As I sat down to write another entry in my MLS Season Preview, I realized I needed a break. My heart just wasn't in it. Since we have so much time until the season starts, I thought I'd take a minute to "recharge my batteries" before the preview became my Finnegan's Wake and I moved to France. And no one wants that to happen.

Without further ado, the first 40 Mins. post on baseball as well as a picture of a totally classy lady who may or may not be from New England.

I am what you might refer to as a diehard Red Sox fan. But since my family moved out of the greater Boston area when I was ten, I've never really had the ability to follow the team on a local level (except for a few summer months here and there). Before the onset of the interweb and its blogs and online columnists, this meant I had to follow the team through the Dallas Morning News and occasional national broadcasts, which, might I add, are much more prevalent now than eight or nine years ago. Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I managed to follow the Sox very closely for many years without being subjected to parasitic sycophants like Dan Shaughnessy and the various rabble-rousing talking heads on Boston sports talk radio.

Eventually, the onslaught of available information an opinions brought on with the the internet (or at least, my introduction to high-speed internet in college) demanded that I protect myself from these godless heathens. Basically, I cut myself off from following baseball until the All-Star game. It was an act of self-preservation, much like when victims of horrible crimes block out painful memories. In fact, to this day, I fail to see how people can keep this level of intensity for 162-plus games without losing their minds. Keep this in mind the next time some Masshole decides to make it rain, Papa Gino's style. It's not his fault. It's Manny's.

This year, my defenses were broken down. Like Laura Palmer, I finally figured it out that it was Danny Huston crawling through that window and puttin' the wood to me, except my incestuous father was a chubby Japanese man. Daisuke got me excited for spring training and it's been all downhill since then. I got really amped for the Yankees series and nearly popped a blood vessel watching Manny pull a Barthez in right last night. Note: in the 2002 World Cup French keeper Fabian Barthez nearly threw the ball into his own net while attempting to throw in downfield. This really had to be seen to be believed, and I can't seem to find a video of it anywhere. Instead you'll have to live with this chestnut. Only time will tell what troubles my ill-advised relapse will bring. Already, my bar tabs are rapidly escalating. Will I rediscover my long-lost Boston accent? Will I start using the word "wicked" all the time? Will I suddenly start associating with a disproportionate number of people named Sully and Murph? Will I start to link to pictures like this and this? How will I handle another great Hanley Ramirez season when Josh Beckett suffers an inevitable injury? WHAT WILL I DO WHEN WE LOSE TO THE GODDAMN DEVIL RAYS FOR THE FIRST TIME!?

I've decided to stop writing before things get downright loony over here. There's still an outside chance that someone in the Celtics organization can help me avoid a full-fledged nervous breakdown. At least that's what I tell myself as I cry myself to sleep every night. Freshman out.