If we cut our teeth by chewing broken glass, you can understand how hard it is to eat our own words.
And distasteful too.
The Red Sox have catapulted back into first place as June is ready to bust out after a washout Memorial Day weekend.
With two walk-off wins against Terry Francona's Cleveland Indians, the owners in their box may have pause to be smug. Smarmy Ben Cherington may find his smarm is sharper than a serpent's tooth.
How is that the Red Sox are able to pull off their amazing season so far? Injuries have plagued them more than the Pharoah's army chasing Moses.
Perhaps the reason is that the Red Sox are more likely to be the minions of Moses than the Red Sea Sox of the Pharaoh known as John Henry.
That man with a mission turns out to be John Farrell, clearly the right man to lead his team out of the desert where Bobby Valentine left them for dead.
Jacoby Ellsbury is the latest hero after a floundering two months of the season. Whether this marks his turnaround or merely marks a fire hydrant in May only these entries will show.
Despite all our foul ball calling during April and May, we must doff our Red Sox cap and note duly that these are not last year's dirty Sox.
After two seasons of nasty zingers aimed at the ineptitude of the front office, medical staff, players, and managers, we are now faced with the opportunity to turn on our heels and offer a salute to a team that disdains superstars for winning smiles.
Perhaps grit and elbow grease are the true marks of a champion. It must be because at the Sunday game, sitting in the Monster Seats, as a fan, was Trot Nixon who once upon a time was the epitome of Red Sox grit.