Rooster Ramblings

Let me get right to it ...

-- Big ups to the Sox brass for the annual new wrinkles to Fenway and their orchestrated tributes to the past. But who knew that this year’s loudest nod to the past would be to ... Schaeffer Stadium? I’m talking about the new Conigliaro’s Corner seats at Fenway. Um, steel benches surrounded by chain link fence and tacked on top of the right field skyboxes? I can’t confirm this, but rumor has it that Rod Rust is escorting people to their seats up there. And, as if the skyboxes themselves weren’t cold enough on April/early May nights ... by the seventh inning of Thursday’s game versus Seattle, those poor bastards atop the new seats looked like the plane crash survivors from the movie “Alive,” huddling together to protect from the wind. If that game went extra innings, there was definitely going to be bonfires lit and limbs barbecued up there.

-- If Dustin Pedroia wants to get a hit in his next at-bat, he should start his swing right ... about ... NOW! There’s only one pertinent Pedroia question left: before sending him back to Triple A, is management trying to merely strip him of his confidence or are they trying to crush his soul, too.

-- Reason No. 7607 to decline that invite to sit in the Green Room on draft day: just seconds after being selected 20 spots lower than you expected, a giggly Deion Sanders asks you on live TV how it feels to lose out on so many millions of dollars. Ouch ... Btw, the lasting memory of the Emasculated Brady Quinn era may be him sheepishly mouthing the words “Wow” to his girlfriend when Ginn’s name got called rather than his. With each successive pick, his girlfriend looked like she was morphing into a pissed-off Kelly Preston from “Jerry Maguire.” Brady, you PROMISED me you’d be a top five pick -- you LOSER! Homeboy better be careful or before long she’s going to be sending shots of herself in a bikini to Rich Eisen.

-- And another thing about the draft coverage – Hey, Suzy Kolber. I wannna kiiisssssss youuuu. In a perfect world, we'd get a drunk Joe Namath evaluating each draft pick. Now THAT would required viewing.

-- I've listened to more than a few people say that they are digging the NBA playoffs this year. Maybe the Golden State upset had a lot to do with that. Still, when I'm flipping channels and I see Barkley and the halftime show, I'm stopping and watching him for the halftime duration. The game action itself? As Borat would say,"Nawwwwwwwwwwt."

-- Finally, the Rooster comes to you today with a plea: it’s time we Boston sports fans band together and demand term limits be placed on sports writers and broadcasters in this town. The idea is simple. If you get a job as a writer at the Globe or a broadcaster at WBZ, you get four years in the dream job and you’re audi – no exceptions. New blood gets cycled in, and the old jaded blood can do as many guest spots on different shows as he or she wants. I mean, for a town that boasts of its educated population, how are we stuck year-after-year with the likes of Bob Lobel, who on his best day can only boast of being lucid? Then there’s his stooge sidekick Steve Burton and his comical habit of finishing his thoughts by looking straight into the camera, earnestly tilting his head and pursing his lips as if he’s just delivered some pearl of wisdom on Tom Brady being a “gamer.” (Note to Steve: the phrase “Really?”is NOT an acceptable follow-up question in an interview.) The Globe? Well, do I even need to waste my energy on them? The answer, friends: term limits! In fact, why not have open campaigns for national writers we’d like to have here to cover our teams? I’m ready to start The Committee to Elect TJ Simers. Who’s with me?

-- I lied. One last thing, a riddle: What makes a Rooster smile? A: A 10-game lead over the Yankees at the All-Star break.