At almost 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, the Red Sox game in Oakland extended into its third hour. Maybe they won’t get swept by one of the worst teams in the American League. Maybe they will, and no one will care. Stay tuned.
On NESN, announcers Dave O’Brien and Jerry Remy just grilled on-field reporter Guerin Austin about her luggage on road trips. How many suitcases does Guerin pack? It used to keep me up at night wondering how many suitcases Guerin brings on road trips, but now I know. Guerin travels with one suitcase.
It’s been that type of season.
The Red Sox games—which usually dictate my daily schedule from April to October (hopefully)—have become incidental this season, a murmur in the background.
So here is a list of things, relatively speaking, that I’m finding more interesting than the Red Sox games these days.
- This morning, I took some pillows out of the dryer and placed them in a basket beside the washing machine. Apparently, this was the “dirty” laundry basket. My wife came downstairs, into the basement where I dwell—where the washer and dryer are located—and started yelling because “someone” put the “clean” pillows in the “dirty” laundry basket. I would rather listen to my wife explain to me, point-by-painful-point, the differences between the “clean” and “dirty” laundry baskets, and the existential peril that follows the inability to differentiate between baskets than watch the Red Sox game.
- I would rather listen to President Donald J. Trump deliver a six-hour eulogy at Roger Ailes’ funeral than watch the Red Sox game.
- One of my pet-peeves is banal discourse, particularly useless observations about the days of the week. For example, people who put on a histrionic sad face before lamenting, “It’s Monday.” Or the overzealous asshole who has to remind you “It’s Friday” while standing at the copy machine. I’d rather receive hourly updates about the condition of some arbitrary Gregorian calendar that no one will ever change than watch the Red Sox game.
- I would rather be strapped to a chair with my eyelids stretched, Clockwork Orange-style, and forced to binge-watch The Real Housewives of New York (with my wife adding commentary about the awesomeness of their footwear) than watch the Red Sox game.
- One of the painful scenes for me to watch is when Apollo Creed hits the canvas, unconscious after that Commie-beast-dickwad Ivan Drago murders him. Apollo falls flat on his face then humps the ground, once. Then he’s dead as hell. That last hump crushes me. Why didn’t Rocky throw the damn towel! Well, I’d rather watch that scene on repeat than watch the Red Sox game.
I could extend this list and have a manuscript the length of The Brothers Karamazov, but likely you get the point. This team, win or lose, plays with the passion of most grocery store baggers. They make sure the eggs don’t break but that’s about it. Boring.
If we stop watching, maybe Dave Dombrowski and the Red Sox brass will get the message. Yet, as long as there’s a “Sweet Caroline” to sing before the bottom of eighth inning, a brick to be bought or an $12.00 Bud Light to be spilled, all is well at The Bank of Fenway.
The Red Sox won 12-3, by the way. They weren’t swept by The A’s. Hooray. By the way, The Yankees are in first place.