Spring this Springing Game

This blog has now become nothing more than a dusty paperback in the deep stacks of the reference Internet—you  know,  where you aren't allowed to take an URL past the swinging doors? Wouldn't that be cool? Swinging doors? I think I'll put some on my next apartment. Is that OK, Babe?


Here's what you need to know about my Spring: 


1. An open notice applicable to the male turkeys in north-central Pa.: I'm not such a bad shot that you can survive a point-blank miss, run away 25 yards and then WALK BACK TOWARD ME to see if, no really, I might conceivably be a randy hen, and not a guy in camo with 2 oz. of #4 shot in a 3" mag. 12 gauge. (Beyond full freakin' choke.... shotgunners, you know what I'm talking about here....)


I suppose this also means that when turkey-calling, I no longer sound like a poultry-ized Roseanne Barr. I'm certainly no Angelina Jolie yet, of course... maybe my purrs, putts and yelps are more along the lines of a 10th-grade Hillary Swank: 

You remember her? The fascinating, pansexual older girl who could either allow you to steal Second or just as easily pound the crap out of you?  Truth be told, the young jake who found his death at the end of my scatter gun was definitely an 8th grader in terms of turkey. True Story. He's on ice now and the kid and I are due to eat him in mere moments. Maybe for Fathers' Day. I'll let you know how he tastes, but hell, everything's good draped in bacon, right?


2. For your consideration: The 2012 Red Sox. Never before has it been so enjoyable to watch one's team struggling in the cellar of the division. At this writing, we're tied for Fourth (again) but have (again) dropped below .500 in the W–L column.


But why is this even ok, Blaiser, never mind "fun," you ask? With so many of our alleged A-List guys on the DL, it's opened the door to a great crop of callups.  I give you Will Middlebrooks at Third, and a disappearing act, starring The Other Guy, in the Outfield, including Daniel Nava, Ryan Sweeney, Scott Podsednik, possibly Ryan Kalish again (would be his first time back in The Show since 2010), and maybe even the concessions guy who works the Green Monster stands, who hit .300 in high school and whose legs are fly-ball worthy after logging 8,500 miles a season hawking hot dogs. Don't think for a moment that he's not ready to vault over the wall and repel down into Left if any one of these guys goes down. 

The reason why I don't mind our struggles this year is A) I'm a Red Sox fan and 2) it's been great watching these guys get their chances and make the most of them. They have Gelled As A Team—in a way I think the pampered star guys seldom do.  Sadly, they're starting to visit the DL as well, apprently trying to emulate big brothers Jacoby Ellsbury, Cody Ross and the $20 million non-entity Carl Crawford, who apparently refuses to suit up until he wins a blue ribbon with his latest needle-point/whittling project. Oh, and he has a bridge to sell you. Leads from Fenway, directly across the Charles River, and ends at the front door of the Old Folks Home For Retired 30-year-old Baseball Players Who Scored Unimaginable Money And Were Never Heard From Again. Apparently he played 130 games last year (worst batting average of his 10-year career), but I think it was a league-wide hallucination. Either that, or he's still working for Joe Maddon and conducting Tampa Bay espionage behind enemy lines.

Who needs him when we have the bright future of this guy? 

This is the smile of a guy who didn't even make Spring Training camp and yet still found himself facing the reigning AL MVP (Verlander) in the lead-off spot come late May. Later in the day, with the bases loaded and two outs, he worked a 3-2 count and then smacked a 99-mph scorcher for a bases-clearing double. Red Sox go on to win. Call me foolish, but in my book of Zany Optimism TM that at-bat is worth a week of losses.


Plus, there was a rare Matsuzaka sighting the other day; the strange thing is that instead of hanging around the bullpen in a hoodie, Brother Daisuke was actually facing opposing hitters in an actual game of Actual Major League Baseball. When he surfaces for air on the hill, it's a little like Nessie has come to pitch (genus: D. Kayesis Irregularis). I'm working on a Master's thesis that examines his ERA when using a black glove, a red glove or a tan glove. You can check it out, and finding a pattern is the stuff of scholars.... Whatever. He's the most humble Major Leaguer I know (having had lunch with most of them), and so I'm going on record that if he'd like to date my sister, that'd be ok with me. 

3. Back in March, this blog turned 3; uncoincidentally, Mr. Spock turned 81. I somehow missed that in the last posting, which hit the Internets in the late Cetaceous Period... you all are dears for staying with me... Funny thing about Lenny: Did you know his photography career led to this?

Said photo is, without question, full of Awesome on ...... illogical levels.

That's all I got for today. If you're anything like me, well then your Spring also has included one part Wild Turkey, three parts baseball, one part Star Trek. If you added crushed ice and a micro-splash of Angostura bitters to that mélange, you'd have a pretty damn fine cocktail. 

Thanks for reading. And please remember that even though John Edwards may have been acquitted for being the most massive douche-nozzle ever, it doesn't mean you'd want him running your Scout Troop.