As the dawn of the 2011 baseball season comes, one thing above all is certain: The 2011 Boston Red Sox are the greatest collection of baseball players ever to grace the game with their hallowed presence. Put this team against anyone, from any era, and they will stomp the snot out of them without even breaking a sweat. The 1927 Yankees? Don't make me laugh! The 1998 Yankees? They had David Wells; need I say more? The 1932 Yankees...
Okay, enough with the Yankees. The point is, every newspaper, radio station, television analyst and homeless person has been telling us near nonstop just how undeniably, invariably and spectacularly awesome this team is.
I saw one such breakdown on a local sports network that claimed the Red Sox have a legitimate chance to sweep all major awards, win over 100 games, win the World Series, cure cancer and raise Papelbon from the dead. And I can't think of a single reason to doubt their analysis.
Well, unless you count the three consecutive losses to start the year where they were outscored 26-11, Carl Crawford struck out five times and pitchers surrendered 11 home runs en route to a team ERA of 9.75 and a BA of .200...
But why would we worry about that? They were playing in Texas! If there is anything we can be more certain of other than the extreme talent possessed by Francona's sexy, brooding squad of man-some is that Texas rarely obeys they laws of physics.
When a scientist tells a Texan that the Earth has gravity, a Texan will defiantly pull up his Wrangler's, don a ferocious scowl and jump right off a bridge. And I think, as Americans, we should encourage this behavior.
The Sox have a much needed day off today before they head up to Cleveland, trying very hard not to touch anything on their trips to and from the ballpark. And I think the day off is a very good thing because it gives the Boston sports talk show hosts and diligent listeners a chance to completely flip out and threaten to kill everyone with fire.
I don't believe I have ever seen a turnaround in faith this rapid and jarring since all the way back in the good ol' days of 2010, which was the last time the Sox lost three or more in a row and made life not worth living anymore.
The only potential salvation lies in the arm of the Texan named Josh Beckett (assuming he hasn't met any scientists recently), who spent most of 2010 trying to remember where his keys were. If it weren't for the now infamous and successful transnational search, spearheaded by an international coalition of military forces, just before the winter meetings, Beckett might still be struggling.
We owe the outcome of this all-important game four to the men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice to discover that the keys were actually on his counter the whole time, under a piece of paper that "wasn't supposed to be there."
I will join you again on Friday to discuss the arrival of the Yankees (the 2011 version, so don't panic) at Fenway Park for this first time this season and chronicle their inevitable and merciless slaughter, unless, of course, they happen to win.
Where are my nachos?