I love me some Boston Red Sox, but I must admit I just cannot get enough of the Detroit Tigers coaching staff. I mean, look at them.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, calm down already. I know Jim Leyland’s the gen-u-INE article, a real old time baseball man. And I’d be lying if I said I’m not a tad concerned that his pitching staff is going to pants my Red Sox hitters while the Detroit line-up administers a collective swirlie to Lester and company; however, I feel I must point something out. The Detroit coaches, to a man, look like those guys you see sitting at the bar every afternoon down at the Blarney Rose knocking back Falstaffs and bumps, sucking on Lucky Strikes and mopping up plates of greasy corned beef and cabbage with wads of Wonderbread. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Game 3 in the Motor City on Tuesday. In Lackey (and the bullpen) we trust. Go Sox!
So yesterday I’m sitting on the uptown F train wondering how the hell I’m going to get back in the swing, blogwise, after an extended hiatus from any serious writing. I mean I am racking my brain for inspiration and just coming up empty, teetering on the edge of some serious writer’s block and staring down the barrel of a full fledged panic attack.
And it is just then, in my moment of despair, that the gods of blogorreah smile down upon me and the proverbial clouds part — well actually the two fat guys standing directly in front of me took off for empty seats at either end of the car. So anyways I look up and I see this.
Yankees cologne. Yup, really. And just to be sure everyone can get in on the act, there’s also a fragrance for her. Look!
Now I’m not going to elaborate on the obvious, cheap references to the smell of Sabathia’s jock, a Bronx urinal or A-Rod’s preferred feminine wash; instead, I will just say, “Thank you, Mssrs Steinbrenner, Jeter and Rodriguez. You have reignited the flickering spark of snark in my twisted, Boston sports-obsessed mind and lit my way back to the land of the writing. Once again.”