob’s Ladder.

Since Jake Westbrook is known for being more deceptive than powerful on the mound (note: Jose is pretty sure he has heard about him wearing goatskins on his hands to trick hitters into thinking they are facing his much more formidable Esau Westbrook) the ladder seems like the way to go.

Jacob’s ladder is, of course, the ladder described in the Book of Genesis (28:11-19), which Jacob envisioned in a dream and purportedly led to heaven.

While this ladder is said to be in Bethel, named for the former Patriot’s receiver and now in the area of the Palestinian town of Beitin, modern archeologists have failed to locate the ladder.

Jose’s been thinking about it, and he thinks it’s one of those “hidden in plain sight” deals. So he is pretty sure that Jacob’s ladder is the ladder on the Green Monster at Fenway. It makes perfect sense. The ladder used to serve a clear purpose, getting atop the Monster to collect balls hit into the screen, but now that there are seats there, what purpose does it serve? None. None, except climbing to heaven, that is.

You just watch, when Jake is getting shelled tonight he is going to flee and climb up that ladder away from menacing sluggers and into heaven’s warm embrace. Then we will be sorry.

Wait, the game’s in Cleveland? Never mind, he’s screwed.

3. In today’s Cleveland Plain Dealer, still the coolest newspaper name in America, the big story seem to be not what the Indians will do this evening, but what the midges will do.

In addition to an article interviewing scientists at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History (note: apparently they have museums now in Cleveland) about the prospect of a return of the insects, the Plain Dealer also offers a cutout midge mask that fans can wear to the stadium. While the prospect of 40,000 people wearing midge masks is certainly more appealing that the prospect of having to gaze on the visages of 40,000 actual Clevelanders, Jose wonders if Cleveland isn’t relying a little too heavily on insect infestation? Sure, a swarm of tiny winged insects is more effective at closing games than Joe Borowski, but is that really where a fan wants to place his confidence?

The case for renewed DDT use?

For starters, Mr. Matsu is unlikely to be bothered by midges. Jose has been in Japan when they have cicadas and based on that knowledge, he suspects that any insect shorter than two inches long and quieter than 120 decibels is unlikely to disturb the Japanese righty. Similarly, Jonathon Papelbon is from the freaking bayou, he can handle his insects, and if not, the beer case over his head will protect him. Second, Julian Tavarez seems like the sort of guy who would eat a whole plate of the things if you dared him to (note: please someone dare him to). Third, when Tim Wakefield pitches tomorrow night, his knuckleball will be completely camouflaged by the slow moving, fluttering insects. How will they know if their swinging at a ball or a midge? They can’t it’s impossible.

So please good people of Cleveland, rely on your insects, but remember relying on insects to win ballgames is like relying on Ant-Man to foil a crime. It’s better than nothing, but just as Batman is better than Ant-man, bats are far better guarantees of victory than bugs.

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

Filthy Pitches

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

1. Jonathan Papelbon has a new pitch. He calls it the slutter. Really.

It’s too easy isn’t it? It’s like making fun of former Congressman Dick Swett.

This is the sort of thing Jose normally hates, like the name Coco Crisp, because it makes things far too simple for those who are less adept and wordplay than Jose. It just lowers the bar. Still, he can’t help but be enchanted by the name of this fastball-slider hybrid.

Slutter.

Slutter, slutter, slutter, slutter, slutter.

It just rolls off the tongue doesn’t it?

Well, if Paps is going to go the misogynistic route for his new patented pitch, we should probably go that way on a few other famous pitches right?

A friendly note to sensitive readers. This is likely to get unpleasant and make you think less of Jose, a lot less. Consider skipping this and moving on to KEY 2, a delightful little satire on the state of Florida. Please. Jose can’t stand your accusing glances and the sense that you are totally disappointed in him.

• Mariano Rivera’s Cut Fastball: The Nasty Whore(side)
• Tim Wakefield’s Knuckle Ball: The Five Knuckle Shuffle (note: not technically misogynistic, just dirty.)
• Pedro Martinez’s Change Up: The Filthy Martinez
• Dice-K’s Gyroball: The Hooker With the Heart of Gold (Note: Because they both sound appealing, but don’t actually exist.)
• DLowe the Paranoid Android’s Back Door Curveball, You Know the One He Got Terrence Long With: The Back Door Hooker

Thanks Papelbon. Look at what you’ve made Jose do.

2. A curious piece of news emerged yesterday as Curt Euro expressed interest in playing in Tampa next year if the Red Sox do not resign him.

At first, Jose found this perplexing. Curt is an ultracompetitive guy, he loves to win, so why would he consider going to the worst franchise in Major League Baseball. Sure they have some young talent, but that’s been the case for years and they’ve never been anything other than awful. And yes, Joe Maddon seems like a good manager, but it’s not like Curt would ever go to a team for the manager, right Tito?

Jose kept rolling it over and over in his head. Why? Why? So he can play in a dome? So he can be on a 90 game loser? And then it hit Jose like a Pedro fastball to that little b*tch Jorge Posada. It was a lesson from his frequent trips to “the continent” as the aristocrats call it. Euros love Florida. Inexplicably, Euros absolutely adore the place. All over Europe, travel agencies promote places like Fort Myers and St. Petersburg as exotic destinations for Euros looking for a taste of the new world. So Jose figures Curt is no different, the lure of sun, sand and seniors is simply too much for him, or any other Euro, to resist.

3. Jonathan Papelbon last night became the first pitcher in Red Sox history ever to have two 30 save seasons with the team. Moreover, he became the first professional athlete of any kind in Boston to have two 30 save seasons since Andy Moog. (Note: Jose doesn’t watch much hockey and more, but the Bruins have probably had a goalie or two somewhere in there who isn’t that horrible. Or maybe not. At least Jose is sure that Blaine Lacher never had consecutive 30 save seasons.)

While the accomplishment sounds underwhelming when one first hears it, it is shocking that Papelbon is the first to do it given some of the names who have closed for the Red Sox, such as Jeff Reardon, Lee Smith, Tom Gordon and Dick Radatz. This is of course, in sharp contrast to Red Sox who have had two 30 blown save seasons, which Jose figures must include Heathcliff Sloccumb, Jeff Russell, Ken Ryan, or maybe it just felt like they blew 30 a year.

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

On the Auction Block

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

1. During yesterday’s telecast, Meg Vaillancourt, the former Globe reporter who converted her aggressive coverage of the plan to build a new stadium and the sale of the Red Sox into a cushy job as head of the Red Sox foundation (note: Hooray journalistic integrity!), revealed that as part of the “picnic in the park” auction, fans will be able to bid on “one of a kind” Red Sox items such as a game of Scrabble with Jonathan Papelbon or a quail hunting trip with Mike Timlin and Tim Wakefield.

While playing Scrabble with Papelbon might be fun, Jose is not convinced that hunting with Timlin and Wakefield is the best idea. Jose sort of imagines Wakefield out there hunting, just pumping bird shot into quail after quail, nice and easy. Then all of a sudden, not only is he unable to hit any quail he’s inadvertently shooting other hunters, airplanes, that sort of thing. Timlin, Jose would be less worried about, because if his shot is anything like his fastball, it’s arrow straight.

While the other items have not yet been made public, Jose’s crack reporting team has uncovered a number of items that will be available for bid

• Chance to strike out Julio Lugo.
• Bowling with Julian Tavarez.
• Work on proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem, with noted genius Alex Cora.
• Karaoke with Matsuzaka and Okajima
• Opportunity to kick Doug Mirabelli in the nuts.
• Have Kevin Youkilis sing Kiddush at your Shabbat dinner.
• Pap smear by Papelbon
• Tour of Hyde Park with Manny Delcarmen
• Buy Manny’s grill or car or whatever he’s got this month.

There are a lot of great items to bid on, way better than the Yankee auction. The best thing there is a pool party with Mariano Rivera. (Note: Wow, that is maybe the worst thing Jose has ever written. Should he have gone with marriage counseling from A-Rod instead?)

2. Recently Jose learned that he has gotten a link on the Web page of Tim Wendel, author of Castro’s Curveball, a book that Jose assumes must be about San Francisco’s famed gay baseball league.

But seriously, the book, is a fictionalized account of the Cuban leader’s baseball playing days. Since Castro was known to be a pitcher of some skill during his days at Belen College and the University of Havana (note: though he never played professionally) , it has often been wondered what might have happened if he’d had the stuff to compete at a major league level? Would history have turned out differently?

Jose, to be honest, finds the discussion a little trite. Sure, it’s fun to imagine, but Jose suspects that even if Castro had livelier stuff, it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference.

A far more interesting question is what might have happened if Papa Doc Duvalier had been an excellent drag bunter? The implications would have been stunning. As a tyrant and, Papa Doc was all too eager to sacrifice others for his own benefit. Perhaps if he had learned the honorable art of the sacrifice bunt, he would have understood that self-sacrifice is, in its own way, worthy.

Another interesting question is what would have transpired had Nikita Khrushchev been a baseball player? On any of the number of occasions when he banged his shoe on his desk during the UN General Assembly, perhaps his spikes would have gotten caught in the desk, embarrassing the Soviet leader and decreasing his prestige. Perhaps, so chastened, he would have lacked the courage to send missiles to Cuba.

Regardless, it seems like now might be a good time to start teaching Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to field a position.

Kruscheve Comes in spikes high

3. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. After tonight, Khe-Sahn Gabbard will have started just three big league games this year, and Jose will have ended up at two of them. That’s just not right.

Jose supposes it could work out okay. A few years ago, Jose thought he was so smart in his annual season ticket draft. He carefully selected games five days apart at the beginning of the season in order to get as many Pedro starts as possible. The only problem was that he miscounted, and instead got a healthy helping of Brian Rose starts, though one of those included a game winning single by Manny off of Mariano Rivera on a Friday night, so it wasn’t all bad. Similarly, the Sox won the first Gabbard start Jose saw this year.

Still, Jose cannot help but be a little disappointed that he is seeing Gabbard. It’s a little like buying tickets for AC/DC and expecting to see Bon Scott and then finding out that he died and that Brian Johnson will be singing instead. Wait… Brian Johnson was still kind of good. Maybe it’s more like expecting to vote for George McGovern and Tom Eagleton and then discovering the day before the election that Eagleton’s been replaced by Sargent Shriver. Wait, that’s no good either, Gabbard’s got a much better chance of winning tonight than either Eagleton or Shriver did of becoming Vice President.

Okay, Jose’s got it. Getting Red Sox tickets and then ending up with a Khe-Sahn Gabbard start is a lot like ordering kung pao chicken and then discovering that it’s the version of kung pao that’s 80 percent celery. Sure, it might be pretty good, but even if it is, you’re still going to be kind of disappointed.

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

You, Happy Wakefield, Knuckle

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

1. KEYS TO THE GAME PRESENTS
Ages of Empire

Today’s volume: Tim Wakefield

Tim Wakefield is the Habsburg Empire. He just is. Both of them, the Austrians and the Spaniards, and in every iteration. From the Holy Roman Empire, to the Austrian Empire to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that’s what Wakefield is. Yes, sometimes, in 1995 for instance, he looks like the Mongols, absolutely ravaging opponents, and other times, say late 1999 when he was left off the ALCS roster, he looks less like an empire at all and far more like on of those peaceful little tribes that was conquered and lost to history. But when taken in his entirety, Wakefield is most definitely the Habsburgs.

You can go right back to the beginning with the comparison, in that both Wakefield and the Habsburgs rose not because of their competence, but because of their incompetence. Whereas Frederick III was elected the first Habsburg Holy Roman Empire, precisely because other monarchs viewed him as too incompetent to comprise their power, Wakefield was forced into the knuckleball by his failure as an infielder. Both the Habsburgs and Wakefield would fulfill their destinies almost by accident.

Let Jose describe the essence of Habsburg rule. The Habsburgs came to dominate much of Europe. Their empire, at times stretched as far East as what it now Ukraine and as far West as Spain and as far South as Sicily (Note: Though there was lots in the middle they did not rule, and the extents of their empire varied dramatically over the centuries.) Yet, they achieved this spectacular success, despite utter mediocrity and significant incompetence. How pathetic were they militarily? Perhaps their greatest hero is Prince Eugene of Savoy, who staved off the Turkish siege of Vienna in 1683. That’s right; their greatest military hero was French!

No, the unofficial motto, of the Habsburgs was “Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube,” “Let others wage war, you - happy Austria - marry!" The Habsburgs could not win on the battlefield, so they won with the through the subtle trickery of matrimony.

So is any of this starting to sound like a pitcher you know? Tim Wakefield has somehow managed to gather 158 career wins and to creep into the top 100 on the all time strikeout list, despite not being particularly good. Just like the Habsburgs, he has had remarkable success despite lacking major league stuff. Just as the Habsburgs relied on matrimony, Wakefield has used the equally subtle knuckleball to escape his limitations. Moreover, just as the Habsburgs produced only two leaders of any distinction, Maria Theresa an Charles V of Spain, so too, had Tim Wakefield only two seasons of particular distinction, his debut year where he went 8-1 for the Pirates and his remarkable 1995 campaign. If one wishes, one can add Joseph II/Wakefield’s 2002 campaign to the list of competence.

But that’s where the analogy ends. The Habsburg’s Empire ended, with Gavrilo Princip’s bullet in Sarajevo. Yes, Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s death did not end the Empire on that day, but in set in motion the awful events of World War I that would eventually lead to the death of their empire. Wakefield has already met his Princip, in Aaron Boone, who like Princip was a small and insignificant man who fate tabbed for one brief moment of importance. That moment in 2003, when Boone’s home run ended the 2003 ALCS as surely and as quickly as an assassin’s bullet ended the life of the Habsburg heir, should have set in motion the torturous end of Tim Wakefield’s career if the analogy was to hold true.

And yet here we are, four years later. Wakefield pitched brilliantly in Game 5 of the 2004 ALCS and won a championship that year, and today he continues to start. His starts remain enigmatic, inconsistent and his seasonal numbers without particular distinction. Is it what we as fans would want? Probably not, but perhaps we should be satisfied with it. After all, the Habsburgs, certainly would have given anything four years after Franz Ferdinand’s Assassination to be lumbering along in their stylized mediocrity, rather than accelerating towards disasterous defeat and dissolution.

2. With the Red Sox facing Seattle’s Jeff Weaver tonight, Jose thought it would be nice to pay tribute to one of the classic songs that Jeff and his brother Jared wrote along with Bob Seeger during their time with the folk group “The Weavers.” Jose has taken On Top of Old Smokey” and updated it for the contemporary Red Sox fan, just like Jeff would have wanted, as a commentary on the deliciously sorry state of his old team. (Note: Sing along, you know the music!)

On top of the majors
Way up in the east
The Sox were alive and
The Yanks were deceased

For winning’s a pleasure
But losing is grief
Dropping two to the Giants
Is beyond belief

They’re behind Toronto
Lost more than they’ve won
And this schadenfreude
Is barrels of fun

And Roger’s an old man
His fastball is flat
He’s getting the big bucks
But looks kind of fat
How True

And Jeter’s a statue
He ain’t got no range
And Steinbrenner’s fuming
“I’m getting shortchanged”

Old Damon is hurting
And cut off his hair
Just like mighty Sampson
Now he’s swinging at air

They look up the standings
Way up at the Sox
And Yanks fans are crying
And Jose just mocks.

3. Rumors began to trickle out over the weekend that the Red Sox are leading contenders to acquire lefty Mark Buehrle from the White Sox. Jose will be honest. He is not yet sure how he feels about this potential trade, and about how Buehrle would fit into the rotation. While Buehrle, who threw a no-hitter earlier this year, obviously has great stuff, Jose would like to know a little bit more about his makeup before he would pull the trigger.

Our rotation currently consists of: blogging egomaniac, cocky Texan, insane Dominican bowler, Japanese guy and guy who throws sixty five to Major League hitters. Does Buehrle really have what it takes to supplant a member of that group personality wise? If not Jose says back off. Remember we have Jon Lester waiting in the wings to play the role of heroic cancer survivor.

If the Red Sox are going to make this trade, Jose would like to hear that Buehrle writes romance novels on the side or spends the off season working on a cure for maple syrup urine disease, something interesting. Jose is just saying that everyone needs a clearly defined role.

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

Jose’s Orgy of Self-Reflection Continues

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

1. Jose isn’t sure why it never occurred to him before, but he has a lot in common with Manny Ramirez. Jose supposes that he never saw it because at the surface level the differences are so stark. Manny is a tower of lean muscle, Jose is a tub of jiggling goo. Manny is a millionaire, the only time Jose could call himself a millionaire was when he was carrying around Turkish Lira. Manny is one of the best, if not the best right handed hitters on the planet, Jose got cut from Little League and uninvited from his softball team. Manny is actually Latino, Jose pretends to be Latino. See, big visible differences.

And yet the overarching similarity has been there for a long time. For years, both of us have been trying desperately, futilely, to get out of Boston.

The Manny saga is well-known. It starts pretty much the day he arrived here in 2001 and has recurred annually ever since. You know the story, Manny says he’s sad and wants to leave, the team tries to release/trade him, they can’t get equal value, he stays and says he never wanted to leave.

Jose’s story is less well known. It begins in 1993, when a young Jose Melendez vowed to go away to college, such that he could experience a place other than Boston. But then along came BU with their “being the best school Jose got into” and their “offering Jose a lot of money” and here he stayed. That put the escape on hold for a few years, but once Jose graduated, he renewed his efforts, as he began the annual rite of applying for fellowships, grad school, State Department positions etc. that would get him out of town. And one by one, year after year, Jose would fall just short. If Manny has stayed in Boston because no one was willing to offer more than Aubrey Huff and Mike Cameron for him, Jose has stayed in Boston because not even a Huff-Cameron fellowship has come his way.

But Jose’s similarity with Manny is deeper, more spiritual than simply wanting, for far too long, to flee the hub. The dirty little secret is that we both actually like it here, that we have thrived here. Manny has won a World Series and solidified his Hall-of-Fame credentials, Jose has done great things for the Commonwealth, built a great network of friends (note: a real network, not myspace) and made it to no fewer than 10 Sox games per year. Sure, we both rage and fume about the injustice of being stuck here, about the futility of our efforts to leave, but each time a deadline passes and he remains firmly inside 128, Jose is secretly a little relieved. And he suspects Manny is too.

Some day this will change. Some day, perhaps soon, Manny will leave these Red Sox and leave this city, and Jose will wander off to a new adventure, but from wherever in the world Jose lands, and regardless of whether Manny goes off to the Dominican, returns to Cleveland or visits China, we will both look back at the hub with a pining sadness, a genuine fondness for the city that made us the men we are.

2. In today’s Herald, Detroit designated hitter “Mr. Yankee” Gary Sheffield, offered Rob Bradford a new perspective on the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry from his spot in the Motor City, insights that revealed that while Sheffield’s bat may have slowed a bit, his brain is as sharp as ever.

For instance, when asked about the Yankees eight and one-half game deficit to the Red Sox, Sheffield displayed some of his famous mathematical prowess saying “When you’re eight games out, you have to make up 16 games.” Non-Euclidian geometry at its best right there or possibly algebraic topology. Who but Gary Sheffield could grasp that eight and 16 are the same? Maybe God, but that’s about it.

Sheffield also revealed his mastery of anatomy when he stated “Everybody has holes.” (Note: Sheffield may have learned this by studying tapes of his wife with rapper R. Kelly.)

The big slugger also appears to have picked up some automotive expertise in his time in Detroit, pointing out that for a motor to operate properly “It was just a matter of clicking on all cylinders.”

Unfortunately, while Sheffield did demonstrate formidable command of most areas of human knowledge, he proved himself to a have a very limited understanding of statecraft when the best idea he could offer on how to win in Iraq, was “You have to hope something drastic happens to get that to turn around.”

3. Tonight Tim Wakefield goes to the hill for the Red Sox, bringing with him his league leading 1.79 ERA and his floating, fluttering, batters stuttering metaphor for Jose’s life. He goes up against Detroit’s sophomore phenom Justin Verlander who brings an also impressive 2.83 ERA to the mound.

The question this matchup raises is: If Wakefield’s knuckleball is a metaphor for Jose’s life, for the life of whom is Veralnder’s signature pitch, his 100 mph fastball, a metaphor?

Let’s think about the qualities of Verlander’s fastball. It is absolutely filthy, no one likes to see it coming, it leaves people feeling angry and frustrated, it has real potential to injure and it gets hit hard in Boston.

Hmmm…. Jose’s got it. Justin Verlander’s fastball is a metaphor for the life of Bill Lambieer.

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

Jose Gets All Melodramatic

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

1. Jose loves Tim Wakefield and Jose loves the knuckleball. Or more accurately, Jose loves Tim Wakefield because of the knuckleball. This is not a secret.

Time and time again, Jose has described how he became enamored of the knuckleball while watching one of the Niekro brothers on The Baseball Bunch. (Note: Isn’t it time for a new Baseball Bunch? Could Barry Bonds play the Johnny Bench role, teaching kids the fundamentals, like hitting, throwing and proper use of performance enhancing drugs? “Cream on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, clear on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays kids. But on Sunday you rest. That’s God’s time.) Jose has described his lifelong effort to throw knuckleball and how it has resulted in him throwing exactly two out of, perhaps 10,000 pitches thrown. Jose has even claimed that he likes the knuckleball because it is like magic. It is the baseball equivalent of having a 5’3’’ NBA player who is in the league solely on his ability to hit half court set shots. At least that’s why Jose thought he loved the knuckleball. But he has had a change of heart. He has, if you will, flip flopped or perhaps sandaled.

Jose loves the knuckleball, because it is a metaphor for life. maybe not for everyone’s life, but for Jose’s life. The thing about the knuckleball that is so extraordinary is that unlike other pitches, it cannot be controlled, only directed, managed. Tim Wakefield cannot force the knuckleball up or down in the zone. He cannot choose for it to be a strike or a ball. What he can do is affect how sharply it breaks by speeding it up or slowing it down. And time after time, he can repeat, with the greatest possible precision, the exact motions that have brought him, and other knuckleballers before him, optimal results. Sometimes the outcomes are excellent, and sometimes, like now or in his magical 1995 stretch, they are astonishingly good for lengthy stretches. At others, such as when he was left off the 1999 ALCS roster after he seemed capable of blowing a 98 run lead in Game 4 of the ALDS, nothing he does seems to matter.

This is how life goes for Jose. He keeps the fingernails of his being trimmed and filed to exactly 3mm, he goes out of the figurative pitching motion and does his best to make the little tweaks required to keep the knuckleballs of daily life breaking hard over the plate. Sometimes the results are wonderful. Sometimes the Jason Giambis of despair, the Derek Jeters of adversity swing and miss and look as foolish as jesters. Sometimes, even thought they swing and miss, the ball evades the catcher and sneaks to the back stop, as seemingly good fortune melts into bad. But other times, there is Aaron Boone. Other times, Jose does the best he can, rotates the horsehide of his being forward by exactly one-fourth of a rotation, and still, there is no break, no movement. Whether it is a gust of wind from the frozen north, a butterfly batting its wings in Malaysia or a fan sneezing in section 23, the knuckleball fails to knuckle, the good intentions yield bad results and the ball makes an abrupt about face into the bleachers and into the emotional void of failure.

Jose cannot control his life any more than Tim Wakefield can control his knuckleball. He can only put faith in the soundness of his actions, the purity of his intentions and know that when his wins and losses are counted up at the end of the season, his record will be a little above five hundred. No, he may not be extraordinary, but he will be effective, he will be valued and maybe, just maybe he will hit that hot streak, that mystical spot at just the right time, and he can do something truly legendary.

2. With Hideki Okajima’s latest scoreless inning last night, that man who was once known as “the other Japanese guy” is now well on his way to being known simply as “OK.”

In light of OK’s emergence as the best setup man in baseball, Jose would like to revive a long dead, failed product. Now, Jose is always looking for opportunities to revive failed products ranging from PB Max candy bars (note: if only Pedro Borbon would return) to new Coke (note: is Steve Howe dead?), but this one is special.

In the summer of 1994, a series of chain letters mysteriously began to spread through Boston and perhaps the country like Herpes Simplex II through Daytona Beach. These letters spoke of a mysterious beverage that had brought great good fortune to those who consumed it and grave misfortune to those who had not. This beverage was called OK Soda. But despite the incredibly illegal marketing idea, despite the cool 800 number where on could hear stories of the great powers of the alterna-beverage as well as bird calls, the product failed. Perhaps it was because cynical Generation Xers realized that OK was secretly a product of the Coca-Cola Corporation, or perhaps it was because it tasted like a mix of Mountain Dew, Orange Fanta (note: the American kind, not the good European kind) and day old Folger’s crystals. Either way, no one drank it.
But now that there is, at last, a credible spokesman, it is time for OK Soda to make a comeback. According to wikipedia, it can be duplicated by mixing ¼ orange soft drink,¾ semi-flat Coca-Cola a splash of Dr. Pepper or Sprite. Jose calls on all Fenway stand concessionaires to start making this concoction as tribute to OK, our left-handed life saver. Let us all join together when he enters the game, no matter the hardship, no matter the burden and raise our glasses and recite the OK Soda slogan: With Hideki Okajima in the game “Things are going to be OK.”

Official Soft Drink of the Boston Red Sox?

3. There was a brawl last night at the Boston Pops and it got Jose thinking. Jose thinks a lot about the differences between high culture, like the symphony or professional wrestling, and low culture like baseball or cockfighting, and he thinks they could learn some things from each other.

• You never hear orchestras talking about how they need a new publicly financed symphony hall to remain economically viable or how the seats are too small and uncomfortable for modern people. Why is that? Don’t they know that if an institution is important to a city they can get a free ride?
  
• Jose knows the brawl wasn’t among musicians but what if it had been? If a clarinetist got into a fight with a cellist, would the rest of the woodwinds have to get involved to defend their compatriot? Would it be a rallying moment leading to better woodwind play for the rest of the orchestral season?


• They should sing Sweet Caroline before the last song at the Symphony.


• Why no wave at the Symphony? Not during the good parts with the brass, but during the boring string solos?


• Do professional musicians ever refuse to talk to jerk music critics?


• Jose is always quick to condemn performance enhancing drugs in sports, but so many musicians throughout history have used drugs to enhance their performance. From Miles Davis and pot, to Yo-Yo Ma’s crystal meth habit. Should Jose be condemning them too?


• Given that the Boston Pops is basically the Boston Symphony Orchestra minus the best player in each instrumental section and plus someone worse in each section, why are they so celebrated? Isn’t it a little like taking the staring nine and top two pitchers away from the Red Sox, and bringing up 11 minor leaguers to fill in. Jose wouldn’t care how charming and cute the manager was, he still wouldn’t want to watch it.

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