Of course, Chris House is glad he's in Detroit

A few quick items while trying not to wonder what exactly "intestinal turmoil" entails . . .



I know I wasn't the only one playing the What-If game while watching Gary Sheffield pummel Red Sox pitching the last few days. Sheffield, as I'm sure you recall, last season expressed a desire to play for the Red Sox, which likely was a huge factor in Yankees GM Brian Cashman's decision to pick up Sheffield's option and trade him to Detroit rather than allowing him to defect to the the enemy. You have to wonder if Sheffield would be playing right field and batting fifth for the Sox right now (rather than J.D. Drew, whose ineptitude is even ticking off mild-mannered Joe Castiglione these days) if only he'd kept his mouth shut about his intentions. Perhaps it's because he has such a disdain for the Yankees now, or perhaps it's his fondness for Boston (something Michael Wilbon should take note of), but I kind of get a kick out of Sheffield these days, and I'd love to see him on the Sox. He's my kind of crazy.

I'm not worried about Manny yet. Slightly concerned in a Jim Rice-circa-'88 sort of way, but not worried. Nope, not yet.

Man, it drives me nuts when the Sox can't touch Todd Jones. His ERA just recently fell below 6.00, his K/BB ratio of just about 1 to 1 is atrocious for any pitcher, especially a closer, and he's got the same repertoire of slop that he had when he spent the summer of '03 getting lit up for the Sox.

Not only was I wrong about Dustin Pedroia, but I have to admit he's becoming one of my favorites. Tony Mazz hit it right on the sweet spot in the Herald this morning: Pedroia is Tanner Boyle from the Bad News Bears. In case you forgot, he's the shrimpy blond kid who yells at the Yankees (of course) after they beat the Bears in the championship, "Hey Yankees, you can take your apology and your trophy and shove it straight up your (three-letter synonym for Steinbrenner)." I can see Pedroia doing the same, can't you?

Jeff Bailey, meet Andy Dominique. Andy Dominique, Jeff Bailey.

Been meaning to say this for a while, but John Rish does a fine job on the Red Sox radio postgame show. He knows his stuff, is uncommonly reasonable, and best of all, has a low tolerance for the Budweiser-soaked morons who make up 80 percent of Mike Adams's callers. WEEI could use a few more like him.


Yes, I admit I had more fun writing this week's FOX column than usual, something that the talented guys at Yanksfan vs. Soxfan seem to have figured out. I actually thought the column would generate more of a reaction than it did from the Bleacher Buttafuoco types, but I guess they probably need someone to read it to them in order to get upset.

As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


This is the player I expect Jacoby Ellsbury to become.

Hoping to be back tonight with a look at where the Sox stand and where they may be heading, including my suspicion that they may pull off a trade no one sees coming, so be sure to check back in . . .

And yet Aaron Sele is nowhere to be found

For no other reason than because we're seriously jonesing for some baseball right about now, we offer you this: a vaguely defined, completely subjective, semi-Rotisserie-oriented list of . . .

TEN PLAYERS WE LIKE IN '07


Coco Crisp, OF, Red Sox: Coming off excellent back-to-back seasons in Cleveland, he got off to a fast start in his first season with the Sox . . . then busted his finger, came back too soon, tried to do too much, struggled mightily, then busted the danged digit again. He's entering his prime at age 27, and with less pressure (Johnny who?) and less responsibility (he'll likely bat 7th or 8th), we're expecting Year 2 to be his Boston breakthrough.

Gary Sheffield, OF, Tigers: He's playing for a manager he respects, he's got a fat new contract, and he's motivated to stick it to a former employer, in this case Joe Torre and the Yankees. Ask me, that's long been the recipe for a monster season from Chris House's sparring partner.

Ryan Shealy, 1B-DH, Royals: There's a reason the Red Sox have always coveted him - he can rake. He'll club 30 homers if the Royals give him 500 at-bats.

Felix Hernandez, SP, Mariners: The phenom known as King Felix seemed weighed down with all the Doc Gooden-in-'84 comparisons entering last season . . . and he was weighed down further, so to speak, by a conditioning regimen that consisted of sleeping, engulfing Doritos, and watching TV. But he reportedly will report to spring training in fantastic shape, and if you've seen him pitch, you know he has the best stuff of any big-league pitcher not currently employed by the Minnesota Twins. And he's only 20. The sky remains the limit.

Jhonny Peralta, SS, Indians: He's 24 and stacked up .292-24-78 numbers in '05. So Omar Vizquel's successor can't possibly be as bad as he looked at the plate (.257-13-68) and the field (16 errors, Merloni-like range) last season . . . can he?

Ian Kinsler, 2B, Rangers: While your fantasy league homies slobber (justifiably) over future batting champion Howie Kendrick, it's this young, offensively gifted AL second baseman who might wind up being the draft-day bargain at second base.


Robinson Cano, 2B, Yankees: Call it hyperbole, but after watching him hit .342 with 15 homers at age 23 - and scaring the hell out of me every time he came up in a key situation against the Sox - I'm convinced he's going to be a lefthanded-hitting Paul Molitor. He may want to reconsider his wardrobe choices, however. Jeter sure does make his double-play partners wear some curious outfits.

Brad Hawpe, OF, Rockies: Given the unlikely ascension to fantasy superstardom of Matt Holliday and Garrett Atkins the past two seasons, we feel obligated to have at least one Coors Field hitter on this list, and the 26-year-old quietly put up .293-22-84 numbers last season.

Josh Beckett, SP, Red Sox: Provided new pitching coach John Farrell can drill through the sediment around his thick skull.

Aaron Harang, SP, Reds: Okay, so he was really a sleeper last year . . . but man, did anyone realize that the 28-year-old Oakland discard led the National League in strikeouts, and tied Derek Lowe among others for the league lead in wins? Talk about a quietly brilliant season.

. . . AND ONE WE DON'T

Trot Nixon, OF/Gimp, Cleveland: Nick Cafardo tells us Captain Dirty Cap "worked out harder this offseason that he has in many years." Well then, I'm convinced. Ol' No. 7 is absolutely poised for a monster comeba . . . whoa, wait a minute. Pardon my naivete, but I was under the impression real Dirt Dogs always kept in shape. You mean the back injury he got while driving was the result of him having a midsection that looked more like a keg than a six-pack? On second thought, good riddance, slug.

There isn't one of these lines/That I would erase

Picking at a few leftovers while wondering if David Eckstein secretly longs to be a dentist . . .

• Though I suppose it means we'll be inundated with another half-dozen groan-inducing books on the genius of Tony La Russa, I truly was happy to see the Cardinals win the series. Not only are they a remarkably stable and accomplished franchise - truth be told, I didn't realize this was their 10th title - but their fans are famously classy. That was never more evident than in 2004, when a certain baseball team that matters somewhat around here won the Series on their turf, and St. Louis folks not only were gracious losers, but the Cardinals allowed Sox fans waiting in anticipation outside Busch Stadium to come inside and watch the celebration they'd been waiting years to witness. If that isn't justification for wishing them well in turn, I don't know what is. (Although the fact that the Official Muse of TATB is a Cards fan certainly might qualify. She's the one on the right, wiseass.)


• Taking just a couple more wild swings as we lament the end of baseball season, and dreading the cold days spent awaiting the next one's arrival. Here's hoping the rumors the Sox have significant interest in Mark Mulder are false. He's not nearly the pitcher he was in his Oakland heyday, and it's doubtful he will be again. His stats have declined for a few years now, his fastball is fat, he has a chronic hip problem, and he's coming off shoulder surgery. Do we need another Steve Avery here? Bad idea, Theo. Bad, bad idea . . . How bummed must Tigers fans be about losing the clinching game of the World Series to one of their all-time enigmas, Jeff Spicoli-Weaver. Come to think of it, I can't imagine Yankees fans, Dodgers fans, or Angels fans were too thrilled watching him finally pitch up to his ability, either. Are we sure that wasn't really Jered Weaver out there? . . . The Yankees did us a favor this week by picking up Gary Sheffield's option, with the intention of trading him and keeping him from the Red Sox. Sheffield is aging, divisive, and judging by the postseason, rapidly declining. Let him become someone else's problem . . . Hard to believe now, but the Blue Jays thought so little of sore-armed Chris Carpenter that they released him after the 2002 season. Think they'd like to have him paired up with Roy Halladay at the front of their rotation these days? . . . Though I can't resist the temptation to note that half of his eight "hits" were due directly to pure luck or poor defense by the Tigers, I can't argue against Eckstein's selection as the Series MVP. I just wish Fox and every damn middle-aged knight of the keyboard would quit portraying him as America's Gritty, Gutty Mascot. The over-the-top fawning over this oh-so-adorably average ballplayer almost rivaled the verbal backrubs Captain Fist-Pump used to get every October. You know, back when the Yankees made the Series.

• Yup, I think I've booted the Dunkin' Donuts large iced coffee regular habit for good, thanks for asking. It's been a dozen days without a single relapse, the hellacious headaches have subsided, and you would not believe how much more alert I feel. Of course, I need six naps a day now and I'm still sniffing glue like a madman. But let's just work on one vice at a time here.

• Hey, what say we call this segment Four Downs With Finn! Awesome title, huh? Whaddaya mean it's taken? 1) Sure, Peyton Manning still looks like he cuts his hair with toenail clippers, but man, did ever expose that speedy and talented Denver defense today. Well done, Doofus Spawn of Archie. And thanks for getting it all out of your system this week. 2) Got a chuckle out of watching the Colts' sideline react to Adam Vinatieri's predictably perfect game-winning boot. You didn't need to be a lipreader to decipher what Tony Dungy was saying: "Right . . . down . . . the . . . middle." It was quite a contrast to their playoff loss to the Steelers last year, when Idiot Drunken Vanderjagt's last-second kick shot off in the direction of French Lick, and virtually everyone from Dungy to Manning to Johnny Unitas In The Great Beyond reacted the same way, mouthing, "He missed it," followed by a disgusted headshake, like that was just what they expected to happen. I'm not sure the Patriots made a mistake in letting him go - I'm a Gostkowski Believer - but given their recent history, the Colts certainly were wise to sign him. 3) Tell me you didn't enjoy watching Romeo Crennel remind Eric Mangini of his not-so-lofty place on the Parcells/Belichick Coaching Tree this afternoon. Take that, son. Now go do your homework. 4) Oakland 20, Pittsburgh 13. Now that's what you call a lingering Super Bowl hangover.

• One more NFL rant: I believe in Reggie Bush and remain convinced that Houston made a franchise-altering blunder in passing him up for generic Mario Williams, but jeezus, I think he has more combined commercials and ESPN highlights than he has total yardage this season. I believe the hype with this kid . . . but does there have to be so much of it?

• Further proof that Paul Pierce respects the game more than the old-school, better-in-my-day wheezers and geezers would have you believe: "I think [my teammates] really have to understand the history of the game. And Red is a big part of the history of the whole NBA — not just the Celtics, but the whole NBA." Amen.

• Thanks to Jim's warbling on The Office an episode or so ago, that atrocious so-called song "Lovefool" by the Cardigans has been stuck on repeat in my ear for a good week. Well, I'm glad to report that it has at last been muted . . . and replaced by Jon Bon Jovi's latest piece of earnest, irresistible American cheese, "Who Says You Can't Go Home." You bet I'll take that tradeoff. At least hearing Bon Jovi reminds me of cruising the mean streets of Bath, Me. during high school, kicking ass and taking names. Okay, so I was usually candlepin bowling, chickening out on making a move, and hanging out in the McDonald's parking lot . . . but you get the point. I was a cowboy, on a steel horse I rode, and I was wanted dead or alive, dammit. The song's tolerable as far as earworms go, and yeah, I'm glad Bon Jovi somehow endures. Anything to make these old bones feel young, people.

As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


Because sometimes, it really is random.

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• I'm hoping to write something worth reading on Red Auerbach Monday afternoon, then live-blog the Bethel Johnson Bowl Monday night, so be sure to check in during the game if not before. Programming on this station is always subject to change, of course, depending upon the sleeping patters of a blue-eyed angel/devil of a 2 1/2-year-old and her 2-month-old bro, but I'll do my best to get both posts cranked out.

They're a sinking ship! Get it? See the picture? It's a metaphor! The Sox are a sinking ship!!! It's sinking!!! AHHHHHHHHH!!!! (Glug-glug-glug . . .)

Sorry for that outburst there, folks. (Deep breath.) Seems the jackals are already getting to me. I turn on Sports Final tonight, and there's ol' Lobel declaring in all his orange day-glo smugness that tonight's 7-6 loss to the Devil Rays was the most "devastating loss of the season, by far." Naturally, his precious Panic Button, a gimmick about as funny as Lenny Clarke, is visible over his left shoulder. I can't believe he didn't play a clip from the "Titanic" while he was at it. He must be slipping.

It's funny, I used to wonder what certain TV/radio types would do with themselves after the Sox won a World Series and the fanbase achieved a new level of contentment. Well, now I know. They pretend nothing has changed - and if Sox fans aren't miserable, well dammit, they're going to do their best to make us so. Please, remind me to avoid 'EEI today on my commute. I can hear the Big Show bloviating already.

Now, I'm not denying that tonight's loss stinks and sucks, and if not for the foibles of Fausto Carmona and the otherworldly heroics of David Ortiz, we'd likely be sweating out a legitimate slide here. But a quick glance at the standings tells us the Sox are 20 games over .500, two back of the Yankees, a half-game out in the wild card. In other words, right where we expected them to be back in Ft. Myers. Don't you know this is how it happens every damn year? The Sox lead the AL East through much of the summer, the Yankees take it back late, and then all important matters are settled in the postseason.

Only then will we get our answers. For now, some questions . . .

• What the $*$& is up with the bullpen? Seriously, dude, what the #*$*&@*#*?

Here's my solution: Julian Tavarez needs to get himself gone, immediately. He's the human black cloud - every time he comes into a game, some atrocity happens, even if he's pitching adequately. Send him back to St. Louis, or Elm Street, or wherever he came from, and get his wretched karma away from this ballclub, before he accidentally pokes out Big Papi's eye during a walkoff celebration or something. As far as the rest of them? They all have their flaws. Mike Timlin is 40 and meatball-prone, Manny Delcarmen and Craig Hansen are feeling the growing pains, and Rudy Seanez never should have been offered a contract (though he has pitched well lately). Even Jonathan Papelbon has been human lately, blowing four saves in the last month and a half, and yes, I feel like a leech for even mentioning that. Listen, there isn't a bullpen in the big leagues that isn't having issues of some sort. There's enough to work with here that I believe they'll get it right, despite Al Nipper's involvement.

• Why is Josh Beckett on the cover of ESPN Magazine this week?

Because their in-depth feature on gritty, gutty Matt Clement fell through? Seriously, the timing of this is more than a little curious - does that rag publish three months in advance or something? Even an unabashed Beckett fan - quit staring at me! - has to concede that his first season in Boston has fallen somewhere between enigmatic and disappointing. The consensus opinion is that he'd become an elite starter if he'd just knock off the macho Nuke LaLoosh b.s., stop trying to throw his fastball at 110 miles per hour, and actually pitch a little when he gets into trouble. It makes sense. But it also strikes me as too obvious, too convenient. This mule can't be that stubborn . . . can he? You'd think after giving up 31 homers - one more than Manny has hit, for perspective - and watching his ERA teeter around the 5.00 mark, Beckett would have been open to adjustments long ago. Yet there he was, serving up straight 96 mph fastball after straight 96 mph fastball in his sixth-inning meltdown against Cleveland the other night, and I know I'm not the only one who noticed that neither Terry Francona nor Nipper visited the mound until the Indians had strung together seven straight hits. I almost wondered if he was left out there to learn a lesson. Then again, he doesn't seem to have learned any so far. The reasons for his bizarre, practically bipolar pitching performances remain a mystery.

• Can we use the injuries as an excuse?

Nah, we'll leave that to the Yankees, who somehow have convinced every teleprompter-reading nitwit from Bristol, Conn., to happy-happy joy-joy McCarverland that their ability to hang around in the AL East despite losing Gary Sheffield and Hideki Matsui is a wonderful tale of overcoming adversity. Give me a bleeping break. The Yankees have a payroll of approximately $280,987,992.83, and that's not including what they shell out for A-Rod's psychologists, Jeter's cosmotologists, and Giambi's chemists. I know Yankee fans have the curious desire to be both favorites and underdogs, but even they must admit that being able to purchase a Bobby Abreu for fistful of not-so-magic beans is a massive advantage that only they and their accountants hold. You have overcome nothing, okay? If you're looking for sympathy for the devil, obviously you've come to the wrong place. Maybe you'll prefer how the brilliant dudes at Fire Joe Morgan put it:

I am the 2006 New York Yankees! Here is my line-up:

CF Johnny Damon. $13 million.
SS Derek Jeter. $19 million.
1B Jason Giambi. $18 million.
DH Gary Sheffield. $13 million.
RF Bobby Abreu. $13 million.
3B Alex Rodriguez. $25 million.
LF Hideki Matsui. $13 million.
C Jorge Posada. $9 million
2B Robinson Cano. $381 thousand.

(Total for starting nine position players: $123 million. More than the Red Sox' 25 man-roster.)

How is this relevant? Well, when you have a lineup of players worth $123 million, and you lose $26 million worth of player, you still have a pretty (expletive) good lineup. The crazy patchwork lineups the Yankees have been trotting out there, full of (I'm not the good) M. Cabreras, A. Guiels, (the wrong) B. Crosbys, and A. Phillipses, are still anchored by the very expensive Misters Jeter, Rodriguez and Giambi, to say nothing of the fairly expensive Senors Damon and Posada. Spare me the what-a-goddamn-hero-Joe-Torre-is routine. The lineup at the beginning of the year was lethal -- a mockery of the game of baseball, in fact. No "winning culture" accounted for its ability to withstand the loss of two of its better hitters -- and not, I might add, its two best.

Have I mentioned that I love those guys? They make me so happy . . . I am the McCarver to their Jete-Jete. Hey, do you think they'll come out with an FJM cologne? (Ahem.) Um, anyway . . . about the Sox injuries. No, they are not an excuse. David Wells and Keith Foulke are back, Clement was ready to bury himself in a hole on the mound, Tim Wakefield apparently will return sooner rather than later, and Wily Mo Pena may well prove an upgrade on the powerless Trot Nixon. And while Jason Varitek's knee injury is the most painful blow, it's not quite as painful as it would be if he had hit with any authority over the past year, and I have to admit I catch myself wondering why so many pitchers underachieve on his watch. I don't mean to diminish his importance - even if the Captain Dirt Dog stuff is overstated, he obviously means a lot to the Sox for a myriad of reasons. But if Javy Lopez has any fuel left in the tank - a big if so far, admittedly - the Sox will survive until he returns.

• Who's driven?

Why, Jetes is! Also, he smells like grapefruit.


• What happened to the cute little birdy who captured the Fenway Faithful's hearts as he attempted to teach Doug Mirabelli how to take a secondary lead?

Ate him. (Burrrrp . . . dee-licious!) Actually, rumor has it that one of his predatory enemies did him in the day after his moment in the sun. But no worries - you'll be able to buy an autographed copy of his carcass on Remy's website any day now, and for the low, low price of $29.95.

• Should Theo have done something - hell, anything - at the trade deadline?

A trustworthy middle reliever would have been swell, but I'm beginning to wonder if those exist anymore. Other than that, I don't know what the Sox were supposed to do, especially given the rampant mediocrity that made up this year's market. To put it another way, I'd rather gamble that Wells has something left to give rather than take on someone like Jon Lieber. Heck, I'd rather take my chances with Foulke than acquire another journeyman from the Tavarez/Seanez assembly line. As for what they almost did, well, I give zero credence to the Clemens rumors - I suspect that was just the Hendricks brothers being the Hendricks brothers. (Jimi and Elrod, I believe Leigh Montville once called them.) I was opposed to the Lester-Hanson-Crisp for Andruw Jones swap . . . at least until word came that the Sox would then wheel Jones to Houston for two-time 20-game winner Roy Oswalt. Now that would have been an intriguing move. Oswalt has been the unsung ace in baseball the last few seasons, but he reminds me, in stuff and fragility, of Tim Hudson, and I'm not sure that bodes well for his future. Ultimately, I talked myself into believing I was glad the deal fell through . . . but give me, oh, six beers and I might change my mind. (Come to think of it, that's the exact philosophy that caused more than few awkward moments at UMaine back in the day.) I do know this much: as all the rumors flew, I dearly missed having Gammons around to help sort the fact from the fiction.

• How's it gonna be?

Man, you know times are desperate when I'm quoting Third-Eye Blind song titles - we usually leave that pop-hipster '90s nonsense to Bronson Arroyo around here. So let's just put this as plainly as possible: The. Sox. Will. Be. Fine. As long as Papi and Manny keep doing their modern-day Ruth and Gehrig routine, offense will not be an issue, and Schilling and Papelbon give them the top-of-the-rotation ace and door-slamming closer they lacked last year when, by the way, they made the playoffs for the third straight season. I remain convinced they'll make it four, and you can insert your own semi-charmed life reference here.

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As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:



No, dear, he's no relation to Big Papi.

Three random 1989 Donruss baseball cards

I'm in the midst of banging out a Pedro epic for Monday/Tuesday. Let's just say I don't quite get the damn fools who think he deserves to be booed at Fenway, and so I'm really hoping to do this one right. In the meantime, a trio of cards for your perusal:


Man, look how skinny the Iron Sheff was then. He really must have worked hard (coughcoughcreamcoughcough) and spent hours throwing around weights in the gym (coughcoughclearcoughcough) to become the jacked and pumped slugger of recent seasons (coughcoughI'm gonna kill you, R. Kelly!coughcough).


Did you catch ESPN's all-day "countdown clock" to the Rocket's season debut Thursday? It was an annoying gimmick with no redeeming qualities beyond promoting the network. In other words, it's guaranteed ESPN will be hammering us over the head with it the next few months, at least until they come up with something even more obnoxious. (I'm pretty sure I just described the career trajectory of Stephen A. Smith in that last sentence there.) If they absolutely must give me a countdown clock involving Clemens, how about counting down the days until the Rocket hobbles out of a crucial game in the third inning with a groin injury and a 6-0 deficit? Now that's worth looking forward to.



It's been a somber few days here at TATB headquarters. First, we rehashed the Len Bias saga, a more emotional trip in the Way-Back Machine than we expected. Then, just a few days ago we learned that Ron Jones, a star-crossed former Phillies outfielder, an ex-Maine Guide, and an original TATB Hall of Famer, died at age 42 of a brain hemorrhage. Turns out he passed away a couple of weeks ago, but we only learned about it when seeing his name under the In Memoriam header on the baseballreference.com homepage; after a quick Google search, I was dismayed to discover his death barely warranted a mention in the Phillies notebooks in the Philly papers. In the scattered items I've written about Jones on this site and elsewhere, I spent most of my words touting Jones's gifts as a hitter. He batted .371 once in the minors, and his sweet lefty swing and stocky physique drew comparisons to Tony Gwynn. But I'd like to think that in at least one article/post, I emphasized that as good a player as he was, he was an even better guy. During his season and a half in Old Orchard Beach, Jones made a habit of hanging around in the parking lot after Guides games, sitting on the hood of his pickup truck, enjoying a beverage or two, and shooting the breeze with anyone who wanted an autograph, to talk baseball, or just to say hi to a ballplayer. My dad and I got to know him well enough that he'd greet us by name when he ran into one of us at the ballpark or around town. (He lived at a hotel just a few dunes down the beach from our house, and I can't count the times I saw him playing pinball at the downtown arcade.) Jones was just a kid then, 21 or 22 years old. Baseball stardom seemingly was only a few line drives away, and yet he was content being a regular guy, another friendly summer resident in a small community. That impressed me, and after multiple knee injuries aborted his big-league dreams, I always hoped his uncommon humility helped him accept the way his career ended. Sadly, that wasn't the only thing that was over much too soon.

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And because we always try to end on a happy note here at TATB, a bonus card:



That right there is the innocent smile of a young pitcher who has not yet heard of one David Americo Ortiz Arias.