Missive

Dear Chew Tobacco Aficionado,

It was a beautiful night for baseball, wasn't it? Birds in the sky, kids delirious from staying up past nine on a school night, drunk girls dancing around on their seats. I imagine you, as a chaw aficionado, were inspired to make like Boston's nine men and chew a little dried leafy goodness at America's Most Beloved Ballpark. Who am I to stop you? (However, you may want to imagine what your face is going to look like after a lifetime of chewing on that shit. You're welcome.)

Also, dear sir or madam, I was also excited to watch Manny's bomb head clear over the monster. I had a great view in some prime logue seats on the third baseline. I got to say hello to Manny and Mike Lowell all night. I got to duck when foul balls came screaming toward me. My friend A nearly felt her heart jump out of her mouth after a couple doozies. After that first inning horror show, I was glad we managed to eek out a win. Go Sox.

I was not glad, however, when, in the ensuing pandemonium after Manny's second home run, you either threw or dropped your drained plastic beer cup that was filled with your spit, leafy remnants of chaw, and sunflower seed shells between A and I. Your cup hit the seat, then the spit-tobacco-seed goo hit my chair, A's coat, and a few drops on her face. It was the baseball equivalent of the dirty bomb. We missed the last half-inning because your nasty habit had us in the bathroom wiping your spit off of my friend with damp paper towels.

While I know Fenway isn't exactly high tea with the Queen, there are still some rules of decorum that keep the experience fun for all of us. You clearly made no attempt to dispose of your chew remnants in a sanitary way. If you had, the goo would have been in a resealable plastic bottle of some kind, thus just being a minor annoyance and not germ warfare.

So next time you want to engage in your vice, please do so in a manner that isn't so fucking disgusting. And for the love of God, don't throw your spit around the stands.

Hugs,
Spittle-Bombed Girls

Take Me Out

Dear Baseball,

Welcome back. Jeets and I missed you.



Go forth. Play your baseball game. For soon spring will be here in Boston, and 'Tek will strike his warrior pose at Fenway, "Dirty Water" will be sung from rooftop parties, basements, beaches, by drunk fans stumbling home on Beacon Street. Let the sausages cook, the hot dogs be adorned with condiments, the babies in Papelbon shirts get their trial-by-fire.

Let's play some baseball.



Love,
Amy

MVP

Bad news:

David Ortiz didn't win MVP, which isn't too surprising.

Good news:

This guy didn't win either.

"I love interpretive dance!"

That's really all the insight I have. And I thank the Lord Jesus that that picture exists in this world.

Nickname

Many websites are trying to figure out what to call young pitching phenom Daisuke Matsuzaka since his name is apparently too boring. I would like to propose we call him Hiro.

The similarities are striking:


Save the cheerleader, Daisuke, save the world.