“It came at the end of a lengthy chat with the media, a rare enough occurrence over the past two seasons in which Ramirez has frozen them out. Already he had said that he would trade all his records for a chance at another World Series, which is exactly the right kind of thing to say to people who judge your dedication by the kind of dumbshow you perform in front of the camera. Then, he said that, if Boston were to lose the ALCS, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to those same people. He stood accused, on the front pages of America’s finer tabloid newspapers, and all across the sporting airwaves, in between commercials for auto glass and male-enhancement nostrums, of insufficient grit, of Non-Moxie in the third degree, of Conspiracy To Convince America’s Fans To Lighten the Hell Up. Guilty on all counts.”

I think his exact response to the reporter who asked how he would feel if they didn’t manage to pull off the win on Sunday night was, “So freakin’ what?”

I ponder these words, probably uttered with a mouth full of chew a little dribble of drool on the chin, and wonder how I, his future mother-in-law, would handle this apathy about, say, the little name place cards I like to decorate with something seasonal, like acorns, above everybody’s carefully calligraphied name at the Thanksgiving table. If he isn’t impressed by the possibility of winning the pennant, or, can’t be bothered to show up for the World Series victory party in D.C. after being named MVP of the whole damn thing (as happened in ‘04) then I’m not sure I can impress him with my Pumpkin Chiffon pie even though it is excessively light and dreamy. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that he’s probably a no-show for Turkey day, which will ultimately upset G very much as she is very fond of the little china turkeys that appear at everyone’s place setting on Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving only. She”ll want to share that with him, I know.

Though I expect Manny and I will have difficulties pertaining to his bah-humbug approach to victories and celebrations, I have this feeling that Manny and his future Father-in-Law, My Better Half, will get along just swell. And I know this because they both are foolishly fond of all things E-bay. For instance, early last Spring, Manny listed his $4000 Jenn-Air Barbecue grill on the on-line trade site and his picture appeared right there with the shiny, 6 burner device. A sort of E-Bay feeding frenzy began and, eventually, E-bay pulled the plug on the auction when bids topped out at $100 million. His comments when asked why he would need to sell anything on E-bay, “I needed the money.”

If I wanted to be a really nice future MIL, I could offer to house the unwanted Jenn-Air for Manny. I have a spot right here in my basement just next to the Bunn industrial strength coffee maker that MBH just had to have even though I warned him that it would never, ever be allowed to sit on MY honed granite counter. (It arrived in a box the size of a cabinet depth refrigerator and, thankfully, didn’t even fit beneath the cabinets. And, as you’ve already guessed, MBH hasn’t quite gotten around to posting the behemoth back on E-Bay as he promised he would, after admitting that the purchase was a fiasco.)

Oh wait, I have an even better idea. Perhaps Manny is feeling expansive and benevolent after Sunday’s win and would agree to appear in our E-bay add, right next to the Bunn-o-matic. ‘Manny being Manny while fixing a cup of joe’. And if Manny helps me fetch $100 million for MBH’s percolator, I will consider G’s future betrothal idea. Like a reverse dowry, he’s gonna have to earn it.

And all would be well (despite the yawning and the overwhelming urge to curl up on the cool linoleum of the dairy isle and take a nap), if it weren’t for G’s announcement that she thinks she’ll marry Manny Ramirez. Don’t get me wrong, I like Manny. Manny is a curiosity, a sort of goofy and unlikely sports hero who, if nothing else, is the source of great entertainment. But Manny, with his suspicious trips behind the left field wall between pitching changes and his baggy trousers and his shimmering blue hair net that harnesses the ropey dreads beneath his batting helmet is not exactly who I had in mind when I conjure my future son-in-law.

While Jacoby Ellsbury or Dustin Pedroia would make fine additions to the Madmarriage family, all hustle and earnestness and clean cut good looks, I am tad concerned about G’s affections for Manny. She has his mug taped to the back of her little girl door, his dread locks swinging around thick shoulders, his gaze off to right field as he watches the ball he just hit arc up and away, his signature finish, arms extended, fingers splayed as he forgets to run to first base. It strikes such a dissonant chord, that photo of the notoriously flaky, suspiciously sloppy ball player, who has been called a ‘crazy motherfucker’ by his own teammates, among the Webkinz and the unicorns and the collection of kitty cats on the windowsill. There he is, Manny being Manny, in my six year old daughter’s room. I am disturbed.

While Ramirez has been called the “greatest right hand hitter of his generation,” he has also been called: affably apathetic, a sloppy wayward teenager, a space ranger, a holy fool and an idiot savant. (See The New Yorker article, Waiting for Manny for additional accolades.) G’s affections for the baggy pants wearing, thuggish, distracted Ramirez is frightening in that it is a harbinger of creeps to come.

So if she’s going to love the bad boys then there will have to be strict rules.

We, as parents, must start laying the ground work early, “G, you will date no one who, reportedly, has multiple licenses and social security numbers, an arrest record, has failed to graduate from high school or drives a 1967 Lincoln Continentals with illegal tints, ostrich upholstered seats and a pimped out sound system, unless, he also sports a $160 million dollar baseball contract. And that’s that.”

(Manny driver’s license courtesy of The Onion. So sue me.)