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.

Look, I'm as anxious as anyone to clinch the wild card, put the big guns to bed, and roll Double-A style for the remainder of the regular season. So, please, let's just end it. Tonight. And I know that means relying on the Angels to take out the Rangers, but so be it. I'm calling on the twin mojo of Amalie Benjamin and Heidi Watney -- two women who have been the chocolate Oreo cookies to my Double Stuff in many a fevered dream -- to bring down the hammer, help us collect the win, and send Texas to their final rest.

Bring on the Coors box hats and Dropkick Murphys and champagne-stung eyes. I wanna close this chapter and get ready for the next.

Toronto, yer goin' down. End of story.

Forget everything you saw this past weekend in the Bronx. Forget the sweep, forget Lester limping off the mound, forget the 16-7 mini-massacre: it was all part of Tito's plan. Everything you saw, everything you think you saw, was engineered by the great puppetmaster himself, Terry Francona.

Does anyone in their right mind think Jason Varitek will be doing anything in the playoffs besides keeping Victor Martinez hydrated? Flailing away with another 0-for-4 and letting the Yankees run wild with seven steals, that's strictly pre-October stuff. And how about that line-up on Saturday? Rocco, Lowrie, Chris Woodward and Brian Anderson? That was Tito's way of lulling CC into thinking that he might just be able to pitch well in October. Genius. And Sunday's finale only requires two words to confirm that the Sox are just preparing for the post-season, knowing the two wins will come: Paul Byrd.

Like Red, I wanted the division. I wanted it bad. But when the playoffs start and the Sox are dicing up opponents like a Chop-O-Matic, it will be Tito's name we praise. The mild-mannered, tea-drinking facade will come off, revealing the guy that has brought us two World Series championships. Faith.