It's a Brand New Ballgame, Baby

“You think you love now, wait until you hold her in your arms.”
—Retired Southington High School guidance counselor Raymond Walsh

My daughter Laura turned one week old Monday and getting a read on her has been a joy and an adventure.
You learn something every day, you know?

Like the different cries. I’ve quickly identified the “Feed Me” squawk and the slightly louder and more urgent variation that is “Feed Me Now!”
There is the charming whimper of “I Know What You Are Doing is Necessary and in My Best Interests, But It Does Cause Me Mild Discomfort.”

And there is the ear-splitting howl of “I Can’t Believe We Lost to the Kansas City Royals!”

That was just inconsolable. Thursday night sure was rough.
Happily, it was quickly rectified and the next three nights were a breeze of consistent patterns of sleep, feeding and general contentment.

Because, of course, my little bambina is a Red Sox fan.

But please understand, being a parent who wants to foster independent thinking in his child, she arrived in Red Sox Nation on her own volition. We first tuned in Wednesday night, bottom of the sixth vs. Oakland, and the first at-bat Laura witnessed resulted in a three-run homer by Big Papi.
And by the end of the weekend, if I read her facial expressions right, she was asking about Manny Delcarmen’s trade value.

“With the emergence of Daniel Bard and the imminent arrival of Michael Bowden, we have plenty of right arms in the bullpen,” her intent little eyes seemed to say, and I certainly couldn’t argue with the logic or tear myself away from their gaze.

My bambina is also a cycling fan, I’ve been happy to learn. She loves watching the Tour de France after breakfast as I talk to her in my limited Italian.
She has yet to form firm opinions on these pursuits, but she does have questions.

“What’s the peloton? Who’s in the yellow jersey?”
“Do you know anything beyond Ciao Bella and Bon Giorno?”
“What’s a Category 1 climb?”

And this just the other day: “What became of that British sprinter Nan Linda said was cute?”

Boy crazy just like her maternal grandmother. Well, that’s an issue to be reckoned with at a later date.
For now, la mia bambina, all developments have been quite agreeable to Daddy, especially the Tour de France fascination, because there’s a fine, fine Trek 5000 I would like to someday turn over to you.

I can’t wait to teach you how to ride. No training wheels. We’re going straight to two wheels. I’ll run behind, holding the seat, until you master balance and can pedal sure and steady on your own and go long into the day.

And I can’t wait to teach you how to throw a ball and how to bat both ways, and to take you to Fenway and teach you how to keep score.
I will endeavor to explain the finer points of the game, bambina. Your daddy, already a fan, has begun to appreciate more and more, since the day you were born, the nobility of the sacrifice and the fine art of moving the runner along.

Angelic

My little girl Laura Agatha arrived into the world on Monday, July 6 at 4:40 p.m. She was a tad under 8 pounds, a nudge over 21 inches and born on the same day as her great-great grandmother Nonny, one of her guardian angels in heaven.

So far, it appears my little Laura is a guardian angel for the Sox. We arrived home from the hospital Wednesday afternoon. At night, we tuned into the Sox-A's game. Her first at-bat was Papi's in the bottom of the sixth.

A few pitches later, Papi was admiring a three-run homer the same way I marvel at this little bambina.

Resurrected & Restored Mojo at Your Prompt & Immediate Service

Outstanding win. Complete redemption from last night's disaster with the bullpen punching out 12 straight.
All is well once again in the baseball universe.
The sun is out after rain.
You've got to believe in karma.
May my little girl be born tonight.
Does "Ellsbury" work as a middle name?

Catch-22

Sweet Jesus, did that really happen last night?
If I don't turn on the TV or radio, if I don't pick up a newspaper, I can just will it away, can't I?

Out of sight, out of mind, out of cell phone range.
(Is it possible to find a pocket of isolation any longer in our shrunken world? If so, I'd like a one-way ticket, please.)

Truth is, I haven't blogged in a while because blogs, by their nature, are b*tch forums, and when it comes to our boys, brethren, there hasn't been much to whine about. We've won six straight series, we still haven't lost to the Yankees, we have the best record in the American League.

But last night's events beg comment, and here's mine: Our downfall began the minute Jason Varitek was taken out of the game.
Tek: The one guy in the infield who knew there were only two outs in the bottom of the sixth and didn't follow the lead of Julio Lugo and trot off the field.

'Nuff ced.

I understand why he was taken out, of course. It was a 10-1 game and he'll be catching this afternoon. It was the right move.
But George Kottaras, for some reason, clearly wasn't ready to play. Justin Masterson, in a twinkling, went from cruise control to unable to get anyone out.

And the rest of the bullpen following suit? It seems more than just a coincidence. It wouldn't have happened with Tek behind the plate.

Kottaras' crowning achievement was getting throw out at the plate in the top of eighth. On that play, the final die was cast. If Kottaras scores, as he should have, we add to a 10-6 lead, perhaps get more runs and, most critically, grab back momentum.
Instead, it kept building in Baltimore's favor. A palpable force: Saito actually seemed physically unable to throw pitches in the bottom of the eighth.

Meanwhile, Geoff Zaun, Baltimore's backup catcher, came on in the ninth and blocked a handful of balls in the dirt preventing the tying run from getting in scoring position until Youk got hit by a pitch.

We talk about this Red Sox team having enviable depth, both in terms of position players and pitchers. Yesterday's events, between Lowell going on the DL and a 10-1 lead melting away, erode that notion a bit.

And championship teams don't lose games like that. They don't lose focus so dramatically.

In the end, I guess (hope), we chalk it up as a momentary blip, a well-timed kick in the pants, a loss more monumental in our psyche than in the standings.
We hang our hat on Smoltz pitching well, curse a poorly timed rain delay and look forward to Revolver Beckett putting the finishing touches on a 6-3 road trip.

OK, let me wake up now...