Beth is Sox fan enough to admit it - she used to love the way Keith Foulke spit. But now? Ecch:

... And he's chewing tobacco, a great wad of it, bulging out his left cheek and making his lips shine with terrible disgusting brown juice, every so often letting go a great wet dribble of the ugly muck onto the mound.

The Ghost of Keith Foulke is a great metaphor. As with the team, the facts are the same--he's out there pitching and spitting on the mound. But everything else is not. ...

Just in case you missed it.

Beth recounts the nail-biting moments in last night's Sox game, the ones involving Schilling, Foulke and Timlin - and beer cans aimed at the televised head of Terry Francona:

... Here came Sizemore again. He worked the count full, and then more beer cans were lifting off around the region - some of them, this time, probably full.

And then ... inexplicably ... Sizemore swung at ball four, fouling it off. Something about it seemed to be blood in the water for Timlin, who reared back and got a beautiful swinging strike to seal the at-bat and end the inning.

Pssht. Coahse. Coahse Timlin got'm out. I mean ... Pssht. ...