The name of this site bears little relation to what happens on this site. (Not that there won't be baseball-related discussions or even a fair amount of Red Sox bashing.) But I am not a strong believer in the need for that kind of continuity. Ultimately, however, if there’s a principle I want to be reminded of on a daily basis, it is the principle of “You Suck Coco Crisp.” Do other Red Sox suck more than Coco Crisp? I mean, obviously. (See Manny and Crapelbon.) Is it as fun to say, “You suck Manny Ramirez” as it is to say “You suck Coco Crisp”? If the answer to that question is unclear to you, I recommend that you find another blog. Life’s short.
For the record, it’s fun to yell “You suck Coco Crisp.” Admittedly, it doesn’t make sense in that many contexts. But you should try it the next time you are at a Red Sox game or watching one on TV or being taunted by some idiot chowda head in a shirt that says, “Believe” in stupid Red Sox lettering or even just when you’re talking to someone from Boston, who will likely be an idiot chowda head by virtue of birth. (No offense.)
While I would like to take credit for having come up with such a therapeutic means of catharsis, alas, I cannot. I owe the discovery of how fun it can be to insult someone with a funny name to someone who knows better than anyone just how fun that can be—a thirteen-year-old boy. It was 2004, and we were playing the Indians, back when Crisp was still one of them. It was raining and, despite my Yankees poncho, I was drenched and ever so slightly miserable. That’s when that adolescent boy coined the phrase that would lift my spirits and change my life forever. I wish I could find him and thank him, though it is fairly likely that he doesn't even remember. That’s probably only one of the many unbelievably brilliant and insulting things he said that day without even thinking about it or its greater impact.
There are those of you who will argue that it’s not that nice to pick on someone who doesn’t suck that much just because he has a dumb name. To you I reply simply, “Don’t have that name.” Yeah, yeah, I know. He couldn’t help it. His great grandmother called him that and then when he got to the minors he was victimized by those mean people who put it on the scoreboard against his will and he was SO embarrassed. Only those mean people never would have known that that’s what his grandmother had called him were it not for the fact that he was like, “Well, my name’s Covelli, but I have this really humiliating nickname.”
My dad called me Mellie Mouse when I was five. Want to know the last time anyone called me that in a professional or even personal capacity since I have become a grown-up? Never. Want to know why? Because until I started writing this blog that I am assuming nobody will ready anyway, no one was made aware of that nickname. And let me assure you that if I was in a profession that involved a scoreboard, I would be taking greater pains to keep it under wraps. So you know what? That’s on you, Covelli. You do kind of suck.
All that being said, I return to my original point which is that the name of this site bears little relation to this site. I will not be bombarding you with new and compelling reasons why I believe Coco Crisp to suck. If everything I’ve already told you combined with the fact of his Red Sox-ness is not evidence enough, there is probably little I can say to convince you. I basically just wanted to have a reason to type “You Suck Coco Crisp” everyday from now until the end of eternity. My opportunities to scream it are far too infrequent.
What you will find on this site are my musings on whatever I happen to find of interest at any given moment as well as my insight into what's going on in the Bronx. While this may sound boring and banal, I will be making every effort to exclude anything that people are not apt to find entertaining or thought provoking. (I would count more on entertaining than thought provoking. We’re not shooting for the moon over here.) If you find yourself bored despite my efforts, then all I can say is that we likely have nothing in common and that you should probably be off somewhere reading something else, cheering for the Red Sox, and naming yourself after a cereal.