While this wasn't the first time the Red Sox were one out away from closing the deal only to turn around and kick me in the jimmy, I was surprised at how quickly this one slipped through our fingers. One minute, I'm clearing up my schedule for Monday night, telling those orphans that they're just gonna have to find someone else to drive their asses to the state fair. The next, I'm watching The Elf pop out weakly, and Mike Scioscia waddling out from the visitor's dugout in triumph.

Did it hurt? Hells yeah. Even with two more World Series titles in my back pocket than I ever thought I'd experience in my lifetime, you never want to see your team vanquished so quickly from the postseason. Especially after holding the lead for so long in Game Three, and convincing me that the offense might have just turned a corner.

But after digesting this one -- with the help of my good friends Bud and Coors Light -- I've convinced myself that it just wasn't in the cards for us this year. The 2009 Sox were a good team, not a great team. Not a world-beating team that wins championships. After that debacle in Kansas City, blowing a sizable lead to one of the worst teams in the business, the Sox sputtered through the final frames and literally dropped ass-backward into the postseason via a Rangers loss. Okay, I figured, that's fine; they're saving the awesome for the playoffs, where anything can happen.

But when our offense went AWOL for games one and two, digging us the hole that Papelbon filled with concrete yesterday afternoon, it became painfully obvious that no one got belted with gamma rays, no one was puttin' on a cape. This was the same team that struggled through the last couple weeks of the season. There was no spark, no life, and no one to rally the troops and remind them that it was Big Pants Time.

After the Sox whipped the Angels in the 2008 ALCS, John Lackey complained that the better team lost. Well, Donut Boy has no reason to gripe this morning. The better team won. 'Nuff said.

It will be odd, going from cursing the Angels this week to rooting for them against the Yankees next week. But it's what needs to be done.

Haven't we been here before? Yes, we have. We've been thrust in the corner, had our backs up against the wall, watched helplessly as opposing pitchers hung Mark Bellhorn from Pesky's Pole by his underwear.

And each time it happened, we rallied. Turned it around. Made the hunter the hunted and dismissed them with one of D-Lowe's patented "Bite my tweeter" maneuvers. It was never over until we said it was over and with the hometown crowd behind us... it was never over.

So now we're here again. On the tightrope, ALCS glory on one side, permanent vacation on the other.

And I have to ask, can we really do it one more time?

Seriously. How often can we go to that magic well, cross our fingers and tip our cans of PBR, and expect the Gods of Baseball to grant us three more days of baseball? It's almost surreal to think it. Have the Red Sox -- perennial underdogs who spent most of my younger years finding new and innovative ways to piss on my dreams -- really become the team that will not die in the playoffs?

I certainly hope so. Although the Angels have the momentum and the "Win it for Nick" rallying cry and the far, far sexier story, I know the 2009 Red Sox are a better team than they've shown us thus far in the ALDS. I know we can hit the f@#k out of the ball. They know it, too. They just need to prove it. It won't be easy against Scott Kazmir; the last time we faced him in the playoffs at Fenway, in game 5 of the 2008 ALCS, he held us to two hits and no runs through six innings. But whenever we're facing elimination, as we were in that fateful game, we seem to dig a little deeper. And we're gonna need to do that again today.

Selfishly, I just don't want this to be the last day of Red Sox baseball in 2009. I want thunder, hellfire and Torii Hunter thinking he'd rather be on death row than standing on Fenway's centerfield grass. I want the seeds of doubt and the ghosts of Octobers past flipping beer bottle caps off Chone Figgins' head. And I want Mike Scioscia sitting in his hotel room tonight, swallowing Tagamet by the metric ton, and wondering if the Red Sox are really going to do it to him again.

But mostly, I'd like another day of Red Sox baseball. So let's go.

Our offense has officially gone Amelia Earheart, lost somewhere over the Bermuda Triangle, locked in an abandoned warehouse uptown, or blazing across state lines with a pick-up truck full of college chicks.

And until it comes back, we ain't goin' anywhere.

We've managed an embarrassing eight hits over 18 innings with everyone up and down the line-up looking like they'd rather be hitting the golf course or cozying up to a well-vodka'ed Heidi Watney than taking care of business. Youk and Ortiz are a combined 1-for-16. Jason "Sign This Guy At Once" Bay is 1-5. Pedroia is 2-8. Scenic Lowell, God love him, is 0-for-7. As has been the modus operandi for much of 2009, the Red Sox are struggling to make things happen on the road and coming up empty against decent pitching. While the Yankees keep finding ways to win, we're slowly fading into Slumberland, sleepwalking through at-bats and looking exactly like a team that fell ass-backward into the postseason.

Simply put, right now, the Angels are the better team. Hungrier. Angrier. Ballsier. They look like they want it. They look like they're ready to chew us up, spit us out, and take on the Yankees, guns blazing. We look like... well, we look like we just want to get home to our rum and our snuggies and our all-too-familiar outfield.

Of course, we've been backed into corners before. And we like being backed into corners. Especially when those corners are at Fenway Park. We know how to win at home, and could easily bring this series to a one-game showdown back in Anaheim.

But if we're gonna do that, we're gonna need to hit. No more of this pussyfooting around the issue. F@#king remember how to hit! Get that bat in yer hand and go full Conan.

And here's the thing: Do it soon. Like, Sunday afternoon soon. Because I'm not ready to say goodbye to you f@#kers just yet.

No live blogging.

No predictions.

This game is too important for me to put the mush on it. Same line-up as last night with Beckett on the mound. Weaver tossing for them.

Play your game, boys.

Ever since George Steinbrenner put Tim Tschida on the payroll back in the 1999 ALCS, I've been suspicious of umps making egregiously shitty calls in the postseason. And a couple of last night's gems -- especially that safe call at first by CB Bucknor when Youk clearly nailed the runner -- were so outrageously bad, they had me wondering aloud if the Sox were mere pawns in a Nick Adenhart memorial conspiracy. Factor in a strike zone that was conspicuously tighter for Lester than Mouthbreather Lackey and I was ready to put down my beer and get Oliver Stone on the case. But I do so much hate to put down my beer. So I just shrugged, showed the TV my ass, and kept on watching.

In the clarity of the morning sun, as much as I'd like to pin this one on the umps, I can't. The Sox were manhandled by John Lackey, mustering a pathetic four hits and looking absolutely helpless at the plate, what with Ellsbury, Youk, V-Mart, Ortiz and Lowell delivering a combined 0-for-17. 0-for 17? In the playoffs? Christ, people get kicked out of the Pinewood Derby with those kinds of numbers. And even though it was hardly one of Lester's best playoff performances, once the parade of relievers began -- including Ramon Ramirez and Takashi Saito, who are contractually required to surrender at least one run per appearance -- I was begging for Terry to go Byrd on us and just burn this thing to the ground.

It was a big win for the Angels, who have yet to get that "owned by Boston" sign off their front lawn. Hell, to hear them tell it in the LA press today, the worm has already turned: "One of these days," said Morales, a relative newcomer to this October rivalry, "the story had to change." As Sox fans, all we can do is shake this one off, although it makes tonight's game a must win. If we can rally behind Beckett, it suddenly becomes a best-of-three series with the next two games at Fenway. And I gotta tell you, I like those odds.

How 'bout you? Still got the faith? Sound off and let me know.

Denton and I have a pretty piss-poor record as liveblogging goes; I think we currently stand at about 2 wins to 8,972 losses. But we're still pretty upbeat about our chances this evening, with Jonny Lester on the hill and those cursed "thunder sticks" in the stands. The Angels are gonna want to come storming out of the gates for this one, letting us know they're not slaves to history and that they mean business (::shakes fist for emphasis::). Our job is to be all cool and shit and put a wet blanket on them while the bats go to work. And the bats will go to work, right, fellas?

Anyway, we've got two ways to play: there's the game thread in the comments section and the liveblog in the CoverItLive window. Please bear in mind that the liveblog only allows for YOUR comments to be added manually by Denton and I; so if you type something up and you don't see it, you will eventually, once we get around to adding it. We may miss a few. Hell, the way we drink through these things, we may miss a shitload. But that's the chance you take. When the heat's on you. And the heat is on. Da nah nah nah nah, da nah nah nah nah.

2009 ALDS Game One: Red Sox vs. Angels

Denton and I have a pretty piss-poor record as liveblogging goes; I think we currently stand at about 2 wins to 8,972 losses. But we're still pretty upbeat about our chances this evening, with Jonny Lester on the hill and those cursed "thunder sticks" in the stands. The Angels are gonna want to come storming out of the gates for this one, letting us know they're not slaves to history and that they mean business (::shakes fist for emphasis::). Our job is to be all cool and shit and put a wet blanket on them while the bats go to work. And the bats will go to work, right, fellas?

Anyway, we've got two ways to play: there's the game thread in the comments section and the liveblog in the CoverItLive window. Please bear in mind that the liveblog only allows for YOUR comments to be added manually by Denton and I; so if you type something up and you don't see it, you will eventually, once we get around to adding it. We may miss a few. Hell, the way we drink through these things, we may miss a shitload. But that's the chance you take. When the heat's on you. And the heat is on. Da nah nah nah nah, da nah nah nah nah.

2009 ALDS Game One: Red Sox vs. Angels

I'll never take it for granted, this playoff business. Because I remember the dark days, before you were born, young Luke, when we'd go stretches of years without so much as a sniff of that crisp October air. When the regular season ended, we ended, and folks like Rick Miller and Reid Nichols and Scott Cooper and Danny Darwin faded through the door into autumn because that's what the Red Sox did. We folded up the tents and left the big games to the other teams.

Now we're through the looking glass, about to make our sixth postseason appearance in seven years. As to how this one will turn out, well... there are people far smarter than I who can show you pie charts and flow charts comparing the Sox and Angels at every position and calculating the odds. But I've never been one for numbers. I go by what the heart and the Budweiser tell me, and they see an Angels team that's united behind the memory of Nick Adenhart, fully cognizant of what a World Series means for their team and the family of their fallen team mate. On the flip side, the Red Sox have seemingly stumbled ass-backward into the playoffs, void of much of the spark and passion that drove them through August and September.

The one thing we do have on our side is history. As the guys who've escorted the Angels out of their last few playoff drives, we're definitely in their heads; the trick is staying there. That means big, big performances from Lester and Beckett. That means clamping down on Anaheim's running game and their every attempt to take us out early. And that especially means getting the hits. We've gotta get the hits.

The key will be summoning the spirits of August 14 in Texas. Remember that night? Against the team we were fighting for the wild card, the Sox coughed up the lead in the bottom of the sixth, then staged an inexplicable comeback in the top of the ninth, highlighted by a bizarre pinch-running effort by Clay Buchholz gone horribly wrong, and a key, go-ahead-run-plating double from V-Mart moments later. That night, a Red Sox offense that had been giving us fits and false starts finally came through big when we needed it most, not only bludgeoning the Rangers’ morale, but also reminding us of a time when no game was out of reach, no matter the score, no matter the inning. That's the stuff that's gonna pull us through, baby.

Denton and I will be liveblogging tonight's ALDS action, so we invite you to make some sandwiches, wear something tight and frilly, and join us on the observation deck. Got an important meeting tomorrow morning? Tell your boss to go f@#k himself. This is the Red Sox in the playoffs, mother. Nothing gets in the way.

Opening day of the 2009 post-season went pretty much as expected. Cliff Lee shut down the Rockies (the team, not the mountains), the Dodgers beat the Cards and the Yankees thumped the Twins. The only surprise was that A-Rod came through for the pinstripes and CC got the win, throwing 113 pitches and yanking on his crotch at least that many times.

But that is all just an opening act as far as Red Sox Nation is concerned. Tonight, the second season begins. The Red Sox and Angels look very even in a lot of categories, but speaking I don't see this road leading anywhere but to a Red Sox - Yankees ALCS showdown. And that isn't the "homer" in me speaking, that's after a long night of stat-crunching and Sabremetricing with no company but a cup of hot cocoa and a flask of Peppermint Schnapps.

The most glaring advantage the Sox have is the bullpen. The Angels have a lot of high-ERA guys trying to get to Fuentes, who has seven blown saves himself and sports an ERA twice that of Jon Papelbon's. And while having history on our side may not mean anything, it seems like a sore subject for the Angels:

And it hasn't even been close. The Angels have lost 12 of their last 13 postseason games against the Red Sox, including 9 of 10 over the last three series. Los Angeles hasn't even led Boston for eight total innings of those last 10 games, and the Angels' only win was a 12-inning nail-biter last season, snapping an 11-game losing streak in the matchup.

"Last year was last year," snapped a smiling Torii Hunter, the Angels' leader and most gregarious player. "I don't want to talk about last year. You can if you want, but I don't give a damn about last year."

***

"I don't think there is anything, really, to go back and analyze," said Scioscia, the first manager to take a team to the playoffs six times in his first 10 seasons. "It's a whole new set of variables, a whole new set of matchups. We know what the challenge is."

***

"It's a definite challenge, but it's a new year," Lackey said. "I'm one of the few guys that have been here for all of them. It was different pretty much every year."


The time for talking ends at 9:37 tonight. See you there.

It took extra innings in an extra game on the schedule but the Twins finally won the right to face the Yankees in the ALDS. That means they got their drunken asses on a plane last night and will drag their hungover asses to the field this afternoon. It also means CC Sabathia might actually look good in a post-season game. The Yankees have the edge in every category "on paper" while the Twins are relying on sheer adrenaline and momentum. It will take a choke of epic proportions, even for veteran gaggers like A-Rod and CC, for the Twins to have a shot.

The Sox will play the late game Thursday: Lackey vs. Lester in the home of the thundersticks and rally monkey. Lackey has been good, but Lester has been better. I think Red Sox Nation has to feel good about this series. The Angels have been good all year, but "speed on the base paths" isn't really enough to get it done. The Sox line-up one-through-six is better, the Sox pitching is deeper, and the Sox have Papelbon who has never been scored upon in the post-season. And the Sox have history on their side. How can it not be in the heads of guys like Figgins, Vlad and even Scioscia what has happened between these teams in recent Octobers?

One factor that cannot be measured on the field is the impact of Nick Adenhart:

The makeshift memorial in front of Angel Stadium's main entrance is about the size of a pitcher's mound now. Hats, stuffed animals, sparkling lights, rosary beads, inscribed baseballs and hand-lettered signs are all arranged in a neat circle around an easel that holds a painting of Nick Adenhart in mid-throw.

In the Angels' clubhouse, Adenhart's locker is largely still how he left it on the night of April 8, from cap to shoes. His image and No. 34 adorn the outfield wall, where Jered Weaver communes before each start with the new friend who was planning to room with him this season.

"It's always in the back of your mind," Weaver said. "You're never going forget a guy like that. When something like that happens, it makes you take into consideration that not every day is promised, and you have to go out there, every out, and give it everything you have. It's a tough thing."


This is something that can drive a team. There will be a lot of emotion in the stadium and the Angels will be playing with a tenth man in their hearts. One more day and it begins.

The Red Sox still don't know when Game 1 of the ALDS will be, so we not-so-patiently wait with them. Technically the playoffs start tomorrow as Detroit and Minnesota battle in a do-or-die game to see who faces the Yankees. Having to go down to the wire without the opportunity to align the pitching rotation will probably make either one of these teams easy fodder for New York. Speaking of New York, how about them Jets? Probably not time to make Superbowl plans yet, or reserve a spot in the Hall of Fame for Mark Sanchez for that matter. How about Rodney Harrison's comments yesterday? Strong words coming from the dirtiest player in the NFL (as voted by the players) and a proven cheater. How about a nice hot cup of STFU? Poll question of the day: If you had to fight one of the trainers on the Biggest Loser, who would it be? For me it's a no-brainer: Bob. I'm terrified of Jillian.

At this point, what is there to say that matters? The next few days are nothing more than a waiting game. Sure, I would have liked to see Beckett's final tune-up go a little smoother, but it didn't. And it certainly wasn't the train wreck that CC tossed on Friday. Whatever. After today's half-hearted regular season finale, we fall into the black hole until the playoffs start. So I will take this opportunity to shower you with a bunch of meaningless opinions. Which, I guess, doesn't make this different than any other post.

Sons of Anarchy is the best show on television. If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, check it out.

I hate winter. I dread it more and more every year. Short days, freezing nights, dirty snow, icy roads, traffic, heating bills...what is there to like?

Putting a shopping cart in front of a person drops their I.Q. by fifty points. Why do people in the grocery store think it's OK to park their cart in a way that blocks an entire aisle while they try to figure out which cereal has less trans fat? Or stop and chat with someone so you can't get to the red meat section? It's why I eat out so much. That, and the fact that I'm banned from every major supermarket in a ten mile radius from my house.

Nickels and pennies should be obsolete.

Ditto personal checks. If you're under the age of seventy and writing checks in stores, please punch yourself in the face.

Is anybody else as curious as I am about Red's "business trip?"

Lenny Clark is the unfunniest person to make a living at comedy. Yelling doesn't make what you say funny, it just doesn't.

The iPod remains the single greatest invention in recent time.

Is there anything creepier than the traveling carnivals that show up for a week in your local K-Mart parking lot? Have you seen the people that set up and operate the rides?

I hope this post has served its purpose in making you want the post-season to begin that much more.

Doubt. It has to be in the minds of the Yankees fans and players. Just a small, nagging feeling at first. But growing. Just as easily as the Red Sox slipped into their October pants, the Yankees did the same with much different results. C.C. Sabathia was torched for nine runs (five earned) in two-and-two-thirds last night, giving up eight hits and five walks. And for anyone that thinks he was using his final start of the year for a playoff tune-up, think again. With Sabathia entering the game at 19-8 (and why does that number sound familiar?), Girardi put in his regular line-up trying to secure number 20. That line-up includes the other guy known for his October nosedives: A-Rod was 0-for-3 with a strikeout.

Meanwhile, the Sox took care of business behind another solid Dice-K start. The first six batters combined for a 7-for-20 night with three doubles and five RBI. The Dice-man went six innings giving up two runs on five hits while striking out seven. The bullpen combined for three shutout innings. And justlikethat everything is just fine in Red Sox Nation.

No matter what the Yankees say, they can't be feeling too good about themselves.

Fortunately for the Yankees, it's not really October, no matter what the calendar says, so they could shrug off CC Sabathia's ugly finish to his season Friday night as completely insignificant, and they'll probably be right.

This is what we live for.

And this is how it goes, friends. The calendar flips to October and the Sox flip the switch to the "Full Ass Kicking" setting. It's just that simple. Jon Lester's six-and-a-third innings of two-hit ball not only ended the September swoon, it sent a message: the second season is about to begin.

All of "the usual suspects" played a part in the win. And, yes, I include Alex Gonzalez in that group: 2-for-3 with a walk hitting in the 9-hole. Ellsbury swiped his 68th base, Papi inched closer to the 100 RBI mark, and Bay had his 116th RBI. A clean (just one hit allowed) two-and-two-thirds by Bard, Wagner and Papelbon, and you've got a textbook 3-0 win.

Tonight we get Dice-K's final tune-up for the post-season, and keep one eye on CC's October start in Tampa.

We are just days away from it now. Who's ready?

It's very possible, very probable, that last night was Tim Wakefield's final start. Given his age and physical ailments, it's doubtful Tim will be back in 2010...although I wouldn't be completely surprised he if gave it a shot. As far as the 2009 post-season, I can't figure a scenario that Wake would make the roster.

His finale did not do him justice. It was a meaningless game that featured just two "regulars" in the line-up: Ortiz and A-Gon. Wake lasted just three innings of batting practice giving up five earned runs. While his final game was as awkward as watching your best friend feel up your little sister, the guy has given his all to the Red Sox.

In his 15 seasons with the Sox, Wake has compiled 175 wins, 1,867 strikeouts and 22 saves. He has done whatever was asked of him: starting on short rest, coming out of the bullpen and even closing. Off the field, Wake has been even better. He has been a tireless contributor to the Jimmy Fund, stayed completely scandal-free and just been an all-around nice guy.

I sincerely have no idea what Tim Wakefield has planned for his "life after baseball." I truly hope he doesn't lower himself to guesting on WEEI like Schilling does or becoming another talking head on ESPN or NESN. In my mind's eye Wakefield spends his days enjoying his family and continuing his nice guy stuff...maybe following Mike Andrews' lead in championing a Jimmy Fund cause. Whatever it is, I can only wish him the best because that is what he's always given us. I'm not sure there is a classier act in the game.

The Sox aren't just backing into the postseason, they're being chloroformed, placed inside a large burlap sack, and dragged into it.

Last night, they lost their sixth straight game, falling 35-0 to the Blue Jays, then lying down in a straight line up and down the baselines so that Doc Halladay could drive an ATV over them.

Alright, it wasn't quite that bad. Because it did prove educational, as we learned that, sadly, Tim Wakefield and Manny Delcarmen are probably best left off the postseason roster. Other than that, it was just another B-squad might in a week of meaningless games as we wait for the playoffs. And I can only hope that between now and then, the Sox find some spark, some balls, some something to rally behind. Because the way they're playing now is making me wonder if the Angels could erase us in three straight.

Anyway, I'm off on a super secret business-type trip that will have me out of pocket until next week. So Denton will be your host for the next several days, although I will be remote posting off-and-on and, of course, Tweeting my balls off.

I tweeted this earlier this afternoon, and the great Chad Finn was kind enough to mention it in his latest column: In case tonight turns out to be Wake's last Red Sox start, he should be carried in on a sedan chair and showered in roses and BC chicks. And damn right I meant what I said.

Tonight, if you're any kind of American at all, you'll stand up for Timmy Wakefield. Whether you're at the ballpark, in your living room, at the supermarket, in the casino, on your girlfriend's bed, or stumbling up the stairs of Crossroads pub, you need to do the right thing.

And the right thing is... standing up for Tim Wakefield.

Rangers lose. Sox take Wild Card. Off to Anaheim we go.

Am I happy about seeing the guys back into this? No, but I take the Malcolm X approach when it comes to the playoffs: You get in by any means necessary. Like most of you, I can all-too-easily recall the dark ages when the Sox showed up in the playoffs about as often as Haley's comet spun around. So I appreciate any extra baseball I can sink my teeth into.

That said, if the Sox want to make a show of it in the postseason, they're gonna have to man up and sound off like they've got a pair. Ever since that ballbusting defeat in KC, where the guys dropped a sizable lead on one of the worst teams in baseball, they've been playing like a pack of smacked asses. And that won't get you far in October. Just how many times can we expect the Angels to roll over in the ALDS? Especially when, this year, the shadow of Nick Adenhart looms large in their clubhouse, getting them all good and fired up and giving them something to rally behind?

I will admit that for a few moments during last night's almost-comeback, I thought they'd found the magic again. When V-Mart stepped to the plate representing the winning run in the bottom of the ninth, I was convinced. It was gonna happen. And I settled back in my chair, certain that we were seconds away from Papelbon dropping trou and donning the celebratory Coors Light box hat.

Sadly, it didn't quite happen that way. Yet, here we are, slipping in the back door, our ticket to the playoffs officially punched. And, like I said, I'll take it.

After last night’s ass-whooping at the hands of the mighty Blue Jays, I’ve decided to abstain from posting until the Sox officially clinch the Wild Card. So today, we’re handing the reins over to guest poster Randy “Pete” Fitzgerald, nephew of the celebrated author F. Scott Fitzgerald, who has a startling revelation that I think you’ll all enjoy.

Take it away, Randy.

* * * * * * * *

Good morning. As many of you know, my uncle, F. Scott Fitzgerald, was one of the most celebrated authors of the twentieth century. He was also an accomplished time traveler, spending much of his down time flitting between the 1930s and the early twenty-first century.

During one of his inter-time jaunts, he attended a Florida Marlins baseball game, and found himself quite taken with a young pitcher named Josh Beckett, whom he described as “rather mysterious in an Amory Blaine sort of way, but with Hemingway’s edge and liver.” Distraught that most of his contemporaries would have to wait another 70 years before they could experience Josh Beckett, and unwilling to take them all aboard his time-machine—understandable, considering the cost of petrol in those days--he decided to make Josh a recurring character in his novels.

Unfortunately, years later, as my uncle lapsed into alcoholism (brought on, it was revealed, by exposure to something called “According to Jim” during one of his visits to the twenty-first century), his agent took control of his many manuscripts, and had every trace of Beckett expunged. Luckily, these original drafts were not lost, and after years of research and legal wrangling, I was able to obtain them back from the publisher. Now, through a special arrangement with Red and Denton, I am happy to share them with all of you:

* * * * * * * *

The Great Gatsby

Beckett: If we're gonna slap hams, I've gotta fold up my uniform neatly first. I'm a real stickler for a neat uni.

Daisy: This... this is your shirt?

Beckett: I call it my uniform. But yes. It's mine. See that 19? Number of the beast.

Daisy: ::starts weeping::

Beckett: The f@#k you cryin' for? I ain't even broken out my spurs yet.

Daisy: This is such a beautiful shirt. It makes me sad because I've never seen such a beautiful shirt.

Beckett: Bitch, are you on crack?

* * * * * * * *

This Side of Paradise

Armory: You sir. A baseball player, correct?

Beckett: What tipped you, Einstein? The cleats or the glove?

Armory: Heh. You’ve got moxie. That’s a lost quality in these sad times. Let me buy you a drink.

Beckett: Okay.

Armory: I must say it’s good to be back home. The ravages of that bloody war still haunt my sleep. There’s no place for that sort of horror in a gentle mind.

Beckett: I’ve seen Youk’s nuts. So I understand.

Armory: Still, it’s no less haunting than the memory of sweet Isabelle, who rejected me despite my pleas.

Beckett: Dude, you don’t sweat that stuff. Chick dumps you, you grab yer sack and find another.

Armory: I did. I found fair Rosalind, the most alluring of the New York debutantes.

Beckett: Nice. You hit it?

Armory: She, uh… left me for another, actually. Though I begged her to stay.

Beckett: Begging? Pleas? Christ, I’m out of here.

Armory: But, we’ve only just met.

Beckett: Nobody likes a whiner, buddy. That’s like pussy repellant. Imma go stand over by those other guys.

Armory: I know myself, but that is all.

Beckett: That... sucks.

* * * * * * * *

Tender Is The Night

Beckett: What's your name again?

Rosemary: Rosemary Hoyt. I'm an actress.

Beckett: Josh Beckett. Pitcher. You want a beer? ::signals to bartender::

Rosemary: So very exciting to meet a professional sports player. I've met so many fascinating people at this resort.

Beckett: Great. Now, let's talk about what you were saying when I met you in the courtyard this morning.

Rosemary: About how much I love Dick?

Beckett: Hells yeah.

Rosemary: I do. It's something of a secret shame. But it's certainly true.

Beckett: ::makes the "slam dunk" motion:: Bartender. Can I get those beers?

Rosemary: Of course, I'm not proud of the fact that he's a married man.

Beckett: Huh?

Rosemary: Doctor Diver. Dick Diver. He's here with his wife Nicole.

Beckett: Aw, f@#k. So you were talkin' about a guy named Dick?

Rosemary: Well, yes. Do we still have time for that beer?

Beckett: Uh, actually, I almost forgot... I have to go try on some yogurt. ::snaps his fingers and disappears into thin air::

Rosemary: ::sighs:: There's always some element of loneliness involved, don't you think? It's so easy to be loved, but so hard to love.

Bartender: Whatever. He left you the bill, princess.