Terms

OK Mr. Norris: here's the first challenge issued to you, as the losing party, in our first Red Sox vs.Yankees face-off of 2008.

1. Visit your local supermarket, corner store, or bodega.

2. Purchase a carton of Tropicana or other similar beverage.

3. Purchase a sleeve of the smallest Dixie Cups (or equivalent) you can find.

4. Go to a bar, your place of work, a nearby Home Depot, or somewhere you won't get beaten up.

5. Pour the beverage into the small cups.

6. Put on your Yankee hat.

7. Offer the cups to passers by, friends, or associates saying each time:

"I am a New York Yankees fan, so can I offer you a shot of juice?"

That is all (although a photo would be nice).

The Yankees' Jason Giambi before...

...and after

Yay!

First blood to me. Watch this space.

Its That Time of Year Again

Bill Norris, the man who put the sex in Tex Mex, is a Yankees fan. I am a Red Sox fan. For a couple of years now, we have been operating under the following rules throughout the baseball season whenever the Sox and Yankees meet:

"So, I propose some sort of bet, to be played out here and in his own pages. Not anything of monetary consequence, as I am poor and he's soon to be betrothed, but rather something visual, to be blogged, a picture perhaps, of Wisdom sporting an "I Heart Jeter" shirt should the Yankees win the series and something equally mortifying to me in these pages should the unthinkable happen and the Red Sox win.

Then, as the season progresses, we can continue this, in the spirit of good natured ribbing and mutual mortification.

I'm willing to take suggestions on the terms, keeping in mind that the embarrassing gesture need be: a) cheap, b) easily blogged and c) funny."

This Friday the 2007 World Series champion Boston Red Sox meet the team that couldn't beat Cleveland for the first time this season. Its a three game series and by Sunday night either Bill or myself will have egg on our faces.

I already have a forfeit on hand (thanks to BioChris's eagle eyes) but both Bill and I feel the challenge needs a shake up. So we are soliciting suitable punishments from you all. If you follow the "betting" tag you'll see what we have done in the past. Be creative and keep it legal in Texas.

On to Friday, and victory!

Why the 2007 Red Sox are a team of Destiny

Some of you may recall that I have been involved in a long and drawn out baseball bet with my chum Bill Norris (late of the 5 boroughs and now in Austin). Bill is a fan of the New York Yankees while I root for the Boston Red Sox. This is a rivalry along the lines of the Tamil/Sinhalese conflict in Sri Lanka, except neither American city conducts naval raids on the other- yet.

Despite beating the Yankees for first place in the American League Eastern Division the Red Sox conspired to lose the last regular season series between the two teams. As per the terms of our bet, Bill thus earned the right to inflict a forfeit on me, to whit:

Weasel still owes me for the final Yanks/Sox series of the year.

I had a hard time coming up with his punishment this time, putting on my Professor Hat, I think what I'd like is a 1,000 word essay on why, exactly, the 2007 Red Sox are a team of destiny, why they are clearly the best team in baseball and why, of course, there is no way they can lose the World Series this year....Hopefully, this will provide the jujitsu needed to actually keep the Sox from celebrating a victory over either Cleveland or the Rockies.

OK:

Why the 2007 Red Sox are a team of Destiny
© Weaselhack, Ltd: Essays to Order While U Wait

Would you bet against the Red Sox? Would you take a chance on the once-lovable-losers-turned annoying-arrogant-New-England-sports-Brahmin's screwing it up? The curse (what curse?) was destroyed in 2004 and Boston were revealed for what they were and are: the second largest payroll in baseball, packed with talent and playing in a ball park more rigged than a Malaysian soccer match. Of course the Sox are supposed to win it all, the same way the Patriots are destined to ruin football for a generation for all Americans who live south of Connecticut and west of Lake Champlain.

Because really what is the Red Sox as underdogs myth but a fantastic piece of marketing? The Sox- by virtue of their wealth and offensive weapons- are the United States. Stacked up against the Soviet Union (the Yankees) people outside of New England were prepared to cheer on the forces of freedom (the Sox). Playing some burned out old tire factory full of boneheaded face painting Indian-minstrels like Cleveland, we don't come off so well (in this tortured analogy Cleveland is Grenada). People like me who live up here among the frosted flakes of WASPy/Ellis Island intermarriage don't give a shit that our team is no longer no better than second place. The same attitude that makes the rest of the country irrationally hate presidential candidates from our neighborhood makes us great sports fans, and makes our teams win (the Bruins and the Celtics are just slow learners but they'll get there).

The rest of the country (poor bastards) has tornadoes, dust bowls, creationism, dove hunting, and forest fires. We have Acadia National Park, the nation's first sunrise every day, cheap lobster, maple syrup, Mount Washington, Marconi Beach, Burlington, Harvard AND Yale, marshmallow fluff, Maaaaahky Maaahk, Sam Adams beer, moose, Florida for winter breaks, and now the winning ways of the Patriots and the Red Sox . No wonder they hate us when we aren't playing New York.

By Bill's reckoning, the enforced yet unfiltered arrogance of the preceding paragraphs should bring out the deus ex machina to punish me for such a display of hubris. But life is not a Greek tragedy (unless you are a Greek person with perpetual bad luck. Then life is a Greek tragedy tinged with irony). And even if it were, and the Cleveland Indians (named in honor of Louis Sockalexis, a Penobscot from Maine- score one more for New England sports) beat the Red Sox this evening, I still maintain that Boston is a team of destiny. For victory takes many forms and while there is every chance the Sox will be denied World Series rings they did achieve another triumph; the toppling of that old fraud Joe Torre.

Torre had the easiest job in sports. As manager of baseball's Blackwater all he had to do was send out the most talented collection of hired hands ever assembled outside the craft services trailer on a Young Guns movie and hope that whatever glimmer of a soul his players had had been consumed by the poisonous power of their Darth Vader-like batting helmets. If Torre was missing a particular talent set, all he had to do was sidle up to Brian Cashman and ask him to go buy him someone: truly, he was the Veruca Salt of baseball management. His sole managerial talent appeared to be walking slowly to the mound so he could shake his pendulous jowls and dog-penis nose at some hapless mercenary of a pitcher, taking the ball so that he could send in a ambidextrous sidewinder with an eye patch the Yankees acquired to solely face batter X or Y but only on Wednesdays and only at home and then only if Don Mattingly had eaten a king cone 2 hours prior to the game.

Despite all of this, and despite Torre's never-ending parade of natty short sleeved nylon cap-sleeved warm up "shackets", the Yankees still managed to lose the division to the Red Sox and their ALDS to a gaggle of cut-rate Venezuelans, the poor man's Torrii Hunter, and a man with the nickname "Pronk". Thus Joe got offered $5 million for 2008 which he promptly declared an insult and stomped off to tend to the "Gulliani 08" signs in the front yard of his Staten Island shitbox. America, you are welcome.

Unlike the Colorado Rockies, Boston is not a made-up team playing in uniforms that appeared to have been lettered by a 1980s shopping mall font designer, sucking down oxygen in the dugout and playing in the discount-rated National League. Unlike the Cleveland Indians' fans, we don't feel the need to rip off the Pittsburgh Steelers' towel thing or Marge Schottenheimer's casual racism. Finally, unlike the New York Yankees, our star player isn't going into a contract year with the label "Mr. April, Miss October" hanging over his head. So come what may tonight I can put my hand on my heart and declare truthfully that the Red Sox, faltering bats and wild pitching included, are the best team in baseball even if we lose.

A Losing Proposition

I am now deep into the second season of a Boston Red Sox versus New York Yankees mutual humiliation bet with the lovely Bill Norris. William is a displaced Yankees fan; I support the Sox (I am therefore support hose, if you prefer). Whenever one team inflicts a series defeat on the other, a horrible fate awaits the supporter of the losing side.

A couple of weeks ago the Yankees beat the Red Sox, and so I was challenged by Bill to:

"Choose one of the vocal numbers from No, No Nanette....and record an a capella version of the song, with the mp3 file to be posted your blog forthwith.....For those of you who don't know, baseball lore holds that Babe Ruth's move from Boston to New York was partly a result of then Boston owner Harry Frazee's desire to finance the original production of the musical."

Whatever. Fine. With help from technical wizard Canada Dry Mike and the contents of his well-stocked bier keller I was able to sing my heart out while terrifying his pets (thanks Mike: I know you are clutch if I ever need humiliating: John, I could not have stood to have this on video...):

No No Nanette, performed by me


As I type, game three of the last regular season Sox/Yanks meeting is about to begin in Boston (so apologies for any typos, I'm flying through this in order to get downstairs to settle in with a dark and stormy and the flicker). The series is balanced at one a piece- fingers crossed!

A Little Help Over Here?

To all my bloggers/visitors in the 04841: I have lost a baseball bet with my friend Bill and need help fulfilling his terms, detailed here. I do appear to have an out, pleading lack of technological resources, but I'd hate to wriggle off the hook over a technicality.

If you have the wherewithal, hit me up either at super secret email (inner sanctum members) or at wisdomweasel AT hot mail dot com.

Thanks.

PS: Favorite quote of last week? President Bush, in New Orleans to commemorate Katrina: "Laura and I- we don't live here".

Lost Another Bet to Billco

Incredible. After a start to the baseball season that looked like I'd be having to dig deep to find all the various humiliations I was to inflict on friend Bill as part of our ongoing Red Sox/Yankees battle, the Bronx bastards turned around and pulled out series victory number two on the year. Therefore:

"I owe Weasel some retribution because, in an unlikely turn of events, the Yankees took two of three from the Sox in Fenway last week. Seeing as Scout is only recently arrived on the scene (and had the good sense to be born during a Sox/Yankees series), and I’m sure Weasel and family are quite busy with the adjustment, my terms will be simple: Weasel, please change your profile picture to a shot of young Scout sporting the “Yankees Suck” gear I sent your way for a couple of weeks."

Fine. In fact most kind of Bill, and very restrained on his part, I have to say.

She is a scrawny midget the onsie is a little large on her, but you'll appreciate the general effect:

Lost Bet to Bill

It had to happen. Despite the fantastic performance of the Red Sox versus the Yankees so far this season, the day would come when they would drop a series against New York. Regular visitors to this blog may recall that I have an ongoing bet with Bill Norris that results in the infliction of humiliation on the loser of each round. And now Bill has set my punishment:

"Well, seeing as the Yankees really suck this season, my heart hasn't been in collecting on my bet with Weasel. But, as it is unlikely that I shall triumph again this year, I have finally decided on my terms. There is a semi-regular feature on Weasel's blog wherein he does the following:

'About a year ago I embarked on a project to write short posts about my ten favorite paintings over a 12 month period.'

So, Mr. Weasel, please go here and select any three of the prints on offer and subject them to fawning art criticism as if they are amongst those dozen pieces you call favorites."

OK:

Yankee Stadium, 2003 World Series
Right from the start, this image captivates with its wordless depiction of hubris and seemingly unstoppable evil. Of course, the observer already knows the result: that good triumphed and the improbable Florida Marlins beat the Yankees 4-2 that year. But that does not detract from the overall air of totalitarian menace so deftly captured by the photographer. Like Reifenstahl's Triumph of the Will, the very architecture of the place sets the tone for the undeniable totalitarian air and the swastika-like Yankees logo on the field and the Wehrmacht breast pocket eagle on the big screen suggest jackboots repeatedly stomping on the face of the weak, sporting, or disabled. This is an empire, and it is evil. Simply bone chilling, but with a nice flag to offset the horror.

Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio
Ah, the Splendid Splinter and Joltin' Joe- like Williams himself, a moment frozen in time. Proof that among the players at least, the rivalry used to be much more good natured. Or did it? For the subtext of this photo becomes apparent after a few hours of close study. Look at their hands; like A Rod, it appears that DiMaggio is trying to surreptitiously injure a Red Sox player in order to gain the most minute of advantages. Perhaps it is in retaliation for Williams having asked how Joe enjoyed spending his service days in California, Hawaii, and Atlantic City while Williams trained pilots in the Second World War then flew 38 combat missions in Korea, winning the Air Medal. A true study in layers.


Lou Gehrig
Given the era in which Gehrig played, this is a one-in-a-million shot. Bear in mind that during his playing career the polio ravaging President Franklin Roosevelt's body was kept secret from the American public, his wheelchair and sticks being kept out of public view and camera viewfinders by common consent. Yet here is Gehrig, ravaged by his eponymous disease, laboring towards the plate to face the first pitch. Look how the photographer candidly catches the sheer effort of baseball's original iron man, his sheer intestinal fortitude and refusual to give up investing every involuntarily shaky step. Indeed, this is a most inspiring image- one for the ages.

This Is Not A Baseball Blog 15

Last year I noticed that Kevin Youkilis of the Boston Red Sox resembled Popeye when at bat. Youk grew a beard in the off-season, and as a consequence he now resembles Bluto:

The big hearted, givin'-it-his-all Kevin Youkilis


Popeye's nemesis, Bluto
If next year Youk shows up with his hair in a bun, knobby knees, and signs of dramatic weight loss I think that will indicate that he plans on hitting for the Popeye cycle.

In other baseball news, the Sox dropped the last series to the Yankees. I now await my forfeit from Bill Norris with more trepidation than the prospect of those poo-filled nappies/daipers that wait me in my immediate future.

On a happier note however, I am very impressed with some of the search terms that have been leading people to this blog. I am humbled to think that I might be among the premier web destinations for updates for people who "hate swedes", who are interested in "three legged frog(s)", who have canine issues along the lines of "my dog ruined my carpet", or who want to know who holds the "world record for longest projectile vomit". Keep looking, seekers!

I Think I've Wet 'Em...

...from laughing. The whole effect is quite wonderful.

The Red Sox better not lose a series with the Yankees this year, or else I'm in deep doo-doo.

Two for Two

Amazing. The Boston Red Sox took on the New York Yankees for the second time in a week and caned them again. Not even April-Rod could save the Bronx Bastards, who went through more pitchers than oil rig workers on furlough.

I am in the second year of a bet (see posts passim) with Bill Norris which allows the supporter of the victorious team to inflict humiliation on the loser. Last week I asked Bill to review some of Boston's most awful music scenes (due this Wednesday) so this week I'm going to simply ask him to change his profile image to the picture below. I think this young man is the perfect embodiment of the Yankees' work ethic and talent levels:

Broken Hearts in Madrid, Broken Metatarsal by Late July

Posh and Becks. Or not.
David Beckham is due to join up with his LA Galaxy teammates at the end of June at the conclusion of his contract with Real Madrid. $10 says he will be out injured within a month of playing his first game in the States, clobbered by some long-in-the-tooth South American or cynically hacked by some ex-collegiate thug who couldn't crack the reserves at Accrington Stanley. Any takers?

Terms for Bill

(via Geen Comix)
Ah, the sweet taste of victory! The Read Sox sweep the Yankees at home for the first time in 17 years, which means Mr. Bill Norris has to pay up under the terms of our ongoing humiliation bet on the outcome of Boston/New York baseball battles.

Seeing as it was the first sweep in 17 years, my initial thoughts had something to do with making Bill time-travel back to 1990 (his senior year in high school, I think) and dressing like a member of Jesus Jones for a week. But that might have proved a tad excessive, and compliance would be difficult to verify.

Instead I have decided to take a jujitsu approach and use Bill's own strengths against him. Bill is a great writer on music, and is adept at squirreling out interesting and obscure bands for a feature he calls "What I am Listening To Wednesday". Well, next week I want "What I Am Listening To Wednesday" to be all uncritical reports on songs performed by Boston's rather unfortunate white boy ska movement and also its sub-Pogues shouty Irish punk-folk scene.

The Mighty, Mighty Billtone will be flogging his molly, and no mistake.

This Is Not A Baseball Blog 13

Lots to get to this week, including the outcome of the first baseball challenge of the year with Bill Norris (I won). It was a busy weekend in an increasingly busy life of a Weasel, so please show me some forebearance as I catch up with myself and hopefully my blogging responsibilities. In the interim, I am please to offer up the return of a feature almost as old as these collective postings, a little lookylikey contest we call "this is not a baseball blog":

Friday night's Red Auerbach-honouring, bizarrely costumed Red Sox;

Some Christmas trees

Revuhuhuhuvenge!

The realization dawns on Weasel that the Sox beat the Yankees last weekend
Regular Weaselettes out there will be aware that I have been enduring a season-long bet with Bill Norris of Notes From A Former New Yorker on the results of the meetings of baseball's Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees. Last weekend while I was out and about undergoing a twisted pennance of Bill's devising following a Red Sox loss the word came through the WEEI Red Sox Radio Network that Boston had triumphed over the Yankees.

Revenge would be mine.

Of course, after being forced to parade around Red Sox nation while wearing a pink Yankees hat I knew I had to come up with something good to inflict on Bill. Country Mouse and I have been throwing suggestions around all week, resulting in this shortlist:

1) Write a 250 word essay on why David Ortiz should be the MVP over Derek Jeter.

2) Pose for photographs in front of his undergraduate class at big orange acting as if he is teaching them about the quality of the prose in Jim Gerard's Yankees Suck! (which would be mailed down to Texas presently. It's a good read).

3) Arange to be hit in the face by a custard pie featuring a picture of Trot Nixon picked out in frosting.

4) Become a franchisee in my new business that I'm hoping David Ortiz will agree to endorse: "Big Papi Schmears Bagel Shops", to be situated in women's clinics and OBGYN departments.

However, as tasty as these ideas are, I was hit with greater inspiration on Wednesday night and for a small amount of folding green I sent off for the very special props I would need to seek satisfaction. The props arrived today.

So Bill, there is no better way to acknowledge that one has lost a bet than by adorning one's body with emblems of the enemy and parading in public. As an honest Red Sox fan I could be trusted to don the pink hat even without Bill's direct supervision and fulfill my sentence. While I am sure Bill is a paragon of moral probity he is a Yankees fan and therefore not be trusted not to seek a loophole. Therefore, I'm not sending clothing but temporary tattoos.

There are enough in a package to cover both arms to the point where Bill will resemble a riveter on the Big Dig.

I expect photos of you as a fully-inked construction worker from Providence or Saugus, Mr. Norris. A pillow up your shirt to simulate the accompanying beer gut is optional.

My Dad Warned Me About Wagering

Back at the start of the baseball season Bill Norris from Texas's Notes From A Former New Yorker and I entered into a bet. If over the course of the innumerable meetings between the Red Sox and the Yankees over the length of the season Boston won a series I could inflict humiliation on Bill, and if New York won he could inflict humilation on me.

I gave Bill a rain-out reprieve for the first series and won the second. Bill returned the favour by giving me a bye for my wedding when the Yanks won for the first time this season. Then the post All Star break collapse hit the Red Sox and the Yankees hammered them in August, 5 games to 0. Much like New Orleans's levies in the face of Katrina, I had nowhere to hide and was hit with the full force of Yankee Bill in Bleacher Creature mode. He laid out his terms here.

After a great deal of procrastination and a busy few weeks at work, I finally decided to be a man and get this over with. So with the late summer sun warming a midcoast Maine bejewelled with the earliest of turning leaves, Country Mouse and I set about our usual Saturday chores, except this time with me wearing a pink Yankees ball cap.

Given that I live in a small town of 10,000 (mostly Red Sox-rooting) people and while I'm no celebrity I cannot pass anonymously among my fellow townsfolk, I did allow myself a little disguise. I hope this in no way detracts from Bill's filthy and perverse pleasure at having done the following to me:

About to buy vacuum bags, wanting to shout "Whose your Miele?" at Gary Sheffield.

Why do I stand like that when having my picture taken? It looks like I have a hand palsy. There is an Olympia Sports to my right with a crapload of unsold "NYY Damon 18" t-shirts on a rack outside, 70% off.

Fully entering the Yankee fan character by riding a mobility scooter, the prefered mode of transport of said fans between their living room couches and their fridges for more shitty light beer.
As I type, the Sox lead the Yanks in the Bronx 4-2 in the bottom of the 7th. After this and despite last night's weather, there will be NO rain let-offs for Bill should I prevail this time....