Thank you, Big Papi, for summing up exactly how I feel about the Red Sox right now. They can't pitch. They can't hit. They can't field. They can't run the bases. They can't friggin' play baseball! Sadly, this tank job seems to be an annual tradition for the Red Sox, whether it begins in August or September. First place is slipping away fast and the Sox are on thin ice. They mailed in tonight's game against the Yankees plain and simple. Signed, sealed, delivered to Steinbrenner, Cashman, Girardi, and company.
Maybe it's time to trim those overgrown lumberjack beards that seem to be weighing them down. Or give them each a stress-relief toy phone to smash to bits. This is a team that has lost their mojo and wasn't built to last an entire six-month 162-game season. The World Series isn't played in June, Red Sox. There are no awards handed out after only 81 games. 2011 is not as long ago as you would like us to think. Please don't repeat that humiliating collapse. Late season heartbreak isn't mandatory, you know.
No comments:
Post a Comment