Of late, baseball of the Tiger variety has been making me feel like the Mad Hatter, so I'm going to slosh some tea into a few broken cups and expose you all to blasts of rabid lunacy.
Peavy's blue eyes are rather piercing as he looks out of the dugout in the 7th with a Sox runner on third and only one out in a game that's knotted up at 4. As Beckham stands in, I fantasize that his hand is broken in five places from that earlier hit-by-pitch. He's handling the bat fine, so, guess not.
Dotel wears his cap like a trucker--lightly perched atop his head. I hate that. Give me Max Scherzer's old school look, por favor.
Tenth pitch of Beckham's at bat. He loops one out to center, and it is deposited safety into Austin Jackson's glove. Insert a bunch of strained, but relieved hysterical laughter here. Aside number two, I was instructed by my 13 year old, who looked over my shoulder and exhaled dragon breath in my face, to change what I had typed as Ajax to Austin Jackson. I TOLD YOU THERE WOULD BE RAMBLING VAGARIES!
I know people have just had their stuff and lives threatened by a natural disaster and such, but I selfishly can only think of the fact that I still look for Magglio Ordóñez when the camera pans the dugout.
Miguel Cabrera steps to the dish to chants of MVP. This after being vilified mercilessly last night when he failed to run out a ground ball to end the game last night. HE IS EXPERIENCING THE SAME WILD SWINGS FROM DESPAIR TO EUPHORIA THAT I AM.
As the Sox make the call to the 'pen, Pitbull's "Give Me Everything" plays over the PA. I curled up into a ball and rocked it out as I thought of all the runners stranded in scoring position in Victor's absence.
Prince comes up and gets beaned by Thornton in the shoulder. BASES ARE JUICED FOR DELMON YOUNG AND ZEEEEEERO OUTS. All I can do is laugh maniacally because I think of the many ways we're going to squander again and strand every duck on the proverbial pond. DELMON, DELMON YOUNG, I SAY, clears the bases with a gapper to left, but tries to get to third and is out by a mile. Rod tells us it was "just outstanding coaching there by Gene Lamont sending Fielder home." Oh Rod, I just...even crazed babble fails me at the moment.
Peavy's brow now contracts rather peevedly (see what I did there) in the dugout and his mouth twists in displeasure. HA, JAKE PEAVY, HA! Actually, I kind of like Peavy. But never, ever tell anyone that.
You see my state of mind, here? You see the diseased thinking patterns, the freaking out at every turn? It's all your fault, Tigers.
Avisail Garcia is in this game, y'all. And so is Joaquin Benoit. Rod says his numbers this year are outstanding. Yes, Rod, the number of home runs he has surrendered is nothing short of horrifically OUTSTANDING. IMAGINARY BLOGGER CAPS COP, COME AT ME, I MAY NEVER TYPE IN LOWER CASE AGAIN.
Benoit gets a nice strikeout of Wise, and sends Youk back to the dugout hacking at the air as well. I guess he just needed me to yell about those home runs a little. All that's left in the 8th is DUNN DUNN DUNN, who reminds me of one of my most loathed players of all time: Rob Deer. Home run or strikeout. That is all you get. Man I hated Rob Deer. And Dunn better not get comeback player of the year. Dunn went around, but 3rd base ump Gary Cedarstrom rules he didn't, so Benoit has to throw one more pitch to STRIKE OUT THE SIDE, WOO! I also dislike when people say that someone struck out the side if runners reached base during that inning. Even if all the outs are strikeouts, I feel that the term striking out the side should be reserved for retiring all batters on Ks in order.
After a routine defensive play by Ramirez (you expect me give him credit?) to retire Peralta, Omah hits a bloop single, and swipes second. I will only call Omar Infante "Omah," like the Red Sox fan that always called Nomar Garciaparra "Nomah." Sorry. I can't help it. That's how I always say in in my mind. Couple Ks for My Ajax tonight, but a triple, too, so just be quiet with your "austinjacksonstrikesout" hashtags. Dirks could pad our lead here, and we might need every run we can plate. He pops out harmlessly to Youk. Sigh.
Top nine. Papa Grande. Two quick outs, but I'm scared to even think we might finish this thing off here. Of course, A.J. Pierzynski is up. Of course, we would love nothing more than to strike this turkey out and see his walk of shame back to the dugout as we point in the faces of the putrid Sox. But Valverde can't find the plate and its a four pitch walk. I look around for things to break, but there's not much left, honestly. I'd like to avoid grabbing the fireplace poker and smashing out the glass fireplace doors, because we've had some critters come in through the chimney before, and I don't particularly care to have another bat land ON MY FREAKING FOOT IN THE HOUSE AND I'LL BET MY NEIGHBORS COULD DO WITHOUT THE BLOOD CURDLING SHRIEKS. Yes, that was an actual thing, and I won't describe to you how I was awakened in the night to this wild creature. But, if you want to send me consolatory gifts, feel free.
Hahahaha, Valverde gets Viciedo on a pitch that was actually quite a bit inside, IMO. YUP. THAT's ABOUT RIGHT. Rip that jersey out of your uniform pants, and dance. DANCE PARTY, USA! Yes, I am decrepitly old, and I'm sure you've never heard of Dance Party, USA, which was an actual show when I was a teenager.
I think I've traumatized everyone enough for one evening, and the Tigers won, so, you know, high fives all around.
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