The effort of sucking huevos, that is. If tonight’s Giants were the Red Sox of the ‘70s, their catch phrase would be “25 men, 25 ways to gag.”
Let’s start with Mr. Rockstar: This the Barry Zito we fear, nibbling, unwilling to challenge hitters with a fastball, unable to put hitters away with two strikes. Walking Coco Crisp and Julio Lugo, two of the worst hitters in the American League? Untenable. Immediately giving back a 2–run lead in the bottom of the first? Un-acelike.
Barry had lots of help. On defense, a grounder that two infielders somehow missed (and was somehow ruled an infield hit) led to a run in the third, and a botched rundown led to three runs in the fourth. Another error (although officially the only one of the night) led to a run in the sixth.
On offense, the Giants hit against Julian Tavarez as if they had 10pm movie tickets. The weak link in the Boston rotation, and an umpire who squeezed the strike zone like it was Charmin, and still the offense was anemic.
And Jack Taschner tops it off with one of the worst relief innings you’ll see in a long while.
As my old friend Jimmy the Fixer used to say, “Thanks for shopping.”
PLODAG: Are you fucking kidding me?
