Ten years after the day after the Red Sox won the World Series

Thursday October 28, 2004. It was sometime around 2 in the morning in a dorm room, in a college town in Upstate New York. My body didn't feel like sleeping and my mind didn't feel like I was in New York. I was wide awake and my heart was in Boston. Hours after the Red Sox had won their first World Series in 86 years, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stay put, I had to go home. And so did two other Massachusetts expats in my dorm, one from North Reading, the other from Newton. So that night/early morning, we made the 350 mile drive home.

I could wax poetically about the sun rising on a new kind of Massachusetts that day, but I'll skip all that. We had finally won the World Series, and it was a completely new kind of feeling as a sports fan.

In retrospect, we Red Sox fans had spent years torturing ourselves, in a Calvinistic hope (give credit to Dan Shauhgnessy for the comparison between Sox fans, and the predestination believing religious folks who colonized Massachusetts centuries earlier) that with each painful experience, we would somehow be rewarded with greater amounts of joy if, AND ONLY IF, our team ever won. The more pain we went through on Earth, the greater joy Heaven would bring. That was the hope.

I'll come back to that torture/reward thing later. Returning to October 28, 2004...

I got home just as the morning commute was peaking. The Sox were the only story on the local news. The plane carrying the newly minted Champions landed at Logan. There were videos of grown men in business suits with briefcases, running alongside the team bus on its way to Fenway, jumping up and down for joy. There was a massive parade and I took the first Red Line train into Boston to get a good spot for it.

That unadulterated release of joy was something that had been building inside of us fans for years, even decades. And with each heartbreak, with each close call, with each Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone, the frustration built up. As the frustration and need for release increased, so did the feeling of gratification and joy that would be felt if we ever attained that release. In other words, we Sox fans had a terrible case of Blue Balls.

2004 was the epic release of that frustration, and also that joy. No sports moment will ever feel like that again.

That's why we no longer live and die with each pitch. That's why Red Sox fans went from religious zealots, to the people who only go to Church at Christmas and Easter.

John Henry, Larry Lucchino, and the Fenway Sports Group didn't help. Continuing the religious metaphor, imagine being the Pope the year after Jesus Christ came back to Earth. How would you get people fired up about anything?

You'd probably renovate the Vatican, and hire a bunch of high-priced Bishops and Cardinals (Renteria, Drew) to get people's attention.

I'll give Fenway Sports Group all the credit in the world for breaking The Curse. I'll also criticize them for not understanding what Sox fans were feeling, and still now not understanding how regular fans feel about this team. We couldn't have the same cultish devotion to the Sox after all our prayers had been answered. Henry and FSG didn't get that.

They didn't get a lot of things.

The same owners who hired The Epstein also chased him out of town. Twice. The same owners who hired Terry Francona also hired Bobby Valentine. The same owners who renovated Fenway Park also lied about sellouts and we still can't figure out why. Every 2 years they seem to acknowledge their mistakes and change their philosophy, and yet somehow they maintain a smug arrogance as though everything they do is right.

And perhaps most vexing of all, they kept Jerry Remy but dumped Jenny Dell. Giggly analyst who enabled his woman-beating son vs. attractive sideline fluff reporter who still had more interesting things to say than Remy.

Seriously? NESN and the Red Sox decided to take her off the TV screen. Good call, guys.

Everything changed after the Red Sox won the World Series. Red Sox fans changed. We went from anxiously anticipating an overdue release, to being normal fans of a normal big-market baseball team. Ownership didn't want our fandom to change, though. They wanted the same rapt attention, the same hopeful highs and desperate lows. It's like we fans were bipolar before the Sox cured us by winning the World Series. Yet the owners still wanted to prescribe us Prozac and Paxil.

We didn't want that after 2004. We just wanted a baseball team. And that's all I want now. We don't need to have owners and GMs who spend on JD Drew but skimp on Jon Lester. We don't need lavish ceremonies where lions are released and someone pulls the string on Kevin Millar's back so he says something country.

We just want a baseball team. Please.

Photo Credit:
Jim Davis/Boston Globe

Red Sox Beat the (Pine) Tar Out of the Yankees

I don't judge cheaters. As a New England Patriots fan, it would be bad form for me to act all high and mighty when a team I don't support is caught breaking the rules. I will not morally judge Michael Pineda or the New York Yankees for rules violations. Some in Boston are already acting all morally outraged, as if Pineda is the only pitcher who uses a foreign substance to treat the ball, and as if the Red Sox pitching staff isn't obsessive-compulsive about the sunscreen they use.

What pisses me off is how brazenly Pineda sported his pine tar cologne. It was a massive "fuck you" to the Red Sox and to the art of cheating. It's like Jose Canseco getting steroid injections in his butt during the 7th inning stretch, or Sammy Sosa weighing his corked bat in the dugout in front of everyone beat the Yankees 5-1.

I'm also pissed at the game of baseball. I hate how the umpires can clearly see this and yet won't do a single thing unless prodded by a manager. Isn't it the umpire's job to enforce the rules? And doesn't this policy of "See Something, Say Nothing" allow for rampant cheating to occur? Isn't that essentially what happened with steroids and HGH? No team called out other teams for using PEDs, so baseball turned a blind eye. And yet now the game is being sanctimonious about purity when it comes to Hall of Fame voting. "You were cheating, nobody called you out because they didn't want to expose their own players who were cheating, but nevertheless, you can't come to Cooperstown!"

I'm sure the Red Sox have pitchers who use foreign substances. After this game when John Farrell was asked about teams scrutinizing his own pitchers, he never once said "We have nothing to worry about, our pitchers don't do this."

None of the assembled media had the stones to ask "How come you did this when John Lackey was on the mound and not Clay Buchholz?" That was THE question to ask. Nobody asked it.

Also, how hypocritical is it for Jerry Remy to criticize Joe Girardi for letting his pitcher go out onto the mound with pine tar on his neck? Remy let his woman-beating son go out into the world and beat the crap out of women, eventually killing one. And now Rem-Dawg is going to take a moralistic stand on letting a pitcher go to the mound with pine tar on his neck?

I don't blame the Red Sox for calling out Pineda. He was blatant, he was disrespectful to the ancient art of baseball cheating. Baseball cheaters are to American history what ninjas are to Japanese history. Cheating is an integral part of baseball.

Have you ever heard of Mike "King" Kelly? He was the first truly big baseball star, playing back in the 1880s, and played for a few years in Boston for the team that would one day become the Braves. Back when there was only one umpire on the field, he would run from first to third, right across the diamond, when the ump wasn't looking. He's praised for that now, lauded and applauded. Revered and cheered. Cheating and baseball have been partners since baseball came to be.

At the same time, being caught cheating in baseball is one of the game's mortal sins. Most of the time.

In the case of Michael Pineda, I think the punishment of ejection fits the crime. The crime wasn't cheating, it was the way he cheated. He could have slathered pine tar inside his glove, on his hat, underneath a sleeve. Anywhere. He was lazy. He cheated in plain sight.

It's like if you've snuck a few nips into a sporting event or concert, and instead of buying a Coke and going to the bathroom to mix the soda with your Jim Beam, you do it in front of a security guard or a cop. What do you expect after that?

Breaking the rules is part of the American Way. Our country was founded by rule breakers. But be discreet about it. Paul Revere didn't tell the British in Boston "Hey I'm going for a ride for a few hours, see you motherfucking lobsterbacks tomorrow!" The American Way is to break the rules without being obvious about it. The American Way is to write your own rules and to not be caught breaking any other rules.

Welcome to America, Pineda, where cheating is tolerated, so long as you're not obvious about it.

Photo Credit:
Elise Amendola/Associated Press

Red Sox Mouthpieces Try to Dismiss Meeting

I was listening to WEEI's broadcast of the game last night. Dave O'Brien and Joe Castiglione couldn't figure out why the July 26th meeting of players and Ownership was a big story. The two repeated the "nothing to see here" statements John Henry and Dustin Pedroia gave about the meeting: that such meetings are held throughout the season, and that nobody was lobbying for Valentine to be fired. O'Brien then remarked that "several facts" from Jeff Passan's article were "in dispute."

I switched to NESN. The Red Sox own most of NESN, by the way. Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy expressed a similarly dismissive attitudes toward the story. "I'm past it" Remy remarked. Neither felt that the story was noteworthy. And both agreed that the Red Sox' problems are all on the field, and that the buzz around this meeting was just noise about nothing.

These are the voices of the Red Sox Propaganda Machine. These are the dupes, the suckers, the inner circle of Boston Sports Media that is under the influence of John Henry and Larry Lucchino. These are the yes-men, the suck-ups, the naive, the blind, the fools.

Listening to them, I was reminded of Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Said al-Sahhaf, a.k.a. Baghdad Bob.

Team meetings do happen. And these kinds of meetings between Ownership and players don't seem to be a new thing for the Sox. But here is why this most recent meeting is a significant story:

1. What caused the meeting to be held
A text message from Adrian Gonzalez complaining about Bobby Valentine leaving Jon Lester in a game too long. That's apparently what provoked this meeting. Why are players texting Owners about gameday decisions at all? And why are Owners responding to them by giving them a forum to bitch and moan?

I wonder what that text looked like:

"OMFG we h8 BobbyV. He left J-les in the game 2 long. He needz 2 go. Yolo."

2. The divisive nature of the meetings
The Owners met with players, then met with coaches, then met with Valentine. All separate meetings. Why? Player-only meetings are commonplace, but don't typically involve Owners. And why isolate Valentine so much that even his assistant coaches have a different meeting?

How does dividing the team foster unity? And how does letting players go over their manager (and General Manager, let's not forget that the relative lack of Cherington in this story is interesting in and of itself), support the leadership hierarchy of the organization? The players ignored the chain-of-command, went over Valentine's head, to the side of Cherington's, and right into Larry Lucchino's text message inbox.

3. The leaks about the meeting
If this truly were a normal meeting, then why did Passan get leaked information about it? Why did he get multiple sources telling him about problems in the clubhouse and a tense meeting in which players ripped Bobby Valentine?

Maybe Passan was given faulty information. But that'd be a story too. If players and coaches are feeding lies to the media, then that implies the same thing that the original story about the meeting implies:

That something stinks with this team.

That's the story here. Something is rotten and it's stinks to high heaven.