Summer Fridays At The OTM Pub: Jonathan Papelbon Is Wrong About His Entrance Music

Red Sox Record: 59-60, last place

Playoff Picture

Division: LOL

Wild Card

Seattle Mariners: 65-54

Tampa Bay Rays: 63-54

Toronto Blue Jays: 63-54

Minnesota Twins: 61-55, 1.5 GB

Baltimore Orioles: 61-57, 2.5 GB

Chicago White Sox: 61-58, 3 GB

Boston Red Sox: 59-60, 5 GB

Weekend Series

Friday: Crawford v. Lyles, 7PM, NESN

Saturday: Wacha v. Bradish, 4PM, NESN

Sunday: Pivetta v. Kremer, 7PM, ESPN

What To Drink This Weekend: A Bicyclette

Summer cocktails usually come in one of two categories. First, you have your bright, fruity drinks that successfully transport you somewhere else, but require you to muddle fresh watermelon or buy three different kinds of pineapple rum to make. The second category is simply the gin and tonic, a perfectly fine, easy-to-make drink that lost its power to transport you anywhere approximately 87 weddings ago.

Ditch those options and go with a Bicyclette instead. First fill up a rocks glass with ice. Then pour some white wine into half of it – literally whatever white you want, as long as it’s not too sweet. Top it off with a little Campari to your taste. If you like the bitterness, a 1:1 ratio works great; if not, shoot for 2-1, or even 3-1. Stir, add a splash of club soda if you’re into that, and then go sit outside and enjoy. It’s bright, crisp, and easy: exactly what a summer drink should be.

The Non-Sox Series Of The Weekend: Mets At Phillies

It’s a bit of a mystery why Mets-Phillies hasn’t become one of the preeminent rivalries in baseball. Well, scratch that, it’s not a mystery at all: the Phillies are historically one of the least successful clubs of all-time, and the Mets didn’t even exist for the first 90 years of professional baseball. So it’s less of a mystery than a shame, I suppose. These are two engaged, knowledgeable, fun fanbases just a turnpike away from each other, and it was fun as hell when they clashed every year from 2006 to 2008. There won’t be a division race between them this year, but right now the Phils are clinging to the third wild card. Hopefully this weekend is a postseason preview.

Random Pedro Gif For Your Enjoyment

Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest change-up (pitch?) of all time.

Jonathan Papelbon Is Wrong

Old friend Pap made a brief cameo in the online baseball discourse this week, when he told WEEI’s Rob Bradford that he had the greatest closer entrance music of all-time. The remarks came in response to the hype that Edwin Diaz has been getting for his trumpet-blaring entrance to the song Narco at Citi Field.

“Everybody wants to talk about Diaz these days,” he said on WEEI’s “The Bradfo Sho” podcast. “I gotta let some of these people know where the walk-out song came out, and who is number one all time. When you hear ‘Shipping Up To Boston’ you know what’s up.”

Look, Pap was a complete monster in 2007. The Departed soundtrack was a complete monster in 2007. And his entrance was fun as hell. I was in college at the time. I played a lot of beer pong, because it was the best way to go to a party without really having to socialize with anyone at that party, and we would imitate Pap on the mound when going for the last cup – pulling the hat down, puffing the cheeks, toeing the rubber, and glaring in at the next victim.

But sorry, Pap, this is simply on another level:

God damn, those trumpets. I play those trumpets in my head now whenever I need to pump myself up to change a particularly gnarly diaper, or light up the grill, or text Bryan and ask him when the hell he’s planning on writing something this week. All day, walking around my house, just going dah-dah-dah-DAH!

It’s not going to get better than this. We should seriously consider retiring the entire concept of closer entrance music when Diaz hangs it up.

What To Do Instead Of Watching The Sox If The Game Gets Ugly: Go Eat An Ice Cream Cone

Photo by Jens Kalaene/picture alliance via Getty Images

We’re so attuned to everything that comes with summer in those first, glorious days of June. Our ears perk up at the sound of the first cicada. Our eyes linger on the first sunset. We make a point of kicking off our shoes to walk barefoot through grass that’s been buried under ice and slush for three months, because, in that moment, there’s literally nothing better you could possibly do with your time than that.

And then June stretches into July. The cicadas are joined by mosquitos, the beach trips begin to feel more like a hassle than a treat, and we start bitching about the heat instead of welcoming it. The summer itself trudges on, but the excitement of summer fades away.

This is a crime. We should never take summer for granted. Summer is when the world opens up to us, when not only do the days expand, but so too does the range of possibilities for seizing each one of them. And it doesn’t last.

Winter is coming, because it always is. And there will be cold, dank February days when you’ll wish for all the world that you could step outside and be greeted by crickets instead of snowplows, when you could walk down the street with soft serve melting down your wrist, stopping to talk with neighbors, because one of summer’s more inexplicable magic powers is that it temporarily robs you of the cynicism that usually keeps your head down and your eyes averted. You’ll want nothing more than this, and you won’t be able to get it.

So go get it now. Step outside and eat a damn ice cream cone. This is why summer exists.