David Ortiz looked into his crystal ball and pronounced, "it can't get no worse," after dropping three out of four games to the dreaded New York Yankees. Then baseball gods found his Achilles' heel. It just got worse, Big Papi.
If Ortiz starts putting his predictions into quatrains like Nostradamus, we know the end is near. Ortiz may be out a while; it's his turn.
As Kermit the Frog once said, "It's tough to be green." The Red Sox would add, "And it's tough to wear red socks."
Apparently before the season began, Red Sox officials forgot to fumigate the clubhouse. Contagion remained dormant, and now the pandemic has spread. Thank heavens there is no toxicity in the locker room.
During the Bubonic Plague the carriers were rats, and a few witty wags have insisted the Red Sox clubhouse is filled with biting rats.
In case you are unaware, the Red Sox are spreading the disease called "J.D. Drew Flu." This dreaded disease of athletes usually results in endless visits to the DL and frequent "rehab" games in which the perceived injury becomes worse.
Like Typhoid Mary, Carl Crawford must be quarantined for as much as another season.
Red Sox players insist they are playing hard, though from everywhere else in the American League it looks like "hard water."
In a separate turn of the screw, Kevin Youkilis left Boston for Chicago and found the waters of rejuvenation. Not since Rick's Café Americain opened in Casablanca has there been someone happy to get out of town. When he returned to play for Chicago, he was a one-man wrecking crew.
Bobby Valentine wants to close down the café because he is "shocked, shocked, shocked" to learn there are players laying down on the job or out of shape.
At this point Bobby Valentine ought to be looking for his letters of transit to escape the snake pit that has become the Red Sox organization.
As Rick said in Casablanca, "I stick my neck out for no one."