And Now, A Minute With Andy Rooney

This Red Sox team makes me weary. So much talent, so much room for excitement, so much corresponding room for disappointment. Another wasted chance last night. The Detroit Tigers don't have a lineup that scares you. Josh Beckett was primed for a great start. Instead, he gives up five runs in the first couple of innings, and the Sox can't quite get it together. They teased enough with Youk's homer and a shockingly good seventh inning from Rudy Seanez before dashing those hopes with DeMarlo Hale's stunningly bad choice of sending Manny to his death at the plate instead of holding him at third. But yet I watch, and I get weary. Worse, I think this team is making me old. I feel old watching them. How old do I feel, you ask? Andy Rooney old. So Andy Rooney old, in fact, that I'm going to do the rest of today's entry in his quizzical and crotchety style.

Why is it that Jon Lester needs 68 pitches to get through just three innings, while Greg Maddux takes those same 68 pitches and gets through eight innings? That's the truth- Sunday night, Maddux went eight innings against the Giants in what looked like a fantastic pitchers' duel versus Jason Schmidt. He was only 68 pitches deep in the eighth when Grady Little pinch-hit for him. That would never have happened in the American League, of course. In the AL, Maddux would have been good for about 13 innings. This to me just underscores the incredible mental aspect to pitching. I've been a fan of Maddux for a long time, since the early-mid 1990s at least, because he's the guy who wins with his head. At 40-plus years old against major league pitching, he's probably 10 years removed from his last fastball that cleared 92 mph. But eight innings, two hits, no walks, no runs, 68 pitches? Pull up a seat, Messrs. Lester and Beckett. It's time to learn something.

Why is it that the most effective pitcher on the Red Sox over the past week has been a big, out of shape, over-the-hill surly fat guy who would rather be playing for the Yankees and drinking in some Hell's Kitchen (sorry, Chelsea) bar than having anything to do with his own team? Look at the final scores over the last week- even in the sweep against the Orioles. Our pitching has been completely awful. We're giving up seven or eight runs a game, and everyone's underperformed expectations. Except, of course, for Boomer. He provided the least likely bright spot in this pitching staff, going seven strong. I don't know if that's something to build around, but if you get past his exterior, he's actually not that different from Maddux that way. The postseason probability site has dropped the Sox to around 33%. Unless we get more pitching like Wells' last start, that's probably an optimistic number.

Why is it that Kevin Youkilis is called a Greek God? He's really lumpy, and not at all cut like a statue of marble. I guess it's because Billy Beane and Paul DePodesta were famously quoted in the book "Moneyball" as referring to the minor-league Kevin as "Euclis, the Greek God of Walks" on account of his insane OBP in the minors. One year- I think it was 2002- the two best on-base percentages in professional baseball belonged to Barry Bonds and Kevin Youkilis. Is there any doubt that Billy Beane lusted after this funny-looking guy? But now, Mark Loretta comes and punches a hole in our dream. A week or so back, after Loretta's game-winning hit off the Monster, Tina Cervasio interviewed Loretta about the key walk that Youkilis drew ahead of his hit. Mark said, and I'm paraphrasing, "everyone calls him the Greek God of Walks, but it's funny- he's not even Greek."

Why is it that the emotional leadership on this team is coming from a guy who was supposed to be washed up; a guy with an albatross of a contract that was just a throw-in on a questionable trade? I'll admit, during spring training, I was heard to say something like: "that persistent sucking sound you hear coming from Ft. Meyers is Mike Lowell." After his dreadful year last year in Florida and his really awful spring training, I was pretty sure his contract and hole in the lineup would pretty much make the Beckett trade a bad one. As it turns out, he's been nothing short of tremendous. He's both an offensive and defensive upgrade on the beloved Bill Mueller, and in the last week, he's taken this team on his back. With injuries to the dirt dogs Trot and Tek, and neither of the Dominican sluggers being real leadership guys, Lowell has been the guy. He injures both ankles on consecutive nights on foul balls, he gets hit in the head with a pitch, but he stays in the game and plays the best third base we've seen in a really long time. His game-saving stab in the bottom of the 9th Sunday night bailed Papelbon out in a major way. Until further notice, Red Sox Nation, your leader is standing over there in the hot corner.

Not had enough? I'll give you some more quickies. Why is it that the tallest, most hulking member of the Red Sox is the one with the cutest little-boy name? Wily Mo? We're supposed to be intimidated by a man named Wily Mo? Actually, yes. I suppose Coco Crisp may be in that contest also. Why is it that last night's loss, which put the Sox 2 games behind the Yankees, felt so much worse than when we were two games back Sunday morning? Why is it that the Tigers and the Twins, who are enjoying very good seasons by sticking with young pitching are universally applauded and the Red Sox, who are having a relatively good season, are crucified for refusing to trade their young pitching for a bigger name? Why is Wily Mo, who was supposed to be a lefty-killer, only hitting about .230 against lefties while killing righties to the tune of .350?

I don't have answers this morning. I only have questions. The worst part, of course, is that those questions are being asked in my head by that Andy Rooney voice. And that, my friends, is the worst thing of all.