Written by Ossurworld
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Sunday, 8 April 2012

Josh Beckett may be reaching for more excuses than you can find zeros in a multi-million dollar paycheck.

In case your math is a little off because your own paycheck does not hit the comma button too often, that's a good half dozen reasons in the first week of the season.

Already Beckett has provided the press with a couple of doozies. First, in spring training, he announced that baseball is no longer the priority of his life, referring to a recently born daughter.

Those cock-eyed optimists who claimed Beckett would show up in spring training highly motivated from last season's debacle have been shown up. Beckett came in at his usual twenty pounds over the legal limit for a starter.

He suffers the slings, arrows, and indignities of now pitching for a manager who thinks he takes too long to deliver. This winter he refused to answer phone calls from Bobby Valentine to make his feelings known.

Then he followed up with the thumbgate crashing. He has now put on record that those cortisone shots no longer work, and for the first time he is worried that it will require surgery in the amorphous future.

Those two trips to the land of thumbnail doctors was the precursor to the bigger hangnail.

Of course, those who follow him know that he can no longer be expected to pitch intelligently because the man who served as his brain, Jason Varitek, has retired. Varitek served as Beckett's personal catcher and mental therapist for a half dozen years.


Worst of all, Beckett pitches badly and loses regularly every other year. It's the other year is here.

What all this adds up to is a bona fide excuse for a failed season.

Yes, fans, all the signs are now present. The planets are in alignment with Saturn in conjunction with Venus and the Red Sox magnetic field is about to recalibrate.

Josh Beckett is ready to have a bad season-and he has already let you know why.

When the Red Sox had a chance to unload the king of chicken wings and suds, they let the opportunity pass. Now we have 99 bottles of beer and an equal number of excuses.

If you love beer, sing it again, Josh.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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