Scott Marks 3:01 p.m., Dec. 12
Back up, I think I might blog. Yup, here it comes…
You see that beat-down Brazil put on Spain in the Federations Cup final? Madonna mia! Three nil’s the same as 19 to nothing in baseball. It’s a very complex equation, so you’ll just have to trust me.
Anyway, Spain’s been coasting on their looks for too long. Pulling up some young lions is in the offing this year, La Roja. Out with the old, etc…
But Brazil looked tough, brahs, don’t get me wrong. To a man, one of the most physical, athletic, skilled national teams I’ve seen since 2010. Not as inventive as an Italy or a Germany, say, but fast and bold. And at 21, their striker Neymar is well on his way to the head of the world-class. He’s too young, yet, to be a conductor, but he finishes like a virtuoso. I’m talking household name by the end of the 2014 campaign. You see how deep he comes back? Indefatigable. (You owe me five bucks.) I mean, Lionel who? Brazil v. Argentina, anyone? That shit never gets old!
The region needed this win, huh? This national surge…what with all the ugliness going on down there, and I mean from both sides (but mostly from the guys with the bulldozers). That win was like a “Have a nice day!” from the guy towing your car away. But the World Cup…been a while Canarinho…and in your homeland. Let’s face it, the script is writ on this one, but that’s okay because the maelstrom of intangibles flying around the next World Cup is thick with thrills and perhaps some political re-mannering of international proportions.
Look at me blogging all rhapsodic and high-minded. I write like I talk at the bar: it’s mostly horseshit, but my heart's in the right place. Onward…
So, this week is tortcha for me. My adopted hometown team, the Padres, is on its way to my true hometown to face MY Red Sox. That’s how card-carrying citizens of Red Sox Nation say it: MY Red Sox. Big Poppy. Pedroia the Destroya. Salty. Ells. Clay freaking Buchholz this year, right? Look who I’m talking to, you don’t care. You just want to know how it’s gonna go down. Read on, McGriff. (Didn’t Crime Dog play here for a couple minutes?)
After my first Sports Brahs post, one of my fellow editors here at the Reader dropped me a line: “I didn’t know you were one of those.” A sports nut, I assumed she meant. “I’m not, really,” I let her know. “But I do come from a long line of ‘those.’” I grew up in Boston, in Southie, for those of you familiar with Beantown, but I’m Siciliano and my grandfather, GodblesshimImisshimsomuch, lived in the North End, so I aligned like that, sneaking back and forth and playing stickball on two streets. So, yeah, a long line of those, but chowdah heads through and through: Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Pats. Repeat after me: Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Pats. Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Pats. Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Pats. Okay, shaddup, you got it. And Blackhawks fans, don’t think I didn’t hear you saying “’Hawks” instead of Bruins.
It’s tortcha, this three-game series, but I made my peace and aligned thusly: the Sox don’t need this series, and the Padres do. I am rooting for the Black attack to come back and make some hay in Fenway. Huh, poetical. Don’t get me stahted on the Pads’ piss-poor showing in Miami the last four days. Talk about dead wood. What’d they have one hit off Fernandez? Kid’s got nasty stuff, but too many damned called strikes, Pads. Let’s get to hackin’. So here it is: Padres tonight and tomorrah, Sox on the Fourth. Hey, don’t get greedy! It’s Independence Day, after all, and the city of Boston’s historically, whaddayacall, historical. So take your two games and climb a little bit closer to the D-Backs, who are, apparently, human, but very much for real, postseasontalkwise. Still not sure the Padres got enough mustard in the cupboard. As for the rest of the NL West, the Rockies seams are showing, and Bochy’s deal with the devil expired last month.
Listen, game one’s starting soon and I got to post this, walk the dog, and do up a deep dish of carne asada fries (I roast my own red potato wedges, never do frozen). So, until next time, sports brahs, keep the clicker close and the beer 'fridge full.