Red Sox 8, Astros 4
contributed by Mr. Happy
Step right up, come on in
If you’d like to take the grand tour
Of a lonely house that once was home sweet home
I have nothing here to sell you,
Just some things that I will tell you
Some things I know will chill you to the bone.
Over there, sits the chair
Where she’d bring the paper to me
And sit down on my knee
And whisper oh, I love you
But now she’s gone forever
And this old house will never
Be the same without the love
That we once knew.
Straight ahead, that’s the bed
Where we’d lay in love together
And Lord knows we had a good thing going here
See her picture on the table
Don’t it look like she’d be able
Just to touch me and say good morning dear.
There’s her rings, all her things
And her clothes are in the closet
Like she left them
When she tore my world apart.
As you leave you’ll see the nursery,
Oh, she left me without mercy
Taking nothing but
Our baby and my heart.
Step right up, come on in…
In a theme that’s become all too fucking common, the Astros pitching staff, irrespective of who is on the bump, ran up a high pitch count, walking eight and throwing 183 pitches in eight innings en route to being doubled up by the BoSox 8-4. This one began very well, with the Good Guys notching two runs in the top of the first against a wild Felix Doubront, but left the bases juiced in a harbinger of tonight’s ultimate fate. Brad Peacock, tonight’s starter and ineffective loser, made a cameo appearance, tossing 90 pitches in his brief 3.1 frames of work, walking five and giving up five earnies. Travis Blackley and Wesley Wright bent but didn’t break. However, Hector Ambriz did, surrendering three runs in his inning of work. Jose Veras finished it out with a scoreless frame in the bottom of the eighth inning.
The Astros RISP woes continued tonight, as they went 1-12 and are now 3-29 in the series, stranding ten fucking ducks on the pond tonight. Strikeouts also continue to plague the Astros, who struck out 12 times tonight, including another Golden Sombrero, this time courtesy of Chris Carter.
George Jones died this week. At 81. I figure that if Ole Possum Eyes made it that far, then there’s still hope for me. RIP.