ALCS Game 6: Open Letter From a Dirty Bastard

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

1. An Open Letter to Curt Euro


Dear Curt,

You began today’s Sons of Sam Horn game thread by saying “Flip it on Jose, you dirty bastard. Keys and mojo as if your life depends on it.”

First of all flip is more of a west coast thing. People there asking for a U-Turn will say “Flip a U-Turn,” where was we East Coast folks will say “Pop a U-Turn.” Except we pronounce “U-Turn” “YEW-WEE.”

Second, Jose is not a bastard. His parents were definitely married when he was conceived. He is also not dirty. His hygiene isn’t perfect, but it’s not like he is Kevin Millar or something.

Long story short, you have made Jose feel bad. Jose had listed all of the nice things he was going to do for you now that we are best pals, and you go and call him a dirty bastard? Well, there goes the KEYS thong for Shonda at Christmas time, or as we Unitarians of Jewish extraction call it, the Winter Solstice with something about the Maccabees thrown in and a Christmas tree because they’re kind of fun. (Note: Maccabees would be a good name for a chain of Jewish delis in the Applebee’s style. They could serve fun drinks and really low quality latkes.)

But here’s the thing. You can make it up to Jose. You can.

First of all, win the game. That’s the easy part. The other part will help with the winning. Jose has created personalized, life-affirming inspirational messages for each and every member of the active roster. Jose is writing them, all you need to do is go to Michael’s or some craft store and get some glue and sparkles and calligraphy markers so that you can make them look nice for everyone.

Don’t act like you don’t have time. Beckett would do it. This is important. We’ll start with the starting line up and work backwards.

Dustin Pedroia: Everyone makes fun of you because you are short, but that’s okay. After all, people made fun of Napoleon for being short too, and look what he did. He conquered most of Europe at the cost of hundreds of more than a million lives.

Wow, you’d better get cracking if you want to catch up. Start with Fausto Carmona.

Kevin Youkilis: With Kapler and Stern gone, you are now left to do the work of three Jews. You’re not even close to a Minyan. Also, you know that in the bible, Sampson got his strength from the long hair on his head, not on his beard right?

David Ortiz: Carry on

Manny Ramirez: You get a huge amount of crap in the media for saying what we all know is true. If the Red Sox lose the world will not, in fact, end. And you deserve credit for recognizing that as much as we love baseball in this town, and as deeply as we care, it really is not the end of the world. Unless we lose the game because the spaceship has beamed you up to take you back to your home planet. Then there’s a good chance that it is the end of the world.

Mike Lowell: A lot of people say you’re the oldest looking 33 year-old they’ve ever seen. And while this may be true now, rest assured that this is only until Lindsay Lohan turns 33.

DJ Dru: DJ, you have taken a bigger beating in this town than perhaps any non-criminal player Jose can remember since Jack Clark. If Jose can offer some friendly advice, try not to go in to bankruptcy this off-season. It wouldn’t look good.

Jason Varitek: Everyone on earth thinks that the “C” on your chest is because you’re the team captain, or maybe, if they’re not hockey fans, they think it stands for catcher. Only Jose knows that it is really a sign of your devotion to the programming language “C.” Thank God, you’re not devoted to Pascal, because that would look really silly on the front of a jersey. (Note: Alternative theory. Varitek wanted the speed of light to be his jersey number but 299,792,458 m/s didn’t fit.)

Jacoby Ellsbury: Try not to ever get fat, because if you do, people will start calling you the Ellsbury Dough Boy.

Julio Lugo: Jose just learned that your first name in Spanish means “July” and that your last name is that of a city in Galicia, Spain, famous for its 3rd century walls. Jose would feel better right now if you would change your name to Octubre Boston. Thanks.

Rococo Crisp: Jose knows that it must be tough being benched for a big game, but look on the bright side, you will have a chance to get to know Eric Hinske a lot better.

Alex Cora: You are the utility man right? So can Jose talk to you about his electric bill?

Eric Hinske: You’re a weird dude. You haven’t played that much this season and yet you have two of Jose’s absolute favorite plays of the year, the diving catch and the Tito Santana style flying forearm to Jorge Posada’s head. If you get anywhere near this game tonight, it had better involve decapitating Kenny Lofton and then making a diving catch of his head with arm outstretched.

Bobby Kielty and Doug Mirabelli: Jose would like to say something nice about both of you, but neither of you wears batting gloves, and you know what the television adds say “no glove, no love.”

Hideki Okajima: You know how you don’t look at the plate when you’re pitching and it works really well? Do you do that in other aspects of your life? Do you find sex is better with your eyes closed? Do you close them when listening to music? Do you look away when your wife is arguing with you? Jose is just asking because he loves your no-look motion so much that it inspired him to try looking the other way while driving. It didn’t work out so well.

Jonathan Papelbon: Everyone says you are a crazy bastard, but Jose just doesn’t see it. Really, who hasn’t done Riverdance in Fenway in spandex?

Mike Timlin: Jose knows you love the cammo, so he was thinking: Would MLB let you use a camouflage glove? It would help you hide the ball right? Or maybe it would have to be white with red stitching to do that?

Eric Gagne, Jon Lester, Javier Lopez, Manny Delcarmen: Just lay down a tight drum groove for the game. That’s it nothing else. Jose wants nothing from you in this game but your best impersonations of Buddy Rich, Gene Krupa or if you have to go rock, John Bonham. If absolutely necessary Lester can learn to play bass, but nothing else.

Daisuke Matsuzaka, Tim Wakefield, Josh Beckett: You guys are all starters, so with the possible exception of Wakefield there is little chance that any of you see action tonight. Still, on the off chance that one of you does have to pitch, Jose wants you to remember that pitching in relief is only different from starting in the same way that doing dishes is different from cooking dinner. It’s still part of the same evening, but instead of getting to experiment and improvise, you spend your time cleaning up after someone else’s mess.

And then there’s you Curt Euro, our starter for the evening. What possible advice, what words of wisdom, could Jose give you? Well, none. But he can quote words of wisdom from a dead German, in this case, Bertold Brecht in his play The Caucasian Chalk Circle

All mankind should love each other,
But when visiting your brother,
Take an axe and hold it fast,
Not in theory, but in practice,
Miracles are wrought with axes,
And the days of miracles are not past.

Hear that Curt? The days of miracles are not past, Kevin Millar is right, the comeback from three to one down can happen, but only, only if you bring what you need to chop down the Indians.

Your pal,

Jose

P.S. I predict the Red Sox will win tonight. Just need to work that first person singular magic.

2. Correction: In the KEYS for Game 2 of the ALCS, Jose incorrectly asserted that Cleveland Indians pitcher Fausto Carmona had sold his soul to the devil in return for superior pitching skills. This is not true and KEYS TO THE GAME would like to apologize for the error.

While a transaction did occur, it was not a direct sale as suggested. Rather the devil purchased an options contract on Fausto’s soul, allowing him to acquire the soul at a future date for an agreed upon price.

However, noted options trader and Red Sox owner John W. Henry is reported to have purchased the option on Fausto’s soul and is expected to exercise it at approximately 8:20 PM this evening.

Again, we regret the error.

3.The good news on Thursday night was that the Red Sox won to bring the series back to Boston. The bad news is that Jose’s mother got a flat tire. The good news is that the tire was replaced for free by the good people at Firestone. The bad news is that since the Red Sox won with a flat tire, we need to stick with it. So yadda, yadda, yadda. Jose is off to slash his mom’s tire.

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

Like a Locker Room Speech by Marcel Marceau

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

1. It is quiet here. It is painfully, relentlessly quiet. Denuded of the cracks and cheers the air is empty of vibration. All that remains to tickle the tympanic membranes, are those other sounds, the sounds so subtle, so remote, that they do not even exist to a man who is free from anything but the most monastic solitude. The heart thumps its regular rhythm, a metronome, infinite and plodding. Beneath the percussion is the slow gargle of blood tickling arteries and veins on its journey through the French horn of the circulatory system. And then there is the buzz. Like the whir of fluorescent light or the flapping of a mosquito’s wings, the buzz annoys, high and harsh, even as it calms by providing evidence of one’s continued existence.

Jose heard these sounds described once in a radio story about a composer who wrote a piece of music consisting entirely of rests. The composer went deep into a subterranean isolation chamber to hear true silence, the silence that burns like acid in one’s ears, and there, alone, he heard these sounds.

But Jose needs no subterranean cavern, no layer of the Morlocks, to succumb to this bitter silence any more than he needs an orchestra at rest. To him, silence is nothing more than the absence of baseball. And on the treacherous Wednesday off day Jose was left to its cruel neglect, given a taste of what shall come should the Red Sox lose again to Cleveland.

Simon and Garfunkel were wrong; silence does not “like a cancer grow.” Silence is not some foreign growth crushing organs with sheer bulk. It is more insidious than that. Silence like a virus spreads. It infiltrates just a few cells at first, then turns those cells into breeding grounds for its minions of quiet and despair. With each off day, the silence of the off-season penetrates more deeply, overwhelms more perniciously until there is naught but void.

But Jose will not yield to the silence. He will not bow to the bitch goddess inevitability; the silence cannot yet come. He will not allow it.

Sometimes even those sworn to silence, those who’s very being is defined by the absence of sound, must break their vows, must deny their essence to stave off the abyss. In 1976, Marcel Marceau, a man more famous for silence than any other, uttered the lone word “non” in Mel Brooks’ “Silent Movie.” More recently, Darryl and Darryl, the silent woodsman in the television program Newhart, are, in the series finale, so infuriated by the grating chatter of their wives that they scream their first word in the series “QUIET!!!” And in comic books, even the Inhuman King, called Black Bolt, who dares not speak because his voice can level cities, will utter a word when the situation is so dire that the silence must be shattered.

Jose cannot fall back upon the shock of the spoken word to rend the silence. Jose is verbose, and a word spoken would have no impact among the hundreds of thousands he has written.

All Jose has to tear apart the shroud of void, is one word, one slender syllable, that can have the impact of the mime aloud, or the mute come to speak. The day is dark, the silence is encroaching and the time for action has come.

I predict the Red Sox will win tonight.

2. The epic poems were nice, perhaps they were even actually epic, but they haven’t brought the Red Sox any wins, so away with them.

Perhaps, as Granny Melendez often suggests and Jose’s brother Sam confirms, these KEYS have been simply too long to read. So to hell with the verses as long as Dustin Pedroia’s swing and as plodding as Doug Mirabelli. Those days are gone. Rather than offering you one grand epic, Jose will offer a few short distinct poems, some merry little couplets for Game 5.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
Thank God we’re not starting D. Jonathan Dru.

Roses are red, dead ones are black,
Where is Millar? Let’s break out the Jack.

Marigold’s orange, lilies are white,
Why isn’t Ellsbury, playing in right?

Begonias are red, or their white or pink,
Seriously guys, you should start with a drink.

Grass it is green, bark it is brown,
You will come back, from three to one down.

Outfield is green, in, a burnt umber,
The bats will arise from their postseason slumber.

Poppies are red, they’re used to make smack,
It’s time for Pedroia to show us some sack.

Maples have leaves, in winter they’re bare,
Do you really think Manny just doesn’t care?

Pine trees have needles, oak trees have leaves
We need for our shortstop to pull up his sleeves.

Daises are red, when slathered in paint
Tonight young Josh Beckett will prove he’s a saint.

Hyacinth’s blue, except when it’s not,
Like back in ’04, let’s go drink a shot.

3. The Cleveland Indians’ Casey Blake was sharply critical of Manny Ramirez for celebrating by stretching his arms toward the sky after hitting a home run to pull the Red Sox within four runs in Game 4.

What a jackass. Does Casey Blake not recognize not only step 2, but also step 11 of the yoga movement the Sun Salutation? Or maybe he does recognize it and he just hates the sun. Does he know that the sun is where we get light and heat from? Does he know that plants need it for photosynthesis? It’s like, really, really important. And there he is just pissing all over the sun, like he’s so much better than it.

All, Manny does is give a friendly greeting to Ra or Apollo if you prefer, and Casey Blake gets all self-righteous.

Blake went on to say that Manny’s sun salutation was “so opposite of how I am.” So how is he exactly? Jose’s supposes that means that rather than offering a salutation to the sun, he would say so long to it after hitting a home run. Would he just say but and storm out the door? Would he sit down and have a long talk with the sun? Nah, he seems like the sort of guy who would send a text message to the sun. “SRY I CANT SEE U. KC.”

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

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.

ALCS Game 2: The Strange Story of Fausto

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

1. Part 1 Fausto’s Lament and Mephistopheles’ Offer

‘Twas two thousand and six, at the end of July,
And Fausto was staring up into the sky
At a home run that drifted up into a cloud,
“God, am I truly cursed?” he then wondered aloud.

“My fastball is fast, and it moves when I pitch,
Yet they crush with naught but a flick of the wrist,
And it flies, then I struggle, start losing control,
As I’ve let these damn Red Sox dig out of a hole.”

And he went home that night and he tossed as he slept,
Then he sighed and he struggled and quietly wept.
'Til two days passed and then he had won back the ball
“'Twas a fluke,” then he said. “I am not bad at all.’

‘Gainst these Red Sox, I’ll rear back and show them my heat,
And for us save a win, and for them give defeat.
So he reared back and tossed out a treacherous ball
And nailed a batter and caused him to fall.

The he plunked still another, a walk and a hit,
Thus, the alchemist pitcher was spitting the bit.
As two runs crossed the plate and his team lost the game,
Then he sulked and he felt ignominious shame.

When he crawled into bed and he pouted that night,
He cried to the Lord, “Can I do nothing right?
Then he heard a strange sound, sniffed a troubling smell,
Like the brimstone that smolders in fiery hell.

He looked at the floor, at the foot of his bed,
Sat a fluffy white poodle, with eyes of blood red.
“It’s a dog,” cries young Fausto and rubs on his eyes.
I’ve go to confess, this is quite a surprise,

That a poodle has into my bedchamber crept,
It must be the doorman, he’s kind of inept.”
Then the scent, it grew stronger, the poodle changed shape,
And there stood the devil, with horns, hooves and cape.

“I heard Doctor Fausto, you angrily call,
To the Lord in your search for a better fastball,
But I’m not the Lord, though I’ve power to lend.
Of course, I will want something back in the end.”

“Why’d you call me Doctor?” young Fausto shot back.
“And why would I deal with the powers of black
Ness and evil, as if I’m a simpering fool?
I know all about your dark realm and your rule

Over souls that are damned, thus to bargain with you,
Is really not something I’m looking to do.
Because what could you give me, that now I don’t hold?
I’m strong, and I’m sharp and I’m not very old.”

“Good Doctor,” the devil did calmly respond,
“I’m not here to offer you brunettes or blondes
or redheads or wealth or inferior stuff,
I just heard you yelling about how life’s tough.

And I thought I could offer what you truly need,
Not help with your motion or even your speed,
But something deceptive, a good change of pace,
A pitch from my realm that will help you save face.

A slider from hell, you can throw when as wish,
The batters will struggle like air breathing fish.
It will start like a fastball when leaving your hand,
But when batters swing it will fall to the sand

And leave the embarrassed and looking like chumps,
And you’ll win respect from the fans and the umps.
Yes, I’ll be your servant, your own ‘pitching coach’
On this humble Earth I will guide your approach.”

“And how shall I pay for this service you’d give?”
Said Fausto “I’ll never, as long as I live,
Sign a deal that will make be your stooge or your slave,
And to kneel on this Earth at your feet knave.”

“Well what about this?” then the devil replied.
“I’ll make you an offer and you can decide
If it’s fair or its foul, like an ump on the line,
And if you don’t want, it well’s that’s really fine.

You can give up your hits, give up run after run
Go back to the minors, I’m sure you’ll have fun.
But before, you’re so righteous in sending me off,
I’ll make you an offer, that won’t make you scoff.

I’ll give you this slider, be your coach on this Earth,
And I will take nothing, for what it is worth,
‘Til you come to a moment of unrivaled joy,
Where you’ve pitched a game that will surely destroy,

Your opponent, a game that’s so fine and so good,
That ultimate bliss will be yours, understood?
Then insects shall rain on your joy and your bliss,
Then I’ll come and I’ll snatch up your soul with a kiss,

And you’ll come back with me and have to obey,
Be my servant, and pitch for my team when we play
‘Gainst the Angles, the heavenly team from the sky,
Who I cursed just last week with a case of pink eye.

But, if bliss never comes and if joy’s never reached,
And my rep as a prophet is badly impeached,
Then you will owe my nothing, however you pitch.
And I’ll stay on this Earth and I’ll work as your bitch.

So what say you Fasuto, so vain and so proud,
Will you take my offer and am I allowed,
To give you this gift that will make you an ace,
Or will you reject me and spit in my face?”

And Fausto pondered and thought of the good
Of a slider that left naught but splintering wood,
And imagined that this deal, it might be the one,
As ‘ultimate bliss,’ it cannot ever come.

“So I’ll get a great pitch, and I’ll be Cleveland’s ace,
Since bliss shall not come, I will stay in God’s grace,
And this fool of a devil will not take my soul.
He’ll just sit there and squirm as I get on a roll.”

“Mephistopheles,” Fausto Carmona declared.
“I will take up your offer, for I am not scared.”
Then a thick poof of smoke and a sickening thud
And there was a fountain pen dripping with blood,

And a thick sheet of parchment, outlining the deal,
Satan waited for Fausto to sign, which would seal,
Them in contract together, and sign it he did,
Satan laughed his eyes burning, and said “Then I bid

You goodnight Doctor Fausto, until you next pitch,
And I’ll give you the slider, that will make you rich.”
With a stamp of his hooves, first his left, then his right,
The devil did disappear into the night.

2. Part 2 The Gretchen Tragedy

It was 2007 and Fausto pitched well,
And he lived as we wished and had no fear of hell,
For he knew he would never know ultimate bliss,
Even holding his lover and sharing a kiss,

She’s a groupie who he had met out at a bar,
Then they screwed in the back of his luxury car,
He had seen her before, but she hadn’t seen him,
Because she liked the stars who were bright and not dim.

And he’d struggled last year, and he’d not been an ace,
So if he’d asked her out she’d have smacked up his face,
As she flirted with Hafner and Sizemore and such,
A bit, with Martinez, although not too much.

But this year when he pitched with slider from hell,
She started to see Doctor Fausto as well.
She came up to him and said “Buy me a drink?
I’m Gretchen and you’re Doctor Fausto, I think.”

And he kept pitching well ‘cause his slider had bite,
But then one tragic eve Gretchen started a fight
With poor Fausto, she begged him to come to her house,
And meet her old mother, a miserable souse.

He consented, but not without pouting and hate,
Because, truth be told, he had another date
For that evening, with whom he’d been hoping to score,
But for Gretchen, he guessed he would not start a war.

So they went to her house and they met her old mom,
As mom sucked down a drink that she called a car bomb.
But young Fausto was horny, for he’d planned a date,
So he whispered to Gretchen “Hey why should we wait,

To get busy, I think your mom’s gonna pass out,
Then we’ll go to your room, and I’ll whip it on out.”
But Gretchen was wise for she’d seen her mom drink
Thus responded, “She’ll last for a while, I think.”

But Fausto knew lot’s about drinking the booze,
Thus he thought “I know of a drink I can use.”
So he took some Tequila, some vodka and gin
And mixed in Unicum, Hungarian sin,

And brought it to mama a big frothing glass,
Then mom was unconscious, collapsed on her ass.
So then he and Gretchen snuck up to her room,
And made some remarkable va-va-va-vroom.

Then they came downstairs, and the went to the door,
And saw that the mom had fallen to the floor.
With a frothing of mouth and a drooping of head,
It quickly emerged that old mom, now was dead.

In following weeks, well the story got worse,
As Gretchen began to fall under a curse,
She threw up a lot and she didn’t feel well
Her innards they felt like the fires of hell.

So she went to the doctor to see what was up
And he asked her to go and pee into a cup.
When she asked why the doctor had done what he did
He said “Congratulations, your having a kid.”

Meanwhile Fausto was pitching with low ERA
And the Indians surged and they readied to play
‘Gainst the Yankees in Cleveland in Game Number Two
And then Fausto was pitching, so what could he do,

When he heard from his Gretchen, her medical news?
He said, “I’m the father, I think I refuse
To believe that, after all, you have been around
So no I ain’t gonna see no ultrasound.”

But Mephisto, he sent to look in on his girl,
And he sat near her bed, gave his moustache a twirl
And said “Gretchen, I think you’re in trouble by dear,
Our boy Fausto he is a big leaguer I fear.

And you’re just a woman, his object of lust,
With badonkadonk butt and a hell of a bust.
But you’re kicked to the curb now, you’ve nothing to give,
And I think that young Fausto won’t care if you live
Or you die as long, as you stay quite far away,
And, oh I don’t think I would bother to pray,
For you’ve sinned every day, and that’s rather a lot,
So I think that I’ll take you where fire is hot.”

Though Gretchen was shattered, she couldn’t be budged.
Thus Satan he yelled at her “You are now judged!!!”
And she cried as she thought of her loss of her love,
Then she heard a voice calling her up from up above.

“She is saved!” boomed the voice from the heavens on high
And she smiled although she continued to cry.
“And you devil,” God said, “Now be gone lowly knave
I’m not Joe Borowski, I know how to save.”

3. Part 3 The Pact is Concluded

Young Fausto, by Lake Erie was on the mound,
When he felt a strange feeling, both sad and profound,
Like something was lost, yet a burden was lifted,
So he pitched ‘gainst the Yankees as if he were gifted.

He mowed the Yanks down, he pitched a full nine,
But was troubled as Satan did send him a sign.
The game it was close and he gave up a run,
If his team couldn’t score, then he couldn’t have won.

He would lose, take an “L” in the box score that day
And his heart would grow heavy his mind would go gray,
But the insects descended in sickening clouds,
And with wild pitches a run was allowed

That tied up the game, and gave Fausto a chance,
To twirl with his slider and finish the dance.
So he fought through the flies, cause he knew they were friends
And he pitched to the inning that usually ends,

A ball game, unless the score stays even, tied,
At which point the bullpens will have to decide,
Who will win? Who will lose? Who will conquer Game 2,
And thus Doctor Fausto had nothing to do,

But relax and reflect on his brilliance that night,
How he’d owned the Yankees with throws from his right,
Arm of God. “But wait then” he suddenly thought.
My arm’s not from God it is certainly not.

Oh what have I done, I fear something’s amiss,
Did I just for a second, fell ultimate bliss?
“Yes you did,” said a voice, with its familiar call,
But the body was that of his friend Asdrubal.

“I’m Mephisto, that’s right,” said his teammate in gray.
“Who else could have S-D-R-U in his name?”
You felt perfect bliss ‘cause you mastered the Yanks?
Since I let you do it I expect some thanks.

Of course, you were foolish to feel such great joy,
It’s not like your looking at Helen of Troy.
You mastered a team that is good but not great,
But you felt that great joy, and, well, that sealed your fate.

And now your soul’s mine to do with as I please,
So now’d be a good time to fall to your knees.”
“Don’t send me to hell, cause I can’t stand the heat,”
Begged poor Fausto beginning to concede defeat.

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout fire,” Satan said with a grin,
“I prefer to use irony to punish sin.
So you will go to hell, but it won’t be all flames
No I’ll just let you pitch in ALCS games

Against Boston, with Ortiz and Manny and Lowell,
And laugh as you dig yourself into a hole.
Can you deal with the lightening fast Lugo on Crisp
When I take your slider back. What did you lisp.”

“Oh please Satan don’t take that one pitch from my arm,
These Red Sox are deadly and they’ll do me harm.?
“That’s why it’s called hell, so what can I do?
Except let you pitch against poor J.D. Drew.

But even that fellow who’s struggled so much,
Against you tonight will find the magic touch,
To crush balls to center to left and to right,
And then if you’re lucky, it will end your night.

Perhaps you will learn then, perhaps, you will strive,
And know that you’re not the best pitcher alive.
Perhaps in the spring of the following year,
You’ll play ‘gainst the Angles and they’ll sooth your fear.

They’ll burnish your ego and polish your soul
And take you to heaven and make you feel whole,
And up in God’s Kingdom perhaps you’ll pitch well,
But now facing the Red Sox, well, welcome to Hell.”

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

ALCS Game 1: The Factory and the Saint

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

1. Picking on the Indians would be easy. It would be incredibly easy. Jose could do all of the requisite casino jokes, and that dot versus feather thing that taunts two completely unrelated ethnic groups at the same time. He could even claim that the Trail of Tears runs not from Georgia to Oklahoma but from Boston to Cleveland. As the series goes on and Indians hitting struggles, as it surely will, Jose could further exploit the Columbian confusion between those indigenous to the Americas and those from the subcontinent, by suggesting that the Indians have outsourced their hitting to Bangalore, where a .266 hitter like Travis Hafner can be hired for a mere $10 a day. From there, it gets worse, much worse.

These are easy jokes to make, painfully easy jokes, and they are the inevitable consequence of the Majors not only continuing to have a team named the Indians (note: which is borderline) but to allow them to continue using the incredibly racist, yet oddly seductive logo of Chief Wahoo (note: which is well over the line). But it is not the right line of attack for mocking this Cleveland squad.

This Cleveland team is an opponent worthy of respect. For starters, they vanquished the fearsome Yankees, their number one starter is famine resistant and they are immune to insect infestation. (Note: Jose has a new theory on the bugs. Back when Jose was a propagandist for the agricultural biotechnology industry, he was constantly pitching these magic crops called Bt crops, Bt corn, Bt wheat and so on, which were immune to many insect pests. Basically, scientists had spliced a gene from a naturally occurring soil bacterium called Bacillus thuringiensis, which is toxic to many insects, into the crops. Is it possible that Cleveland is a BT ball club? Have they had bacteria spliced into their genes to make them insect resistant? Maybe someone can convince George Steinbrenner that the Indians are BT, and then Geroge will spend all winter keeping Jeter and friends locked up in a lab while shooting BT plasmids into their arms, possible resulting in the creation of a whole breed of Yankee freaks… you know more so.)


But Cleveland has other potential advantages too. This will be the first ALCS involving anyone named Grady since 2003. Whatever the Red Sox do in this series they, absolutely must not allow Cleveland Centerfielder Grady Sizemore to make any bullpen management decisions for Tito. (Note: Yes, everyone on earth is doing the Grady thing, but what did you want Jose to say, that this will be the first ALCS involving a player named Jhonny since Johnny Damon forgot how to spell his own name? Don’t laugh, you know Damon screws up sometime and spells it like that?)

Cleveland also still has clubhouse attendant Frank Mancini, who Manny Ramirez tried to bring to Boston when he signed. Not only, is Mancini probably mixing Manny’s protein shakes for any Indians who asks, but he has given pairs of Manny’s batting gloves both used and unused to Cleveland first baseman Ryan Garko. Jose doesn’t even want to know what he’s doing with Manny’s old jockstraps.

As you are beginning to see, the Indians have some serious strategic advantages over the Red Sox in the event of drought, infestation and clubhouse attendants.

This means that not only can the Red Sox not depend on any match up advantages in the above categories, but that if they are to win this series, they are going to be stuck relying on having superior hitting, starting pitching, relief pitching and defense.

Yes, it’s scary but before you start panicking, there is one statistically important category in which Boston solid trounces Cleveland—number of Indians. In Jacoby Ellsbury, the Red Sox have the only full-blooded American Indian in the majors today, and one of only 48 in Major League history, by Jose’s count. Ellsbury, the Majors’ first Navajo, is the first full-blooded American Indian in the bigs since the Lakota tribe’s Bobby Madritsch pitched 4.1 innings for the Mariners in 2005 and the first American Indian to bat since Lumbee catcher Dwight Lowery had 7 At Bats for the 1988 Twins.

Frankly, the only way the Indians can even hope to counter the Red Sox’s advantage in American Indians is if they start knitting scarlet hosiery while in the clubhouse, and you know what? Jose doesn’t think they have the needles for it.

2. This could have been the “Battle of the Brothers.” It could have been the baseball equivalent of Cain vs. Abel or Kane vs. The Undertaker, but Bud Selig wouldn’t have it. No, when Cablevision tycoon Charles Dolan, brother of Indians owner Larry Dolan tried to buy the Red Sox from the Yawkey Trust, old Bud put the fix in, or so they say. He had direct it to a “hyper competent owner” with a “deep understanding of the game.” What a shame. We could have had the man whose son hired Isaiah Thomas as GM of the Knicks as head of our team, instead.

This raises the interesting question of how on Earth this splendid Cleveland team was assembled with a Dolan on watch. Larry Dolan as Charles’s brother, is, siply enough, the uncle of Charles’ son James, who has led the disintegration of the Knicks. Ergo, Larry should have about 25% of the same DNA as James. Did he somehow avoid the poor judgment of general managerial talent gene? (Note: Is that gene dominant or recessive? Are there multiple alleles?) If James were running the Indians, he would never have hired the sound of mind Mark Shapiro to build the team. Who would he have hired instead? Well, the temptation is to think that he would have gone on the Isaiah model and hired a beloved star who turned everything he touched to crap, Pete Rose maybe or Jose Canseco, but Jose doesn’t think it would have gone that way. Jose suspects he would have hired former Mets GM Steve Phillips as the least competent GM available and then promptly traded Fausto Carmon for Victor Zambrano.

3. This was going to be the musical section of today’s KEYS, where Jose parodied one of the great hits of C&C Music Factory in honor of Cleveland starter C&C Music Sabathia. But then Jose looked up the lyrics to the Factory’s greatest hits, “Things that Make You Go Hmm…” and “Everybody Dance Now” and realized that aside from the refrain, he has no recollection of how either of those songs went, and he’s pretty sure no one else does.

This left Jose without a third KEY with a beat you can dance to, so he decided to go for the next best available C.C. First he thought he would do a parody of a Surgeon General C. Everert Koop anti-smoking lecture, but then he realized that not only is Koop short one C, but that the rhythm of his anti-smoking lectures was almost completely undanceable. Thus, Jose went on to a third option, C.C. Deville of the glam band Poison, and Jose figured he could parody their greatest hit “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” But why would Jose bother to rewrite the entire song when only the refrain really matters. You know it.

Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song
Every rose has its thorn

But what the hell can Jose do about it? How can he change even that refrain to describe a chunky lefty with a slanty cap?

The best Jose could come up with was

Every rose has its thorn
Matsui’s is looking at porn
Just like every Indian’s gonna look forlorn
Every rose has its thorn.

And let’s be honest, that’s awful. Yes Hideki Matsui is famously a porn addict, so that’s kind of funny, but he doesn’t even play for the Indians, and what the hell does anything there have to do with Sabathia.

And then it hit Jose. He’s been focusing on the wrong name for the entire time. Rather than getting wrapped up in the name C.C., he should have been focusing on the last name all along—Sabathia is absolutely close enough to use Black Sabbath, for that to work.

And Jose knows War Pigs super well since it is in Guitar Hero II, and it lends itself to fat jokes! So without further adieu, a musical tribute to C&C Black Sabathia Music Factory.

For those of you who don't know the music.

Carsten Charles on the mound
He must weigh three hundred pounds
Got his cap a bit askew
Abe’s half blind, what’s his excuse?

Can his infield scoop the ball?
How does one say Asdrubal?
Kenny Lofton’s speed will smolder
If he don’t mess up his shoulder., Ninety nine yeah.

Mosey Nixon seem so far away
From the hitter he once was
Why would he see pitches from the right?
Pitch him lefty just because

Time will tell the power of their arms
Pitch Borowski just for fun
Man has got a scary E-R-A
Wait until the blown save comes, yeah!

Games could go as long as Proust
C.C.’s Gretchen now to Faust –Oh
That don’t rhyme cause it’s said Proost
Mispronunciation’s loosed.

And if he leaves with a lead
It’s Borowski all weak-kneed
Red Sox onslaught can’t be staved
Unlike Gretchen he’s not saved
All right now.

And there you go. Admit it an ALCS game is just not an ALCS game without at list thinking about it’s connection to German epic poetry.

Tomorrow: Why Goethe’s Wanderers Nacthlied (note: Wayfarer’s night song) is about Manny’s base running in night games.

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.

ALDS GAME 2: Angles in the Outfield, History on Parade

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

1. Let’s review how we got here from there shall we? Yes, it will be as confusing one of those mapquest maps that directs you to go from Back Bay to Allston via the Callahan, Sumner and Holland tunnels, but this is important; it is the playoffs after all, and we need to do it.

So let’s get to work and review the series of appalling events that led to Joe Melendez, your humble servant, starting the Sons of Sam Horn game thread for the first game of the American League Division Series and now to him starting the thread for the second game.

(Note: Since most of the historical record has been destroyed in Nixonian fashion (subnote: by a secretary), it is particularly important for Jose to document the tragicomic events of October 3. It is also the reason that most of the of the times are wrong.)

1:00 AM Jose is haunted by demons.
1:02 AM Jose contemplates whether he is really being haunted or accidentally took peyote.
1:30 AM Jose writes about demons.
1:45 AM Jose writes clever comparison of ALDS and Norman Conquest of England. People will love this!
1:55 AM Jose throw together crappy third KEY as usual.
2:00 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:01 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:02 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:03 AM SosH server is down
2:20 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:21 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:22 AM Jose decides that if no one is going to start a game thread he might as well proofread KEYS.
3:00 AM Proofreading complete. Errors found 1,600.
3:01 AM Jose ponders how there can be 1,600 errors in a 1,500 word piece?
3:05 AM Jose concludes that he had at leas 700 distinct errors in spelling Houshmanzadeh alone.
3:06 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
3:07 AM Sleep, blissful sleep.
8:00 AM Jose wakes up .
8:01 AM Jose smiles. There’s a game today.
8:05 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
8:30 AM Jose leaves for work
9:00 AM Jose arrives at work
9:01 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
9:02 AM Coffee break.
11:00 AM Return from coffee break.
11:01 AM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
11:32 AM Posts KEYS on keystothegame.blogspot.com
11:35 Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
11:36 AM Jose contemplates starting game thread on SoSH.
11:36 AM Jose concludes that only a complete moron would start the game thread when it has been made abundantly clear that Curt Euro is going to start it. Moreover, why would Jose want to have game starting responsibilities when it means he has to rush through writing KEYS rather than posting them at 2ish on game day?
11:37 AM Jose rewards his clear thinking with additional coffee.
12:00 Noon Lunch meeting.
1:40 PM Unbeknownst to Jose some guy he has never heard of starts game thread declaring the start of the Red Sox-Indians series.
1:41 PM 60 posters point out that unless this guy has invented a way back machine and taken us to 1995, 1998 or 1999 match up in thread title is wrong.
1:42 PM Thread starter claims he will take us back to 1999 in his DeLorean, so thread title will be correct.
1:43 PM Same poster starts “Views and News” thread called “Iraq: Putting down the Indian insurgency.
1:44-2:45 PM Abuse. Constant abuse.
2:00 PM Jose returns from meeting
2:01 PM Jose checks to see if SoSH game thread is up yet.
2:02 PM Jose sees game thread, concludes that yes, he must have inadvertently taken peyote, because that is the only explanation for why he is seeing that some guy he never heard of has started the playoff game thread and why is throwing up.
2:03 PM Jose waits patiently.
2:04 PM Jose sends moderator Sille Skrub message asking if this is going to be the game thread.
2:05-2:45PM Jose waits impatiently.
2:46 PM Jose says to hell with it and posts KEYS in idiotic, now seven page thread.
2:51 PM Curt Euro posts in now eight-page thread saying. “I was going to stop by and start the game thread since we did it back in 2004, but once Jose posts his keys, in my mind, that game thread is on.....
Let's put together a nice streak, win, say, 11 games before anyone else and I'll throw alcohol all over those of you that attend the parade.....”
2:52 PM Jose blushes.
2:53 PM Jose sends Curt Euro message to everyone he knows
2:54 PM Jose posts message from Curt Euro on keystothegame.blogspot.com
2:55 PM Jose fantasizes that if Curt Euro has read KEYS there is a chance, just a chance, that Red Sox players also call Papelbon strike outs “pap smears.”
2:56 PM Jose contemplates sending Curt Euro evite to candlepin bowling party.
2:57 PM Jose starts telling liberal colleagues he has a Republican friend now.
2:58 PM Jose draws stick figure picture of Jose and Curt in sailboat. They are having fun!
2:59 PM Jose thinks about pointing out flaw in Curt's slide step to him.
3:00 PM SoSH moderator AlNipper49 deletes thread.
3:01 PM Jose feels like Sean Connery in movie “Medicine Man” after finding, then losing cure for cancer.
3:03 PM As he cannot prove that Curt knows who he is any more, Jose contemplates spending life chasing after ants or whatever like Connery in stupid movie.
3:04-3:24 PM Crying, lots of crying.
3:25 PM First suggestion that Jose start the game thread.
3:27 PM Gay community declares support for Jose starting game thread.
3:32 PM Jose starts game thread, leads with Curt Euro quote
3:33 PM First complaint that Jose has spelled Angels “Angles.”
3:34 PM Jose comes to jarring realization that either most Americans are woefully undereducated about pre-Norman England or most people don’t actually read KEYS, Jose concludes that either way, country is doomed.
3:34 PM Panda!

And that was pretty much how we got here from there. After all the chaos, all the madness, the Red Sox won, the Angles lost (note: no, Jose will not spell it right.) and Jose is writing this account while listening to the Yankees go down in flames, rather than yachting with super models, because, now Jose has all of this responsibility as a game thread starter.

2. Since there pathetic lack of knowledge about the Angles was exposed in the Game 1 thread, Jose has decided that he has a responsibility to use his position of high moral authority as game thread starter to educate you people about the importance of this quirky little tribe and what its history means for the rest of this series. Now, sit up straight and listen.

Did you know that according to wikipedia, the term Angle may originate with the form of fishing called “angling?” If this is so, doesn’t it mean that we need to be careful? Couldn’t it mean that perhaps Game 1 was nothing more than a juicy worm of victory used to entice Red Soxdom onto the barbed hook of overconfidence and ultimately into the frying pan of ignominious defeat? (Note: Frying pans of ignominious defeat are great for cooking on high heat, they are non-stick.)

Did you know that a legend proclaims that Pope Gregory I saw a group of Angles for sale as slaves in the Roman market and, impressed by their fair complexions said ““Non Angli, sed angeli” ("Not Angles, but angels") and resolved to convert them to Christianity? In 597 AD, Pope Gregory moved to fulfill his vow sending a monk called Bede who would start the gradual conversion of the Angles over the next 200 years. So what does this tell us about the Angles of today?

It suggests that perhaps the ultimate key to their defeat is the Christian faith. Bede arrived to convert the Angles in 597 and a mere 569 years later, their pagan beliefs extinguished and forgotten, they fell to the also Christian Normans. Could this possibly be coincidence?

In applying this lesson of history, the Red Sox appear to be off to a good start. The Los Angeles Angles squad appears to be completely devoid of pagans and animists. The critical thing then, is to ensure that the embrace Christianity wholeheartedly between now and game time. Maybe we can send the “Heaven or Hell” guy from Kenmore Square down to talk to them. He has pamphlets! And a sign!

Of course, maybe the fall of the Angles has nothing to do with Christianity? After all, there are lots of Christians in the world and they seem to be doing pretty well. Perhaps the most important event is when the Anglo-Saxon king Harold Godwinson is alleged to have pledged support for William of Normandy’s claim to the English throne after being shipwrecked at Ponthieu.

So here’s the plan:

1. Get Vlad Guerrero onto one of those harbor booze cruises or possibly the ferry to Hull.
2. Shipwreck him on Spectacle Island
3. Make him swear fealty to the Red Sox.
4. If he relents, shoot him in the eye with an arrow. Geena Davis can do it! She’s an archer and has Boston connections.

Look, Jose knows this is tedious, but it’s worth discussing. Just remember what Karl Marx said, history repeats itself “the first time as tragedy, the second as farce, the third as baseball.”

3. At about 4:00 on the day of Game 1, Jose received a call from his friend Mark.

“You’ll never believe it,” said Mark excitedly. “I have an extra ticket to see the bunraku.”

“What?” Jose replied.

“Bunraku, Japanese puppet theater.”

“Nice!” Jose exclaimed. “Jose loves puppets be they Japanese, sock or political. When we going?”

“Tonight.”

“You didn’t say that. Tell Jose you didn’t just say that,” Jose said channeling Booker T.

“Yeah tonight.”

“Nooooo. Dear God Noooooo. Why? Is there no God? You score Bunraku tickets and it’s tonight? Jose has Red Sox tickets.”

“You’re going to go with the Red Sox over the puppets?” said Mark skeptically.

Mark is not a baseball fan. He is like a baseball thermometer. He is so indifferent to baseball, that if he knows about a baseball event, it is proof that it has crept from baseball event to general cultural phenomenon. The 2007 Red Sox have apparently not reached the point of expanding the mercury yet.

“Look Mark, Jose loves baseball for the same reason he loves bunraku. Both feature chanting and Japanese people.”

“It’s still not the same,” Mark pouted. “Where in baseball do you get to see lifeless objects move?”

“You’ve never seen DJ Dru have you?” countered Jose.

“Well baseball still doesn’t have four foot tall creatures of amazing complexity.”

“Dustin Pedroia.”

“The manipulation of inanimate figures by grown men?”

“DeMarlo Hale with Doug Mirabelli on base.”

“Well, I guess it really can’t compete,” agreed Mark mournfully.

“No it can’t,” respond Jose, but neither can the Angles, so it’s all good.

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

ALDS Game 1: Angles in the Outfield, Demons in the Bedroom

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

1. It is one A.M and the cool licks of Herbie Hancock are jarred by the syncopated staccato of demons rattling the bedroom door.

They are the same demons. They are always the same demons.

But somehow they look different. Like a great aunt with a horrific new hairdo, these demons seem uneasily intimate and distressingly foreign all at once.

After a few moments of anxious contemplation, the difference becomes clear. The demons have changed the names on the backs of their jerseys. The blood red numbers framed in the ghostly gray flannel are the same, but the names are all wrong.

There’s #78, wiry and cruel as always, with the letters A-N-X-I-E-T-Y stretched across his back. Funny, it used to read S-T-R-E-S-S didn’t it?

And there’s #86, a stout, pile of a wraith with “Fear of Failure” crowded onto his back like so many Houshmenzadehs on Cincinnati Orange. But Jose is not fooled for even a moment he knows the spook called “Self-Deceit” when he sees him.

But it is the third demon, that is the most frightening—Demon #03—“The Past.” The back of his frock may read “The Past,” but as he should know better then anyone, the past leaves insidious traces of what once was, and the uneven shading of the fabric where the word “History” once stood, betray the work of days gone.

The door was never an obstacle for the demons. It was not locked, no chair barred its opening, and even if Jose had taken precautions it would not have mattered. They are, after all, demons, and privy to the latest in door opening magicks.

“Bad things are going to happen,” hisses Anxiety, a thin mist of noxious saliva spraying from his mouth. “Errors will be made, meatballs will be thrown and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Oh, it’s true, it’s so true,” Fear of Failure interjects. “And when things go wrong, my word, it will be Aww-full.” His sing song tone makes Jose wince. “And then it won’t matter what’s been done already. Who will care that they won the division? Who will care that they had the best record in baseball? They are going to fail and it will be so, so Aww-fullllllll.”

And then The Past steps forward, the bastard, and readies his speech, his haunting. But he does not taunt. He is not a taunter, not some petty ghoul like his accomplices. He is a scholar of disappointment and tragedy.

“Congratulations,” he offers smugly. “Really, Jose old boy, I mean it. Your fellows avoided the collapse, much to my surprise, and congratulations are most definitely in order.” He pauses, preparing a change of tack.

“But do you think that’s all I have in my satchel? 1978? Do you thing that’s the most wicked charm I can conjure? You know better than that. You’ve seen the balls through the wickets, the phantom tags, the extra inning home runs by light hitting nobodies. There is so much opportunity for mischief, so many passion plays to reenact.”

It is frightening to be sure. Jose prefers not having his rest interrupted by haunting, and he shakes, shivers even, beneath his covers.

And yet he responds.

“You are a terrifying bunch, Jose must concede. Absolutely monstrous.

And in many ways you may be right. Things could well go wrong for the Red Sox this October.” Jose prepares a strategic fortification behind the safety of the passive voice. “Pop ups could be dropped, bases could be left loaded and pitchers might be left in one pitch too long. These are all distinct possibilities.”

Jose jerks up right, switching from his cocoon of blankets to a more aggressive posture.


But do you really think, you antiquities, you relics, that our fate is in your hands?

"Jose knows why you’ve, refined, shall we say, your jerseys. It’s slight of hand isn’t it, a little subtle misdirection? You know as well as Jose does that your power comes from belief and that if no one believes you, misfortune may still come, but it will be nothing more than the bitter bite of luck and completely unrelated to your insidious efforts

These pseudonyms are nothing more than a reaction, as a silly reaction at that, to the events of 2004. 2004 exposed you for the grifters you are, and now you are trying to rebuild your strength, to recreate an illusion that has been hopelessly shattered.

But really, did you thing that Jose wouldn’t figure it out? If you really wanted to frighten him, you should have sent demons named ‘eighth inning relief’ and ‘offensive production from the catcher.’ Now, begone, Jose has some serious sleeping to do."

And with that icy dismissal, the demons snarled and hissed, before suddenly disappearing in a puff of sulfurous smoke.

And then it was back to the norm, the open door, the only evidence of the infernal visit.

“Joes knows that you only have power if he believes in you,” Jose yelled into the void. “But he at least believes that you could have closed the door.”

And a tired Jose trudged to the door, and pushed it closed, before retreating to his cocoon, secure in the certainty that whatever would happen in the days ahead, it would be a function of skill, perseverance and perhaps even luck, but safely insulated from the demonic power of anxiety, fear and the past.

2. Three years ago tomorrow, Jose wrote about a playoff series startling similar to this one. He taunted Garrett Anderson about being no more effective than Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life, quipped about manager Mike Scioscia’s recovery from the radiation sickness that struck him on the Simpsons and expressed his well-warranted fear of Vlad Guerrero. And then Jose vowed that the Red Sox would conquer the Angles like so many angry Normans.

And conquer the Red Sox did, making the Angles their King Harold, with a David Ortiz walk off home run ending it as swiftly and surely as an arrow in the eye on the battlefield of Hastings.

But things have changed since then. Pedro is gone, Curt Euro is not the man he used to be, and The OC is playing, suitably enough, in the OC. But the 2007 Red Sox are not without their weapons. Most advantageously, is that in St. Josh a Beckett we have an honest to God Norman on the mound. The Beckett clan descends from the Gilbert of Thierceville, Normandy, a wealthy Norman merchant who fathered Thomas Beckett.

Just to clarify, for those of you who come to KEYS from wrestling perspective, Normans are not people connected to the unfortunately gimmicked WCW wrestler Norman the Lunatic. They are people from Normandy, France, and William the Conqueror, who ended Angle rule of England, was the Duke of Normandy.

So what does this tell us about today’s contest? If one looks at the record, the Normans are 1-0 against the Angles historically, so one should anticipate a Red Sox win today followed by five hundred years of intermarriage, the eventual merger of the Red Sox and Angles into one team, and then centuries of colonial rule over the Cleveland Indians.

3. In other news, it turns out that blackmail works. It works really well.

As you may recall, in an earlier KEYS, Jose attempted to blackmail his way to playoff tickets by threatening to send a KEYS thong to the shiny new wife of his regular ticket provider with a message about how “he like all of his ladies to wear these.” It would be a gross distortion of the truth about his previous thong purchase, but it’s blackmail not sworn testimony, so what do you expect?

Jose didn’t expect it to work though. It never works on TV. On TV, the blackmailee learns that whatever humiliation he has in store, it is a small price to pay to be out from under the thumb of the extortionist, and the blackmailer learns that crime doesn’t pay. In the real world, it turns out, this is not how it goes.

In the real world, the blackmailer asks for something reasonable, like playoff tickets, and the blackmailee gives in rather than deal with the hassle. Then the blackmailer instead of pressing his advantage to demand money or a car simply goes to the game and drinks a few beers. The blackmailee, not subject to ongoing harassment, never decides that the price is too high and thus never goes to the police. The blackmailer gets tickets, the blackmailee gets his horrible secrets kept to himself, and everyone is happy.

Having learned this lesson, Jose has decided that when he blackmails Angles pitcher John Lackey by threatening to reveal certain improprieties (note: Does Jose have anything on Lackey? Almost certainly not, but maybe Lackey will think he has something. That’s the beauty of blackmail.), he will not ask him to do something completely out of proportion, like throw the game. Rather, he will only demand that Lackey turn in his typical Fenway Park performance. Reasonable, effective, blackmailtacular.

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.

Twins in the Pen

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

1. Does Jonathan Papelbon have an identical twin? Jose knows he has a brother Josh who is in the minors, but they’re not twins. Do they look a lot alike maybe?

The reason Jose asks is that he’s got a really great idea—the Red Sox should focus on developing relief pitchers who are identical twins. Yes, Jose knows that even though twins share the same genetic code they are not the same people and that just because one brother is a standout closer does not mean that his twin will be, but that is irrelevant. You only need one twin who can pitch and one who can sit on the bench and be identical for Jose’s strategy to pan out.

Jose was at Tuesday’s game when Papelbon came in with two out in the eighth and got the final out on a first pitch pop up. The Sox added a few runs in the bottom of the eighth, so Papelbon was done for the night and Brian Corey came in to pitch. Corey was awful, he eventually got out of the inning, but not before yielding two runs and a ton of hard hit balls. Jose started hyperventilating at the thought that the A’s might some how make it a game and Papelbon would already be done for the evening. And that’s when it hit him. Like an apple falling before Newton or Archimedes hanging out in the tub, Jose had a moment of pure and profound vision and understanding—twins!

Imagine for a moment, if Jonathan Papelbon had a twin in the bullpen, let’s call him Demosthenes Papelbon. And let us imagine that Demosthenes was not a good pitcher. Let us even say that he was Toby Borland bad. Sure, Jonathan would be out of the game, but if the Red Sox needed him in the ninth, he could simply change uniforms and enter pretending to be his brother Demosthenes Papelbon. The DNA is the same, so how could anyone prove anything? This could even allow the Red Sox to play righty-lefty-righty in certain situations.

Jose has no idea why he never thought of this before. Twins have been used to great effect in other sports. Tiki and Ronde Barber have both been stars in the NFL, and referee Earl Hebner suspiciously replaced his twin brother Dave in a Hulk Hogan-Andre The Giant match up in 1988 thereby ensuring a win for Andre.

And with the steady increase of the numbers of twins born in recent years, why shouldn’t this be a strategy? And what about conjoined twins would they count as one or two players on the field? They could cover more ground couldn’t they. Okay, Jose is now addressing issues posed by a Greg Kinnear movie. He will stop this silliness.


2. Congratulations to the New York Yankees on clinching the American League Wild Card. You must have had a very nice time spraying champagne all over each other. Sure, you and your fans were critical of the Red Sox for celebrating the wild card like they’d, you know, won something in 2003, 2004 and 2005, but that’s fine. It’s not like hypocrisy is reserved for U.S. Senators or anything.

In fact, Jose would like to salute you by paraphrasing a quote uttered by President John F. Kennedy when meeting a group of Nobel Laureates. Kennedy said, though he is quoted a few different ways by different sources “This is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.”

Thus, in the spirit of your wild card celebration, Jose offers this toast to the New York Yankees.

Last night was the most extraordinary collection of alcohol that had ever been gathered in the Yankee clubhouse with the possible exception of when Mickey Mantle drank alone.


3. Baseball metaphors are great. They work for sex (getting to second base) they work for politics (a terrific speech is sometimes called “hitting a home run”), so why can’t they work for urination?

Small bladders are the curse of the Melendez bloodline. Jose, for instance, has the bladder of a nine-month pregnant woman. If he could change anything about his body, it would be the size of his bladder. Ergo, when Jose and his brother Sam go to a game together, there are likely going to be a few bathroom breaks. Which is why Tuesday’s game was so extraordinary. Jose only went once during the game, which is solid for a game where he had two beers pregame but none during the contest. But Sam, Sam performed the astonishing feat of going an entire game without going to the bathroom. From first pitch to last out, he maintained his poise, declaring only after the game was complete “Sam has pitched a no-hitter.”

This prompted some debate about whether this was really a no-hitter. Certainly there were some similarities. He did not talk about it in the middle for fear of jinxing it, and it probably provoked some anxiety by the ninth, but was it really a no hitter? Jose says yes. Whatever else it was, it was a grand achievement and deserves to be in the Urination Hall-of-Fame in Flushing, Queens (Note: Thanks Simpsons). What it was not, however, was a perfect game. After debating whether a perfect game would be not even thinking about urinating through nine innings, we concluded that the analogy seemed inadequate and too psychological. Ultimately, the achievement must be about what the body does regardless of the stresses on the psyche. In baseball a perfect game is no less perfect if the pitcher was nervous about blowing it.

Thus, we settled on defining a perfect game as not going to the bathroom from the moment one leaves home or work, until the moment one steps back into the safety of one’s home bathroom. It is rare, it is difficult and I suspect that there has not been one in Fenway Park history.

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