Starring Tim Wakefield.
Next time it's Tim's turn in the rotation, maybe they should just skip him and go straight to the bullpen in the first inning. Three innings from Mendoza, three from Terry Adams, one from Myers, Timlin and Foulke - I bet the Sox would have at least an equal if not better chance of winning. Don't get me wrong, I love Wakey and all, but he's been sort of Wasdin-esque this year, and on days when the Yanks win both games of a double-header the Sox don't need to be dropping games to roadkill like the Seattle Mariners.
I shouldn't blame it all on Wakey, however. The offense was apparently baffled by the Mariner's rookie pitcher whose name I don't remember but who I'm just going to refer to as Prison Tat. Either Prison Tat just had great stuff, or the offense came in ready to party after whipping the living shit out of Chokeland and instead of actually trying to work the count or get some hits, just offered up a collective shrug and went to sit back down on the bench. After Gabe Kapler grounded into that fucking double play to end one of the only chances the Sox had to get some runs on the board, Mike and I went to bed in disgust. We tuned into the Pats game on mute on the television at the foot of our bed and left the Sox game on in the living room so we could listen, and thus were spared actually having to see whatever horrendous error Manny made that allowed two runs to score. Unfortunately, we also missed Little Buddy's homerun in the ninth. Kudos to him for not phoning in a performance.
Yes, I know, they can't win every game. Yes, I know how hot they have been lately. But last night was a July/Francoma throwback scenario that I thought was over for good. Lose a game, fine. Lose it because you look half-ass, not so fine. Curt Schilling on the hill tonight. I have confidence.
It was pretty sweet watching the Colts lose on a last-second missed field goal. Nice and agonizing. Off you go, Peyton Manning, and have a miserable season.