Kapler out for year.

Red Sox Nation people, check your e-mail.

I'm out til Monday. Hopefully we'll be 6 1/2 up by then.

I have a feeling Empy will be talking about this play. In case you missed it, like I did (a certain sandwich place was closed, and I ended up walking 17 blocks and...), Gabe hurt his foot rounding the bases on Professor Graff's homer, and Machado came in to pinch run--during the play--and scored his first major league run. Hope Gaby's okaby.

What would I do for David Ortiz? Actually, what wouldn't I do? I've reached theBSM/artist formerly known as Broseph level with Papi, I think.

The ovation he's gonna hear when he comes up to the plate for the first time tomorrow night at Fenway will be loud. Right-between-the-eyes loud. Don't-want-no-compromise loud.

I said I'd try to come up with some unique way to give the magic number. So here goes.

It won't show the number, but rather this yankee Stadium-model toilet bowl. When the yankee turd is totally flushed, the division will be ours. You'll notice that the water in the bowl is just starting to dance the yanks' last dance. You'll also notice my Spidey garbage can from '78. I might not get to update it this weekend, due to not being near a computer, but I figured I'd get the idea out there.

New Cheat Commandos.

Ever have one of those strange moments where you suddenly think to yourself, "I can't feel my left leg...," or, "I think my eye is out of it's socket...," or, "My penis is gone!"?

I never have.

I was watching a little bit of the John Roberts Senate hearings today. Not only is this guy a favorite of George Bush, he IS George Bush. In his mannerisms, I mean. That serious look while he's spewing bullshit, leading into the reassuring smile of pure evil. What a phony. He's also similar to Georgie, and most politicians, in that as many times as you ask him the same question, he always finds a way to avoid it. Terrible job, John.

The other night, I guess it would be, uh, Monday night, Chan had the Monday Night Football game on. Seeing a big fat fullback in a Falcons jersey, my thoughts turned immediately to Craig "Ironhead" Heyward. And an old commercial came rushing back to me. I can't believe I'd forgotten about it. I'll refresh your memory:

"But Ironhead, what's with this thing-y?"

Wells vs. a Blue Jay pitcher tonight, then back home for the Athletics. And what will that mean?

That's right, bad news for the Athletics.

Finally, I have a new slogan for the NAACP, if they'd like to use it: "Wasting a mind? Terrible job."

Tonight's crappy baseball night shows us how important last night's Double Pap-Fest was. The lead would be 1 1/2 instead of 2 1/2 if it wasn't for Big and Little Papi. I blame tonight's loss on Edgar. Most errors of anybody in the league. I nominate him and Matsui for the Most Overrated Award. Let's get rid of him, get Nomar back next year, and use some of the extra money to pay Johnny.

Papelbon's girlfriend told Reb and I that he had "Pappy" down his arm. I didn't know if she meant a tattoo or a T-shirt or what, but tonight on NESN, they showed him out in the bullpen, and he raised his arm to reveal a tattoo. I tried to go back to the mlb.tv archives and do a close-up on it, but, like when I watch the games live (Ha! How many minutes behind is it?), it just kept giving me still frames. So it was kind of impossible to find that exact moment.

But it's just kind of cool that we were tipped off to the tattoo before everyone else found out about it tonight. Although BSM probably knew about it in '98 or so.

Trupiano said something about Jeremy Kapstein tonight. He said that someone was his cousin. Possibly a Blue Jays player. If anyone knows anything, please let me know.

But now to the important stuff: In September, a win is a win. Yesterday, we had no pitching problems, but lost. Tonight, bullpen issues, but a win. In April, I'd have taken yesterday's game. In September, I'll take tonight's. And, like yesterday, there were some positives (you know, besides the actual W.) Ortiz: still mega-donging after all these years. Arroyo: pitched a lot of innings without giving up runs, before losing it late. Although Castig and Trup acted like he was an accident waiting to happen all night. (I went with Gameday Audio tonight, because the mlb.tv is just torture with it's choppiness, buffering, and delays.) And, of course, Jon Papelbon, who, backed by the will of Joe Castiglione, pitched three no-hit innings and got the win.

You should have heard Joe. It was like his son was out on the mound. He was full of pride, and announcing that last inning like The Big Papel (pictured, with lit cigarette on head--for more pics like these, keep scrolling down) already had it locked up. Ooh, European Vacation's coming on. "Hroostie." Sorry. So, uh, Castig called the bottom of the 11th with extreme confidence. Not arrogance, Michael Kay, but confidence. It was great.

Welcome to Part Three of the stalking adventure at the Red Sox' hotel here in New York. Present for the festivities were me and RebDog. Go to her site, Reb Sox, for lots more pictures. And if you're just joining us, the deal is that I had my video camera, so all my shots are video stills, and she had her digital camera, which she gave to me to get shots of her with players. Scroll down for Part I and Part 2.

Reb chases after Tito, and gets him. See pic of the two of them actually facing the camera at her site.

Tito had sweats on. He was the only person to leave without having that "baseball guy formal" outfit on. I also thought it was interesting that everyone who left on foot went away from Times Square, which is a block away from the hotel. I guess that's to avoid mobbing. But you'd think a guy like Petagine could, and would want to, take his wife right into the center of the world, at least for a glimpse. Or maybe a younger player would be a better example. Or maybe they avoided going that way because the street on the way over to Times Square is actually kind of dark. Anyway, there goes Tito:

Graffanino had actually left and come back, but now was going out again. Here's the moment where he rejects Reb:

With the fauna and the shirt selection, this may look like a picture from Mike Myers' Hawaiian vacation. But it's actually from last night. I was avoiding Myers like the plague, because I'd just seen him at Autograph Alley, and I irrationally feared that he'd recognize me and assume I was trying to murder him. I tried to get this message across to Reb, but when he came by, she couldn't help herself, and I found myself with her camera in my hand, with him staring right at me. So, I did what any babbling idiot would do, mentioning how I saw him a few days earlier, and that "I was the guy in the Bad News Bears jersey!" I figured I'd get it right out in the open to seem, somehow, less crazy. He said "Oh yeah?" So maybe he didn't even remember. Either way, I got a good shot of the two of them, go over to Reb's site to see it.

Papelbon came out, and again he was on the cell. That black nose-shaped object on the top left is a dude's nose. Note the smoke coming out of it:

Here's more of the Papelboy:

And here he is with his girlfriend, attempting to hail his own cab:

What they didn't realize was that there was a line for cabs, and they'd jumped to the front of it, which is why they were being ignored by the cabs. Which led to the girlfriend making this "whoops" face:

Here, they both react to what sounded like someone screaming for their life a few feet away. (Turns out it was someone on one of those party bikes where five people pedal at once in a circle):Reb tried to be nice, and told the bellhop to get them a cab. Papelbon's girlfriend thanked her for this. So we were hanging around them for a while, and I said to Papelbon's ladyfriend, "Am I the first person to call him 'Little Papi'?" She said he's got some thing down his arm (?) that says Pappy. So it's Pappy and Papi. I tried to clarify my "big" vs. "little" theory, while attempting to note that he's only little in relation to the massive David Ortiz. Still, she said, "He's not that little." During all this Papel-mania, we realized we should've invited BSMemorial, who's been hyping this guy since I was in short pants. But we forgot. Sorry, BSM. Anyway, Lil' Papi's girlfriend actually turned back and said good-bye to us when their cab finally came.

Bronson then came out:

Follow the series of events.

"Hey Bronson, I'm putting my hand on you."

"Oh, hey, some random girl. If you were a dude in a Pac-Men shirt who hasn't shaved in a week like that Jere dude over there, I'd probably be kicking your ass right now."

"Will you take a pic with me?"

And here's the moment I took the picture. This is another fortunate time when I actually held the video camera up toward them while I shot a pic with the digital in the other hand:

And here, Reb looks lovingly up at Bronson. The pic I got of them (see Reb's site) makes up for last time, when part of Bronson was cut off:

At this moment, I remembered that I wanted to bring my guitar, and see if Bronson would sign it. Oh well:

Bronson seems either bored or sick, but a good shot of him, I think:

And there he goes:

Youk looked like he was having some trouble with his phone:

This is when the fun began. Keith Foulke appeared in the lobby:

I knew from last time that Keith is a total jokester. Millar may be the clubhouse jester or whatever, but when it comes to joking around and being comfortable with the fans, Foulke takes the Whopper. And yes, I did make that joke, but only to show how things get blown out of proportion. Because after a couple of times experiencing how this guy deals with fans, I know that his Burger King remarks were just that--a joke. Too bad it had to lead to a Dirt Dogs art and comedy blitz. Anyway, since I knew the ways of Foulke, I wasn't afraid to go right up to the glass with my camera. Until he waved right to me:

I gave him the no-longer-as-cool-as-it-used-to-be devil-horn finger motion after he waved.

He was messin' with the weird autograph hounds right away, with the classic "go all the way around" in the revolving door to make them think he was coming outside. I guess he, Shoppach, and Adam Stern were waiting for a car. I made a sign on Reb's notebook that said "We're the only normal people." On the back it said, "Everyone else is retarded." I held it up to the glass. Eventually, when he came out, Reb asked if he saw it. He said he couldn't read it, so we showed him. He laughed. Here he is with Kelly Shoppach:

At that point, I remembered I have a picture of his first major league at bat. Shoulda brought that along. Crap. Anyway, we then showed the sign to Kelly, after he went back in, as they were just waiting around for their ride. He read both sides, and then mouthed "Me, too," impyling he was also retarded. I guess. Here, Foulke takes a quick glance at Reb's, uh, Red Sox T-shirt, as Kelly waits by the door.

Here's some more of Reb and I chillin' with Keith:




Adam Stern came out to join the Kelly/Keith Krew. Since I went to the same school as him, I went right up to him and said "Adam, I went to Nebraska, too," only with more stuttering, and he shook my hand and we started talking about it. All of a sudden, Keith Foulke was yelling "Jere!" I guess Reb had decided to get a pic with him at that moment, and didn't realize I'd gone off to talk to Stern. So she started calling me over, at which point, everyone else, including Foulke, did the same. I got there and Foulke was like "Where were ya, man?"

Talking to Adam Stern, where else? So, I actually had to tell a ballplayer to "hold on." After I took the pic (again, see Reb's site), I went right back to Stern, and we continued our chat. I told him it was great to have a Husker on the Sox. He talked about how him and Erstad are a rare breed of MLB Nebraskans. I told him Erstad played there when I was there. Anyway, I eventually got my pic taken with him. It should be on Reb's site. (I'm the guy who isn't Adam Stern.) Here's some video footage I got of Stern (he's right of center, facing camera, talking to Shoppach):

Youks came out again, and I took a shot of him and Reb. My video camera captured his beer belly while I took the pic with the other hand:

Then Kapler and Mueller came out. When Reb sees this, she'll really wonder how she didn't see Mueller:

After hearing about a picture, to be taken by me, Gabe surveys my scrawny ass, and decides that it should be okay:

Then my camera cuts off his head, while I take the pic with the other camera, which, again, will be on Reb's site:

At this point, you've got the Kelly/Keith/Stern crew still waiting, and Mueller, Youk, and Kapler now outside as well. Leading to this shot, which I'm sure Reb, and possibly Sam, will treasure forever. Shoppach, Stern, Kapler, Youk, Foulke, two kids, and Rebecca:

And here, they scatter, as all the cars seemed to arrive at once. Some backpack guy, Shoppach, Youk, Stern, Foulke, Mueller, Kapler. Six Red Sox running amok in the streets of New York:

And a final shot of Kapler, as Reb and I are left behind, still tryin' to play a phonograph record with a peanut, so to speak:

The last hurrah was when Ortiz showed up. He walked through the lobby, before having a seat with...

the Shaman! Who is this guy??

Here's Reb with David Ortiz (and the Shaman), with only a thin layer of glass between them.
And that was when we called it a night. Like last time, we got to the point where we thought some guys might start coming back, and seeing us still there. Which would make us seem even weirder than we already are. We noticed that Wakefield and Mirabelli stayed in that night, probably studying hitters in their rooms. Or looking at snuff films, who knows, but Timmy really twirled a gem the next day, so I'm guessing it was the former.

On our way back, I got a shot of Reb under "her sign." Unfortunately, our Red Sox stickers have been removed.

I almost forgot. Right before we left the hotel, a huge group of Amish people came down the street, bibles, beards, and all. I instinctively started taping them, before remembering that that they don't like to have their picture taken. Whoops. Them's the breaks. And they better get used to that when they start roaming throught the big city. (Then again, it could have been a cast from a play, but I think they were actual Amish...I wonder, did they take horse-drawn buggies all the way here? And maybe change to a bigger, faster buggy in Jersey City?) Here they are:

Reb and Jere's adventures at the Sox' NYC hotel, Sept. 10th, 2005. Part 2, of at least 3. Scroll down for Part 1.

When we left off, a new bus had just arrived. Here's Tito comin' in. Doesn't it look like he's holding a gun, like he's about to assassinate Buckwheat or something?

Here, Tito says hi to someone he knew:

And he's happy about it:

Here's Theo and Papa Jack:

Someone's flash (Reb's?) makes Theo's shadow appear on Papa Jack:

Olerud and Bradford. Olerud looks at his fans as if to say, "Hi, I'm John. I'm as nice as I am tall:"

Trot:

Keith Foulke:

Billy Mueller:

My favorite Italian dish, Petagine Graffanino:

Okay, who's this guy? A shaman of some kind? Should I know who he is? He'll come into play later:

Mirabelli, Millar, and Sveum:

Millar walks through the lobby as some dude looks on in awe:
At this point, everybody who's staying at the hotel is inside, except for Johnny, who already took off, and Manny, who most likely stays with family when in NYC. Varitek's in, as he took some sneaky way in from the bus, but can be seen on my video on the escalator with Mirabelli in the lobby. We stand right outside, so we have the full view of the outside and the inside. So we always know when a player is coming or going well in advance. Edgar's also inside, but I didn't get a good shot of him. He's also a notoriously shy person.

So, we stand around outside, waiting for players to come out. This is when Reb goes for autographs and pics of her WITH players, while I keep filming and taking pics when she needs me.

Last time we did this, we met a dude named Milan. Milan really showed us the stalking ropes. Reb learned a lot from him and wasn't afraid to go right up to players, tap them on the shoulder, and ask for a pic. The players respond to this a lot more than they do to a forty-year old dude in sweatpants and a Megadeth shirt holding a folder full of resellable baseball cards looking for autographs. Reb is a pretty blonde, which helps, but I think it's more in the method of the request that gets the job done. Plus, a pic is easier than an autograph for these guys.
She did go for Clement's autograph, which she got, on a Hello, Kitty notebook:

Everyone else, she went for the pic of her and the player. Actually, Steffi Graffanino turned her down, but he was in the minority:

Jason never really stops for anything, though.

He and Karen left on foot, holding hands:

I spotted Joe Castiglione, and was way more interested in him than Reb, of course. I hadn't even seen him come in:

Here's Reb with Kevin Millar. Although he's behind glass and facing the other way:

But then Millar came out, and here's Reb working the Milan magic. That's her blonde hair, and Kevin's in white. You can see the hounds on the left. They've already realized that Kevin's not signing, and he gets right past them. But Reb goes right after him:

She taps him on the shoulder, he agrees to the photo op, and I run up behind, get her camera and take their picture together. All while still rolling with the video camera. Here's what the camera sees as I hold it at my hip, while taking the shot with the digital in my other hand: (don't ask me why Kevin's looking at the wrong camera at this point.)
For the actual pic I took, as well as Reb with many other Sox, go to Reb Sox.



Here's Olerud, Cora, or as I call him, Cor-ge Posada, and PeoplefortheEthicalTreatmentofAnimalsGINE, all heading out on foot for their respective nights on the town:



End Part 2. Next post will feature much more as more dudes came out, and Reb got their pics and stuff. Stay tuned.

[Edit: Per Reb's comment, I forgot this story, from when we were doing the picture-taking with Millar. An older dude had pulled up to the hotel with his wife in a Jaguar. He was standing around, waiting for it to be valet-parked. He smoked a cigar and wore a yankee hat. His wife, a Tino jersey from happier times. He spotted a guy with bleached-blond hair (Millar) and ran over to him. He yelled, "Curt! Curt!" We were all confused. "Curt! I just want to let you know how pissed off you made me by pitching so well today." I said "That's not Curt Schilling, it's Kevin Millar!" And Kevin also told him that he wasn't Curt. I love when yankee fans make it that easy. He skunked his way back to his Jag, where I got a nice close-up of him with a completely embarrassed look on his face. So, Reb, is that what you were talking about? You said my camera missed that? It's kind of an audio story. I missed nothing.]