Today We're Gonna Party Like It's 999

Because a) I'm tired of looking at that disgusting orange and blue color scheme, which will cause me to be violently ill for at least the next week (and probably all of Saturday night) and b) we need to get this post out of the way to set up our 1000th post celebravanaganza, a little baseball news that hits close to home for G:TB's elders:

Red Sox Select Bogar to Replace Alicea on Staff

Generally speaking, this is the sort of midwinter's agate that's easily ignored. But Tim Bogar holds a special place in our hearts. We wrote about it back in July (and, yes, it's so slow and we're so groggy this morning that we're quoting ourselves):

In September 1991, the Tidewater Tides took on the Richmond Braves in the final week of the season. G:TBer Whitney, our friend Chris and I made the short trip down I-64 to meet Whit’s mother and stepfather for a leisurely afternoon at the ballyard. Normally, a late season minor league ballgame wouldn’t hold much allure, but two events made this one noteworthy. First, by the 3rd inning of the game we realized that the Tides’ Tim Bogar was switching positions every inning. He took the mound in the 9th having played everywhere on the field, and then proceeded to strike out the leadoff man before hitting the next batter in the head. At which point the entire stunt took on a decidedly less whimsical bent.

Far more amusing than Bogar’s misadventure was the action that took place in the stands.The aforementioned Chris stands roughly 6’6” with a wingspan to match. Midway through the contest, lefty Kelvin Torve lofted a lazy foul ball towards our bleacher seats midway down the third base line. Were we not there, the ball would have landed in Chris’ seat. The big fellow stood to his full height, spread his legs in a textbook block out of Whitney’s mom, and clapped his hands together while talking a full menu of shit – and he’s an accomplished shitriloquist. The ball descended gracefully, landed in his waiting (and freakishly large) mitts…and bounded 15 rows forward into the waiting hands of an 8 year-old boy. Whitney’s mom led the parade of grief givers for the rest of the game, and when we returned to campus to share our story, the local sportscasters beat us to it, showing footage of our friend’s ignominious moment at 6 and 10.