Glass Houses

I really dig that AMC show "Breaking Bad." Problem is, the same title can apply to Red Sox games here out of the gate. Six games in and we're 2-4, two clicks under .500 for the first time since '05.

OK, all right. We're just two series in. No need to chuck it all and start cooking crystal meth in an RV out in the desert in our tighty-whiteys with the local street punk. Our boys are showing early April ills, but who's to say it's terminal? Who's to say we must resort to methods desperate and extreme?

I'm not going to freak, even though Revolver Beckett, who I wager will be getting Cy Young votes when all is said and done this season, was on the losing end this afternoon.
The starting pitching is going to be fine. Dice isn't going to give up three bombs every game and Wakefield, even at his worst, is going to eat up innings. The bullpen is still forging its identity. Okie's looking shaky, but Ramon Ramirez is fast developing as this year's set-up find.

No, the problem, brethren, is obvious. The lineup lacks not so much punch, but timely punch. We're just not hitting worth a lick with men in scoring position and, just as bad, our outs are not productive. We saw that time and time again this weekend. Take away Jason Bay's heroics on Saturday and we get swept in Anaheim.

A roller coaster of series, wasn't it? On Friday night, with the Angels playing two days after the death of Nick Adenhart, a true fan of the Human Condition could only empathize with the home team.
"I kind of want the Angels to win," my wife said, and I certainly couldn't disagree with her.
Our condolences, Anaheim. We'll spot you one.

Then, by Sunday, it was back to pure hardball, with Revolver zipping one in the vicinity of Bobby Abreu's head. Hey, that's the potential hazard of a timeout granted after a pitcher is into his windup. Stay in the box, pal.

In the end, though, fireworks gave way to fizzle, with J.D. looking at a game-ending strike three an inning after he and Mikey Bones Lowell failed to deliver in the eighth.

The numbers are grim: Of the usual starting nine, six are hitting .208 or less. We're averaging 3.6 runs a game. Big Papi is becoming petite grandpapi (all lower case, no CAPS whatsoever) right before our eyes.

Please don't let it be real. Please let it be a momentary hallucination, a temporary lapse, a strange wander in the desert. Let's get cooking, boys, in the right direction.