Agatha being Manny

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball is a terrifying game.

There are no clocks in this establishment, meaning two teams could theoretically play forever if defenses are unable to record the requisite outs for a game's advancement. Imagine: a game that has infinity breathing down its neck. It reminds me of the Stephen King short story "The Jaunt," in which a young human boy's mind is exposed to eternity during a routine teleportation to Mars. He subsequently claws his eyes out.

If Manny Ramirez wants to say that "It's not like it's the end of the world" that Boston could be eliminated from the playoffs at the hands of the Cleveland Indians, then I tend to agree. Time after time, Ramirez exposes himself to this game without limits, and to be relieved from that dark reality must be a great relief. Especially given that the average Red Sox game on television lasts 5 1/2 hours, you can see how America's poster child for ADHD would feel threatened by this horrid playoff business. It's not the end of the world. In fact, getting out is akin to survival.

Besides, this is Boston. This team will be back in the playoffs next year and several hundred consecutive years after, probably without even trying. As an example, notice how Manny never tries and still succeeds, similar to the bubble-gum popularity and easily consumable nature of Metallica's post-Black Album catalog. Sinners.

When Manny Ramirez speaks, I listen. After all, he's just one nose ring, some English lessons and a giant furry top hat away from being the greatest lead singer of our generation, and I'm convinced he has an ear to the world's innermost secrets. His existentialism sets him apart from his peers, those who are foolishly driven to succeed in a game that permits failure seven out of 10 times.

Also, that hair makes me hot. If your current voodoo priestess winds up outside the MLB medical benefits network, feel free to give Moonfry Associates a call, Manny. I purr.