Among certain of my friends, the phenomenon of “Sarah’s Angry Emails” is not unknown. Something sets me off (usually involving politics, sports, ex-boyfriends, feminism, a particular downstairs neighbor, or some combination thereof) and before I can stop myself, I’ve seized my keyboard and pounded out a single-spaced screed. This happened recently in regard to a post I wrote that got picked up by Deadspin (always interesting, the folks that wander over here from Deadspin). Only instead of Sarah’s Angry Email, it was Sarah’s Angry Blog Comment, and instead of going only to an ex-boyfriend/my e-mail drafts folder/the spam filter of one of these columnists, it ended up on the Interwebs for all to see.

Though the ranting began because of a particularly limp Bob Ryan column, the weakness rampant throughout sports journalism had actually been a topic of discussion between Nick and myself for some time. (And of course, it’s been a frequent topic on UmpBump is well, thanks to the provocations of Murray Chass, Jay Mariotti and other MSM folks and their questionable writings or uninspiring broadcasts.) So after a recent spate of emailing between us, Nick and I decided what the heck, let’s post this private conversation and open it up for public comment.

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Boston is nothing if not a verbose town. We’ve got a raft of writers, a posse of intellectuals, and Ted Kennedy. And our ballclub’s seven-game ALCS victory has only made this affliction worse.

Our baseball men are getting metaphorical (and even Classical):

“He was like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs out there,” Timlin said of Beckett [in the bullpen]. “He didn’t know what to do or when to throw. But he found a way to keep himself occupied.”

“He doesn’t back down to anyone or any situation,” Epstein said [of Dustin Pedroia]. “That’s what makes him good. He walks around like he’s an Adonis instead of 5-foot-6.”

The gauntlet had then been down for our sportswriters, who rose to the challenge admirably.

Kevin Paul DuPont: “Had it not been for that huge Coke bottle strapped to the light stanchion above the Green Monster, the ball Kevin Youkilis hit in the eight inning last night might have imperiled Mass. Pike motorists, skipped across the Charles River, and slowly come to a roll on this side of the Canadian border.”

 

Dan Shaughnessy: “The game was played on the 32d anniversary of Carlton Fisk’s World Series walkoff homer and though the score indicated little drama, the final play was no less spectacular.

 

At 11:56 last night, Casey Blake hit a towering shot toward the 420 (foot) sign in the deepest part of center field at Fenway Park. The ball descended from the October sky and settled into the outstretched mitt of a galloping Coco Crisp, who crashed into the bullpen fence and dropped to the ground holding the American League pennant in his hand.”

Unfortunately, then Bob Ryan got into the act. Maybe Ryan’s been putting too much effort into his new blog or his new show. Because this is the best he could do:

Forget the score.

 

Omigawd was that tense!

At least until the little guy unloaded.

But then it got tense again.

Until the Wild Thing Closer got out of the eighth.

And then things got real comfy when the little guy unloaded again in the six-run eighth.

Omigawd, what a ballgame, what a glorious night at Fenway, what a way to enter the World Series.

The Red Sox did it. They beat the Cleveland Indians, 11-2, last night.

Yikes. Can blogging be dangerous to your writing voice? (I hope not.) Is Bob Ryan trying to sound like a contestant on My Super Sweet Sixteen? (Yes.) Why?? (No idea.)

So I think it’s time for a new kind of contest. Yeah, we have trivia and write-your-own-caption. How about write-your-own lead paragraph? I’ll go first (in the comments). Extra points for wild metaphors!