Bigger than Life or Death

I Think I Love Everything

2004-10-28T01:43:00.000-07:00

Thanks, guys.

Seriously.

Just...thanks.

My grandfather has been waiting 84 years for this to happen.

I'll write on my oddyssey more when I'm not tipsy and tired. To all my friends in Boston, celebrating on Boylston Street and Kenmore Square...take care of yourselves.

I'm so bloody happy right now.

The Holder of the Place

2004-10-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

Due to obscene time constraints, I can't write about yesterday until tomorrow. Consider this a placeholder for about three topics:

1) Why Yesterday Was Awesome

2) The Songs You Need to Have for the World Series

3) But Joe, How Can You Date a Yankees Fan?

hoo-ah, mess chief.

You Couldn't Make This Up

2004-10-20T13:15:00.000-07:00

Those socks...

Pardon me, I misspoke.

Those Sox...

...look a little red to me. Don't you think?

All bets are off now...

2004-10-19T21:38:00.000-07:00

scuromezzo: I think my ovaries exploded
scuromezzo: and the wierd thing is
SabreStewie: I didn't know you had ovaries
scuromezzo: I dont ever recall having ovaries
scuromezzo: but I was screaming like a girl tonight

Above all...

2004-10-17T02:58:00.000-07:00

...you must remember this.

That nothing ever lasts forever.

You must remember this.

Nothing lasts forever.

Nothing.

Not pain, not joy, not sorrow, not pleasure.

Nothing.

You will remember this when things seem their greatest, and the thought will bring you down to reality.

But...

You will remember this when things are at their bleakest, when hope and faith have deserted you and the world seems a cold and gray place.

And this thought will lift you up and bring you solace.

Rome fell. The kings are no more. Even the sun will die someday.

Nothing lasts forever. And if nothing lasts forever, then all things are brief.

So here's to the brief period of time between 1918 and the time the final out is made in the greatest game of our lives. It will happen soon.

Because nothing is forever, and all things are brief.

Don't lose hope yet.

Y2 S0

2004-10-14T07:38:00.000-07:00

And yet I'm still not in full on panic mode... yes there's about a million things I'd like to change about this series so far... but its got a ways to go yet... Bronson Arroyo is destined to be our lord and saviour... I've been saying it since last year.

And when you hear quotes like this.... You just can't feel too bad about baseball. I lvoe Pedro and love seeing him throw as hard as he has all season last night. I just wish our bats had a better stroke right now...

"I actually realized that I was somebody important, because I caught the attention of 60,000 people, plus you guys [reporters], plus the whole world watching a guy that if you reverse time back 15 years ago, I was sitting under a mango tree without 50 cents to actually pay for a bus. And today I was the center of the attention of the whole city of New York.

"I thank God for that and you know what? I don't regret one bit what they do out there. I respect them and I actually kind of like it because I don't like to brag about myself, I don't like to talk about myself, but they made me feel important." -Pedro

Soxtober Syndrome

2004-10-12T21:51:00.000-07:00

Here we go again ladies and gentlemen....

Yanks 1 Sox 0 for the series... but that's why you play more than one game. I'm still happy to have the guys on my roster to root for over theirs...

And I really liked how we showed we can spark late against an October Yankees team.

Where do I have to go to donate my foot to Curt? Cause I would...

I heart Tizzle

2004-10-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

There are many differences between David Ortiz and myself.

He is a 6'4", 230-pound black man from the Dominican Republic. He plays professional baseball for a living.

I am a 5'10", 170-pound white kid from Canton, Massachusetts. I might be a journalist one day for a living.

At this junction, however, I can say that I love him right now as much as I love sweet and sour chicken from the local Chinese restaurant.

And I loves my sweet and sour chicken.

P.S.: That image courtesy of the Sons of Sam Horn, by the way. Check out the game thread to steal it.

We haven't beaten them in how long?

2004-10-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

This is very long. It only deals with the Red Sox peripherally. Still, I think it's a decent read. It concerns events in Evanston, Illinois on the night of October 2nd, 2004.

*****

Yesterday, my friends and I went out to Deering Field to play some football. The topic of discussion, between all the missed tackles and bobbled catches, was the Northwestern-Ohio State game we were going to that night.

"Thirty-three years, right? That's how long it's been since we beat OSU?"

We may not be particularly good at football here at Northwestern, but we do love it, and with that love comes a surplus of knowledge. We know all the players, and given the small size of the school, sometimes we actually do know the players. We know their weaknesses, their strengths, and their style of play much better than they do. Or, at least, we think we know better than they do.

So, when four guys from Ohio State joined our poor imitation of a football game, there was almost a tacit agreement in place. There was no point taunting one another, because the outcome of the game was, dare I say it, a foregone conclusion. This is what happens when you root for the hapless. Losing, onec commonplace, is easier to swallow.

And besides. Thirty-three years? You can't overcome history like that.

When the game finally broke up, as the OSU guys were walking away, I shouted to them before joining my friends on the walk back to our dorm:

"Nice game guys, and good luck tonight. I don't think you'll need it, though."

*****

There is one Ohio State fan in our dorm: Steve, from Ohio. He's taking the ribbing good-naturedly as we ride the shuttle up to Ryan Field (which used to be called Dyke Stadium, but was renamed for obvious reasons).

"I hear we're playing the Overrated State University tonight."

"Staaaate School. Staaaaate School. Staaaate School."

"Hey, if football's all you got, you'd better be good at it."

...and so on, and so on. Steve is the only Northwestern student wearing scarlet and gray on the bus, and he'll be called on it a bunch of times during the night, but for now, he's content yelling support to the legions of Ohio State tailgaters. Since Northwestern's such a small school compared to the rest of the Big Ten, we're routinely outnumbered at home games.

This is spelled out very clearly to me as soon as I get to the stadium.

Red. Red in the parking lot, red in the ticket lines, Red everywhere. I start seeing red.

*****

I've despised Ohio State ever since my short stint on Northwestern's fencing team. At the time, Ohio State was ranked very highly in men's fencing, and Northwestern's men's team was a respectable club team. As a comparison, talent-wise, it would be like me lining up against Richard Seymour and expecting to come out on top.

Anyhow, they were bastards. With few exceptions, they were cocky and boorish, screaming incoherently after every touch and making a scene out of winning a bout. Their coach was an evil old Russian guy who made a habit of working the referees at every match, cajoling them into giving his fencers a few calls.

I spent most of my first bout frantically failing to defend myself, and most of the second pondering ways to injure the jackass I was facing.

Needless to say, I don't like them. This extends to their bloody football team as well. They remind me of a certain other team, only with scarlet and gray replaced by paralell lines of black and white. No pinstripes on these guys, but the feeling when facing them is similar.

*****

Brian Huffman jogs out onto the field, and the student section begins to cheer him. This is unusual for two reasons. The first is that Northwestern's student section is notoriously apathetic, save for a few diehards and obsessive frat boys. In retrospect, this should have been what clued me in to what was about to happen that night, because I've never seen Ryan Field that alive. Fenway Park maybe, but never Ryan Field.

The second reason is that Brian Huffman is largely responsible for Northwestern losing its first game of the year to TCU. In that game, Huffman missed five field goals, any one of which would have won or tied it. We ended up losing in double overtime. I still haven't quite forgiven him for this.

"I can't believe we're cheering Huffman," I tell Joy.

She agrees. "Huffman sucks, Joe. Ohio's kicker doesn't."

Mike Nugent is Ohio State's kicker. He has missed one field goal all year.

One of these men will figure quite prominently in tonight's game. The other won't. Can you guess which? Neither could I.

As the opposite end of the stadium begins to fill with red, like blood in a basin, my friend Matt laughs as the crowd starts cheering the Northwestern squad, who have chosen this moment to run out onto the field.

"Better do this while we still outnumber them!"

"Or we could just kill all of them right now," I suggest. "Localized superiority, man. It's what it's all about."

This suggestion rapidly loses steam as the Ohio faithful fill up a full two thirds of the stadium, including the balcony far above us. We give them the finger. They respond in kind. It's a very fair understanding, I think.

*****

A few signs I saw in the student section:

"Q: How many Ohio State players does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: Only 1, but he gets four hours' credit and it counts as a lab science course"

"You think you're excited? FEEL MY NIPPLES!"

"The Overrated State University."

"WTF"

My friend Dave is in the front row wearing a purple pimp hat, a purple cloak, and purple body paint. He will later be a candidate for the "Wildcat Fan of the Game, but will lose to a girl wearing a purple wig.

WTF. Indeed.

*****

Earlier in the week, NU defensive lineman Luis Castillo described OSU's offense as "mediocre". That's not to say ours isn't, but so far, we're making OSU play right down to our level. Huffman and Nugent have both made field goals, and OSU's offense has struggled. I'm vaguely enthused about this as Brett Basanez, a quarterback who last year had three touchdowns to fourteen interceptions, lines up behind center. We're fourteen yards away from the end zone. We're driving.

Basanez takes the snap, drops back, and fires to Noah Herron. Herron, a dreadlocked power back, was part of a one-two punch with the immensely talented Jason Wright last year, but now, with Wright on the '49ers, Herron is the featured runner.

He proves this by taking the ball past two diving OSU linebackers and into the endzone. A wild cheer ensues, the yip of a small dog who's bitten a Doberman on the lip. I don't expect it to last, really.

It's starting to become apparent to me, however, that OSU isn't doing anything. They have less than 100 offensive yards in the first half, and their lone touchdown comes on a punt return in the second quarter. Still, we're only leading them by three, as Brian Huffman decides to ignore the TCU game completely and drills another one through the uprights. He doesn't know it as he and the rest of the team run off the field, but as far as field goals go, he is done for the night.

The score at halftime is as follows:

Northwestern: 13
Ohio State: 10

*****

A large mass of people always seems to have motion to it. There are too many appendages, jaws, and eyelids fluttering for a mob to seem like anything other than a living, breathing animal.

And yet, as I look at the OSU fans on the opposite sideline, they are absolutely still. The marching band plays, and they are frozen.

I've seen this look before. It's not so much that they want to win. They expect to win. But they're terrified to lose.

I think as I look at them, that by the end of the night, we will take this thing you have, this greatness at football, this expectance to win, and we will crush it between our thumb and forefingers.

I think this until I realize that they're not wearing pinstripes.

*****

Q: Brett Basanez, how do you start a third quarter in which your team is leading a ranked team by three points?

Basanez: You score a touchdown on the opening drive.

Q: Correct!

Basanez: I try, thanks.

Q: Next question: Say your defense has given up another touchdown to bring the score back within three. How do you start the fourth quarter?

Basanez: Trick question. You drive all the way to the one yard line in the final seconds of the third quarter, then you give it to Noah Herron and let him score.

Q: Correct!

Basanez: Boo-yah.

Q: Next question! They're within a touchdown now. Your defense is holding, but barely. You need to score. What do you do?

Basanez: Oh, man. This one's tough.

Q: Take your time. Or don't, because you're about to get sacked.

Basanez: Shit! I throw the ball over the mid-

Q: Wrong! Intercepted! This will eventually lead to a tie game, and overtime!

Basanez: Oh, hell.

*****

The fourth quarter ends with Justin Zwick throwing two incomplete passes, one of which Santonio Holmes almost breaks for a touchdown. I'm scared out of my wits now. I'm now fully committed to the idea of winning this game, and any threat to that idea is terrifying and nerve-wracking.

Overtime in college works like this: after a coin flip to determine possession, one team starts out on the other team's 25 yard line. They have as much time as they want to score. They must either score or get a first down within four downs. If they end up scoring, the ball goes to the other team, which tries to match or exceed their point total. If neither team scores or wins, the process repeats over and over again. We lost the TCU game on a field goal in double overtime.

This is where the NU defense, which is tired and almost broken, decides to play its best. The first play, a run, is stopped for three yards. Zwick is pressured into throwing two passes which alternately bounce off a receiver's hands and bounce off a bench on the sideline.

Mike Nugent comes out to kick. Everyone at this point knows he's nearly been perfect this entire season.

The kick is up, and it looks good. Here, looks is the operative word.

"I think he got it," I say to my surrounding friends, before the referees give the "no mas" signal.

The Ohio State crowd is silent again, and still as dead soldiers on a battlefield. The Big Mo, that ultimate intangible, is decidedly on our side of the field.

*****

Q: Brett, next question. It's overtime, and--

Basanez: Screw this. I'm running it to the two yard line on one play, and we'll let Noah bust it in.

Q:...That's correct, actually.

Basanez: Damn straight.

*****

Noah Herron takes the handoff, and sees what the rest of us only have an inkling of: a hole in the defense. He bounces off a tackler, turns on the gas, and screams his way into the endzone. This is where things start getting a little hazy.

*****

I remember a mass of people pushing me forward, of holding onto Joy's hand and worrying that she'd be trampled (she wasn't, just so you know), of screaming, "Everyone on the field, now! NOW! NOW, YOU BASTARDS! GO!", of teetering on the edge of the barrier before being helped down, of finding as many Northwestern players as possible and pounding on their shoulderpads and screaming at them that this was the best game they'd ever played, of pushing my way to the goalpost, and then past it as a bunch of guys tried to bring it down.

I remember making my way past Dave and his pimp hat, and then losing him in the crowd. I remember screaming at Castillo, and seeing him smile, taking the entire scene in. I remember patting linebacker Tim McGarigle on the back and realizing his entire uniform was soaked to the core in sweat and dew.

I remember the OSU stands emptying, the fans fleeing the field like they were a routing army chased by barbarians. I remember seeing cops pull students down from the goalposts and beating them up, and stopping when our mascot, Willie the Wildcat, climbed up as well. He fell, but popped right back up on that goalpost. There was no way they were bringing it down, as it was sunk 20 feet into the ground with cement, but it's more the idea that counts.

Thirty-three years? Not so insurmountable. This is why they play the games, you know. It got me thinking that nothing lasts forever.

Thirty-three years?

What's thirty-three years?

What's eighty-six years?

Nothing, really.

I remember thinking how much I bloody well love seeing an underdog win.

Maybe I Should Diversify My Topics

2004-09-23T00:27:00.000-07:00

Per sitemeter.com, the following Google searches have led to Bigger than Life or Death:

"mark bellhorn" with "girlfriend"

"mark bellhorn interview"

"kevin millar KFC commercial" (twice)

"kevin millar kentucky fried chicken"

"mark bellhorn smile" (four times)

Now, all of these I can understand. But...

"pamela anderson playboy"

...just boggles the mind.

Actually, I'm making that last one up. The rest are true, though, and I know that at least one Portugese site that has nothing to do has linked to me.

So I got that going for me.

As an aside, the posters at Sons of Sam Horn (the main link is on the sidebar, and you really should visit if you haven't. Rarely have passion and baseball smarts come together in one community as well as they have here) are saying that Orlando Cabrera, after flying back to Boston after visiting his sick wife, actually asked into the lineup for tonight's game!

He asked into the lineup.

Shows you what coming from Montreal can do to a guy's attitude towards the game. Or, maybe he's always been like this, and we've never known. Watching him round the bases after his mini-Manny shot into the Monster seats, and seeing him break out into a grin three-quarters of the way to home...

Oh my. That's the best feeling in sports.

21st Century Schizoid Man

2004-09-21T22:54:00.000-07:00

Something I'll remember when, one day, I figure Mark Bellhorn out, is his reaction after his only hit of the game...

Hogwash! The game itself was complete hogwash, and I was about ready to write it off. Our closer, who any objective analysis will indicate is among the league's best, had made one truly bad pitch in his outing, and that pitch rapidly went from bat to air to Lansdowne Street. The fact that he got the next batter to ground out weakly just added to the ridiculousness of the situation. This was a game that we very easily should have bloody won, and we were about to lose it to the Orioles.

There is no team in baseball that I hate more than the Yankees. Let's make that abundantly clear right now. I wish horrible things on them on a daily basis. They occupy every cell in my head devoted to hate, save one. That once other cell is focused ten thousand percent on the Baltimore Orioles.

Ever hear of the expression "Kingmaker"? It's given to the third wheel in any situation, one guy who absolutely cannot win but can choose who does. It's a unique position, and one that is special for the amount of wrath in can earn from the jilted party. This season, the Orioles are the kingmakers of the AL East-rolling over to the Yankees while playing the Red Sox to the bone. Call it Miguel Tejada getting his revenge for the 2003 ALDS, call it Lee Mazilli being on George Steinbrenner's payroll, call it luck, call it whatever you want. It sure sucks.

Because of this, every win against the Orioles is a precious one. These wins must be husbanded carefully from beginning to end; they demand masterful pitching performances from all involved. One slip-up, one four-run inning, and karma will not allow a comeback. You might as well throw in the towel.

For the record, yes, allowing a two-run homerun in the ninth inning with your team up 1-0 is a slip-up. It also should have reminded Red Sox nation of how many time the Orioles have gone quietly in the ninth against that other team south of Boston.

Still, when Kevin Youkilis walked, which he has before and will perhaps a thousand times more, and Bill Mueller doubled, sending Dave "Really Freaking Fast" Roberts to third, the mood could almost be seen to change. Maybe this would be better than an easy ninth! Maybe we could build some character here! An opportunity like this is almost impossible to waste, and...

Oh. Well, that's ok. Damon's coming up, and he's great in big situations, so...

Oh. Huh. Howsabout that?

Mark Bellhorn is the poster boy for those who hope and pray that they are never challenged on their preconceptions of how baseball should be played. He's struck out over 160 times this season, and his average hovers around .260. When he's properly used, those strikeouts are meaningless, but Dusty Baker looked at Mark Bellhorn and told him to swing away. This is what's known as throwing a wrench into the machine.

But he ended up here, where his unique talents were appreciated, and he's been the steadiest player on our offense all season long. It's very easy to predict Mark Bellhorn's at-bats: he will either walk, strike out, double, or hit a home run. Singles and groundouts are scattered like afterthoughts. When he's working like that, if you look at him over a number of games, you start to appreciate what he brings to a team.

When he starts to struggle, however, it's just as easy to start loathing him. Four strikeouts in one game? Two per game for a week? Not cool, Mark! Why can't you swing at the freaking ball, eh? It couldn't hurt you!

We get on Mark Bellhorn because he strikes out a lot during his slumps, but what else can we expect? Everyone slumps! Everyone not named Bonds runs into spaces of time where hitting becomes a mystery and the gift that has brought them into the majors leagues deserts them. This happens to everyone. Mark Bellhorn's slumps feature strikeouts. Big deal.

One time where he doesn't strike out is with runners in scoring position, and he sure as hell didn't strike out here. That I can accept, understand. Most of all, I can quantify it. This is what's supposed to happen.

I wish I could figure out his reaction, though, after he hit the ball. Mark Bellhorn rounded first and charged into second without changing his facial expression. As his teammates celebrated at home plate, he methodically took off his helment and seemed, for a very brief moment, when all other hitters would have been jumping and hollering in joy, at a seperate and whimsical peace.

Then he joined the rest of the Red Sox. I'm sure he smiled in the pileup, but I can't be sure. He's Mark Bellhorn, after all. I still can't figure him out.

Fantastic. Amazing. Unbelievable.

2004-09-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

Overwhelming. Exceptional. Mind-blowing.

Want more?

Ecstatic. Faithful. Faithful.

And the most important one?

Happy.

Deliriously so.

Let's see where this train takes us, eh? I'll write more tomorrow, but for now...

I'm just happy.

Laudable Pus

2004-09-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

What's the easiest way to tell that a baseball pundit has run out of column ideas?

Simple. He praises Derek Jeter.

This is particularly true amongst writers or broadcasters who habitually cover the Yankees-Tim McCarver or Michael Kay, for instance. It's been repeated so often that it's basically accepted as fact that Jeter is a winner, the best player in baseball, the man who Makes the Play that Wins the Game on a Regular Basis. It's the facts, right? That many baseball experts can't be wrong.

Right?

I've always gone by a hard and fast rule when trying to discern the truth:

If someone constantly hammers into your head...

Watch Derek Jeter play every day and realize his stats mean very little in gauging his greatness. If anything, Jeter is actually becoming better every single year. He is quite simply a phenomenal baseball player. His instincts are otherworldly and his enthusiasm has not wavered since he was a rookie.

...a particular cause or idea...

For as long as Joe Torre can remember, Derek Jeter has been the Yankee manager's trump card. Need a hit? Jeter will get it. Need a play made? Jeter will make it.

...with a violent disregard for the facts...

Well, I'll tell you -- Joe Torre did the right thing. He put his best player at short.

Now, I know people can throw all kinds of numbers at me, telling me why there are better players out there than Jeter.

I know all that stuff. I'll be the first to admit that Jeter isn't the best hitter. He isn't the best shortstop or the best baserunner, either. But you put what he has all together, and you'd be crazy not to make him the cornerstone of your team.

Yes, Bonds will probably break Hank Aaron's home run record; and a few years later, A-Rod might even catch him. Even knowing all that, I'll still take Jeter.

...then it might be a good idea to make your own judgement, instead of listening to those who have only one idea, and who love to tell you about it. Their worst nightmare is a challenge to their ideas, which have been festering in their heads for so long that their judgement becomes suspect. Don't look for arguments to support your idea. Find out the arguments first, and maybe the idea will come out a little better.

...and proud of it

2004-09-10T00:50:00.000-07:00

Two guys I hate losing to, y'know. Both of them are jerks.

The first guy might be a perfectly acceptable person. My friend Jeremy, when he plays poker, is one of these. He's got no conception of strategy, really, or which hands one should play and which one should fold, but he has the most disgusting luck in the world. Once, he bet massively on a 5-7 unsuited hand with no help on the flop. Dude picks up a 5 on the turn and a 7 on the river.

Seriously! I was about ready to take my two aces and put them through his skull.

Anyhow, I can't really hate him for it, but he's what I like to call Some Jerk. The Sox lose to this guy on a regular basis. It's to the point where I'll look at the pitching line, see a guy who's 2-4 with a 5.40 ERA, and immediately start worrying about the outcome. We handle the Mussinas and Hudsons of the world just fine, but the Madritsches? They completely dominate us, but really, it's not worth it to hate them. They're just doing their jobs, and well enough to be appreciated, even if they do get lucky. Hate losing to them, but they're still cool.

The second guy is Peyton Manning. Just a plain Jerk.

The wonderful thing about facing an Jerk is that, if you're a Patriots fan, this is the guy they win against all the time. It doesn't matter how often Peyton smiles sheepishly after a receiver bobbles a ball, giving the sideline a "Hey, it wasn't MY fault!" look. It doesn't matter how often he wildly gesticulates at the line, attempting to impress upon the fans and the guys in the broadcast booth that he is a, and I quote, "heck of a quarterback". It doesn't matter how many long completions he throws to Marvin Harrison.

Wanna know why it doesn't matter? He'll never beat Tom Brady. Being a classy guy, Brady is always quick to meet Peyton in midfield after beating him, and he seems to be congratulatory and gracious. I know, however, that what Brady is really saying with all these polite gestures is this:

"Hey, Peyton, great drive. You almost had us there. You're never, ever, gonna be me."

And then, as Peyton's walking away, he's undoubtedly thinking only one thing:

Jerk

God Will Be Cut!

2004-09-08T01:03:00.000-07:00

SabreStewie (11:47:23 PM): A-Rod is such a jerk
ZHLMSD (11:47:29 PM): what'd he do
ZHLMSD (11:47:31 PM): this time
ZHLMSD (11:47:38 PM): besides upsetting Tek and setting off the sox
SabreStewie (11:47:42 PM): Watching the replay again, and after he hits Fordyce, he just walks away
ZHLMSD (11:47:51 PM): i haven't seen it yet
ZHLMSD (11:49:16 PM): solid derek... very solid
SabreStewie (11:49:55 PM): He put his shoulder into Brook Fordyce's face at home.
SabreStewie (11:50:14 PM): Seriously, shoulder and elbow right into his face
SabreStewie (11:50:22 PM): Rose on Fosse-esque
ZHLMSD (11:50:29 PM): nothing is like that man
SabreStewie (11:50:47 PM): It was pretty bad-looking
ZHLMSD (11:50:49 PM): that was singularly absurd
SabreStewie (11:52:15 PM): He was out, by the way.
ZHLMSD (11:52:34 PM): haha
ZHLMSD (11:52:40 PM): also clearly unlike Rose v. Fosse
ZHLMSD (11:52:49 PM): have you seen that play at full speed by the way?
SabreStewie (11:53:00 PM): Yeah. It's kinda cringe-inducing
ZHLMSD (11:53:10 PM): it's possibly the single hardest running i've ever seen
ZHLMSD (11:53:22 PM): the only man i can think of who could nearly duplicate it would be trot
ZHLMSD (11:53:36 PM): the only one with enough disregard for himself yet care for scoring a run
SabreStewie (11:54:15 PM): I haven't seen Trot in a situation where he could go full-out at home like that. I'm looking forward to it
SabreStewie (11:54:23 PM): After seeing his performance in brawls
ZHLMSD (11:54:24 PM): true
SabreStewie (11:55:07 PM): He'd run over Jesus if he was blocking home.
SabreStewie (11:55:16 PM): And then thank Him for scoring the run
ZHLMSD (11:55:58 PM): haha
ZHLMSD (11:56:05 PM): as Kill Bill says
ZHLMSD (11:56:18 PM): "if you should encounter God on your journey, he will surely be cut"
SabreStewie (11:56:24 PM): Oh, lord. Don't give Trot a katana.
ZHLMSD (11:56:39 PM): only during yankee games
ZHLMSD (11:58:20 PM): it could be kinda cute
ZHLMSD (11:58:39 PM): we already know that he is second only to DO in killing the yankees
ZHLMSD (11:58:48 PM): then he'd be undisputed #1
SabreStewie (11:58:50 PM): He'd take it really seriously
ZHLMSD (11:58:59 PM): that's what would be so cute
SabreStewie (11:59:00 PM): I wouldn't even give him Petey's fungo bat
ZHLMSD (11:59:02 PM): he'd try so hard
ZHLMSD (11:59:08 PM): hahaha

With apologies to Bill Simmons...

2004-09-06T19:09:00.000-07:00

...because I don't have time for a full-fledged entry, just a few random thoughs:

-Mark Bellhorn, the man everyone loves to violently underestimate, is the leader among AL second basemen in OPS. Baseball-wide, he's third overall.

-Spending a week with a wonderful, generous, kind family, all of which are rabid Yankees fans and staunch Republicans, is a test to try one's soul. Especially when one of them is your girlfriend. More on that later, I promise.

-David Ortiz isn't the mirror image of Manny Ramirez. It's more accurate to say that he's Manny reflected in a funhouse mirror--all the parts work the same, but the head's a little bigger, the teeth have a gap, and besides, the whole thing's backwards.

-Watching for updates on the ESPN ticker is incredibly difficult, especially when they insist on cutting to commercial right before starting the AL scores. I feel like it's 1920 all over again, and late-breaking updates are transferred by telegraph.

-I need to start looking for tickets to a Cubs game before I go back to school. Any suggestions for things to shout at Nomar?

-Kevin Brown getting injured? Not surprising. Kevin Brown getting injured by punching a clubhouse wall like a bloody little leaguer?

Awesome.

Shared Experiences - or - Who Watches the Watchmen?

2004-08-27T17:08:00.000-07:00

Alan Moore's Watchmen is one of the best comic series ever written. There's really no way around it; if you read comics, you have to read Watchmen. Aside from the fact that the story is excellent and the art is well-done, Watchmen's greatest accomplishment is a complete reimagining of a world with superheroes, and how such a world would function.

The results should sound familiar. Everyone pays attention, because everyone is affected. Like it or not, we're tugged back and forth by people we've never met, have no control over, and who wear funny, socially embarassing outfits.

Right now, we're doing alright, 'cause the superheroes are keeping us safe and sound, beating up on low level crooks and battling evil for the good of the game. What happens when they face the big guys, the guys who want to teleport a killer alien into the middle of New York, I dunno. But we might as well all enjoy it.

I Walk the Line

2004-08-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

Thus, to coincide with his triumphant return, a little bit on our most underappreciated player.

Truth be told, Mark Bellhorn was the offseason pickup I was least excited about. We had just lost Todd Walker to the Cubs, and it seemed that they felt kinda bad about that, and so sent us his clone. Bellhorn's lone selling point was a monstrous 2002 season, where he hit 27 home runs in his first semi-full season. That was followed by an abysmal 2003, where he hit just about his weight. I couldn't see where he belonged, especially now that we had Pokey.

Jump to a few weeks into the season. The Bellhorn/Pokey debate becomes moot, as both are playing with regularity after Nomar goes down. Pokey is startlingly good in the field, and anemic at the plate. Really, that's not surprising, but what is surprising is that Mark Bellhorn is suddenly tied for the league lead in walks with...Barry Bonds. He's also leading the league in strikeouts, but we'll get back to that later. Besides, he's knocking in runs, scoring them in bunches, and always seems to get on base, whether by a walk or a hit, at least once a game.

What just happened there? How does Todd Walker Lite become such an offensive force?

Simple. Mark Christian Bellhorn has one of the smartest approaches to hitting in the game of baseball.

Bear with me, because I'm dead serious about this.

First off, Bellhorn's high number of strikeouts. There's a gigantic misconception about strikeouts in general; they're seen as the ultimate domination of pitcher over batter, and as such, are to be avoided like Albert Belle's front bumper on Halloween. Bellhorn strikes out a lot, ergo, he must be an awful hitter. Right?

Not so much, no. I'll let Eric Van from The Sons of Sam Horn
explain, because quite frankly, he knows a wee bit more about stats than I do:

As has been explained elsewhere countless times, Bellhorn's K's are completely meaningless. Stating with the obvious point, that the better a hitter you are when not striking out, the more you do strike out. Which is something most of us learn in second grade (that you can avoid striking out by swinging less hard). Second, "productive outs" are incrediblty overrated (you can hit .160 without any productive outs and do more good that someone who always makes the productive out). And finally and most egregiously, in the one situtation where K's actually matter, runner on 3rd with less than 2 out, the guy has one K all year.

Not only that, but a quick look at his stats show that he's batting .474 in that situation. Overall, with runners in scoring position, he's got an OBP of .421. He makes very few outs in situations that would net him an RBI, and it shows. Despite missing the past 16 games, he's still fifth on the team in RBI's, with 56.

The fundamental misconception about strikeouts is that they're somehow "worse" than balls put in play, which is only true, really, in one situation (that which Van outlines). Put it this way: would you rather have a guy who makes so-called "productive" outs, or one that doesn't make outs in general, like Bellhorn? I guarantee the second guy is more valuable.

What his strikeouts do mean, in fact, is something very encouraging. Bellhorn doesn't swing at pitches he can't hit. When he does put the ball in play (and if anyone can help me find this stat, I'd be grateful), he's hitting about .400.

What this means is that Bellhorn squeezes every last bit of performance out of his talent by playing the game in a rational, intelligent way. That his contributions are obscured by noise over his strikeouts is a travesty. Red Sox Nation should be glad that Theo & Co. snatched him from obscurity in the dregs of the National League.

"It's my life. Baseball is my life".

2004-08-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

Call me a pessimist (you'd be right, by the way), but I'm more excited for the next few years than for this one. Visions of Hanley to Pokey to Minky keep distracting me from awkward losses to the Devil Rays, and Jason Varitek keeps morphing into Kelly Shoppach. The homegrown talent is already starting to make itself known; look at Kevin Youklis and his line:

OBP SLG OPS
.382 .460 .842

...and that's in 51 games. Those are better than most major leaguers can eke out. Give the guy a season, teach him to play third, and he'll be one of your best players.

Speaking of Hanley, I think he's rapidly outgrowing the "punk" reputation he earned in the lower-A leagues. I never held much stock in those rumors--heck the guy's only 20 years old. I'm 20 years old, which means I know a lot of 20 year-olds, and none of us are bastions of maturity. After reading a recent interview with him, a few things stood out.

First, Hanley's approach to hitting:

RSN: What is your approach at the plate?

HR: I like to stay through the middle and hit the ball at the pitcher's head. I like to see what they throw and then react to their pitches. I like to hit fastballs but can stay back and hit curves, too.

Gotta love quotes like that. It also indicates that he's willing to take pitches; something that always got on my nerves about Nomar. Watching him field, he also seems to set his feet before throwing, as opposed to Nomar's fluid, all-in-one-motion approach.

Also, this:

RSN: What's important to Hanley Ramirez on the field?

HR: Winning makes me happy.

RSN: What if the team loses, but you have a great game?

HR: Sometimes you play hard but don't have the luck. If you play hard and run the bases hard, that's all you can do. So it's okay, but I'd rather win.

Winning makes me happy.

Heck, Hanley, it makes us happy too. All through the interview, Ramirez comes off as a consummate team player-he loves to win, gets along well with his teammates (and future teammates as well-he's friends with Manny. But then again, who isn't?), and doesn't care where he plays. Still, he does give a little hint as to his arrogance:

RSN: Did your father teach you how to play?

HR: I was born with talent -- no one person taught me. It's like I was meant to play baseball.

...but then again, shortstops are like fighter pilots. Without a little bit of cockiness, they're dead in the air.

I'm rooting for Hanley hardcore. If he makes it, he'll be the first player that I'll have grown up with-a guy who's my peer, age-wise, and one who I can look at without as much of the hero-worship I have for other, older players. The title of this post/article/whatever is a direct quote from Hanley's interview. I'm using it because I've heard it so many times before, from so many different players, and only a few of them have meant it. With Hanley, I'll get to see firsthand whether he's one of those few.

New Faces, Other Minds

2004-08-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

So, the Nomar thing.

I'm not gonna take the time to go over my feelings about it, considering I already did a few weeks ago, when I thought he and Randy "Souless Gangly Mercenary" Johnson would change places. Suffice it to say that I'm over it. Pretty much.

Meanwhile, holy crap! We've got new guys, and we're using them! Trade deadline pickups are always fun--if they work out.

My impressions of the new guys so far:

Dave Roberts: The easiest to spell out of the bunch. The guy's only 32, but he's got that "old man" look to him-sleepy eyes, beard and hair tinged with a little bit of gray. I didn't like his 0-fer, but I did like that he made the pitcher work for every out, most notably in the first inning when he led off with a seven pitch at-bat. His defense is solid so far-he was positioned so well on a Carl Crawford single that, had it been someone slower than the speedy Crawford, might have turned into a first base putout from right field. As soon as he starts hitting, we might even see him steal a base or thirty.

Orlando Cabrera: Ever since that home run in his first at bat, he's only managed a walk. However, he's been all over the infield, getting to balls that the current incarnation of you-know-who wouldn't even think about fielding. His throws to first are low, but they're consistently low, which just means whoever's playing first makes a small adjustment, and there's no problem. I wish he'd stop popping up twice a game, but it's a small sample size, and he hasn't played in Fenway yet. I'm not worried.

Doug Mienkianahudjfh: Yeah, I could look up how to spell his name, but this is much easier, and, frankly, a lot funnier. He's been nothing but excellent so far, playing great defense and hitting the ball all over the place. It's out of the question to expect too many home runs from him, but Fenway could give him some much needed Green Monster love, and when Dio comes back, our home run power is more than covered.

So far, more or less good. Let's hope it holds up.

As an aside, I finally saw Mark Bellhorn change his facial expression--yes, he can smile, and I believe I saw a chuckle in there as well. I get the impression that, when he's actually playing, his deadpan look (although I would argue that there's some fierceness in it. He always looks pleasantly pissed off.) is a result of his absolute concentration, especially at the plate. His approach to hitting seems based on an almost scientific understanding of his limitations, and how he can overcome them by recognizing the pitches he can successfully put in play and ignoring most everything else. He strikes out a lot because of this, but really, is a strikeout worth more than a popup? A double play? This is the reason why he's second on this team in RS, and tied for third in RBIs. It's a blow to this team that he's hurt, but I'm glad he gets to relax a little bit.

Pitchers and Quarterbacks Report

2004-07-30T16:17:00.000-07:00

"If you want to make history," Seymour said, "then you've actually got to forget about history. That might sound confusing, you know, but it's the truth. No one is going to give us anything based on last year or on (2001), when we won (the Super Bowl) for the first time, OK? It's all about right now. It's about this team. And, even though we have a lot of guys back, just look around, this is a new team."

I love being a fan of a team like this. First game's just a summer memory away...

Are you there, Kevin Millar? It's me, Joe.

2004-07-28T14:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Colonel,

First off, congrats on the new title. I'm not calling you Kentucky Fried Kevin anymore, because frankly, it doesn't seem to fit. You're the Colonel until you prove that you aren't, or until you stop doing those ridiculous commercials.

I don't know what you did to produce that monster weekend, but I want you to keep doing it. The league decided that, along with Miggy Tejada, you were Player of the Week. Kudos and salutations. Aside from helping the team--which it did, immensely--your newfound prowess keeps me from disliking you. And myself.

See, Colonel, you were one of my favorite pickups last year, when Theo first took over and snatched you away from the Chunichi Dragons. I wasn't as in to the stats portion of baseball yet, so all I looked at was your batting average--at the time, a respectable .290-something. Your power totals were pretty good, too. Nothing that was going to set the world on fire, but eminently respectable. Besides, considering the trouble we had to go through to get you, I figure there had to be something I wasn't seeing.

Your personality, I guess, was what I had missed. For a very long time, the Sox clubhouse was full of surly, unlikable bastards, guys who were very good at playing very badly and whining about it afterwards. I cringed when Nomar, after John Cumberland had been fired, growled in the dugout that "No one wants to fucking play here". The proof was all around him.

Compared to those guys, you were like a cartoon that could hit a fastball. Everything about your presence on the team had a hint of silliness to it; your penchant for changing haircuts on a whim, your dumb-looking (sorry, buddy, it's true, although if it's dumb and works, it isn't dumb) batting stance, and your willingness, even eagerness to talk to the media. You even seemed to understand and get along with Manny. Manny Ramirez, colonel! He's like a goofy Kim Jong-Il!

I don't know how you did it, but it worked. It didn't hurt that you came up with some clutch hits along the way. I was at the Seattle game when you hit a single off of Mike Cameron's glove that won the game for us in the 10th inning, and I think that was about where the Nation really started to like you.

Which made it worse the next season.

The absolute greatest sin in this town is resting on your laurels, which is exactly what you seemed to do at the beginning of this season. Honestly, your statistics weren't that bad, but your appalling lack of RBIs and shoddy defense made you Pokey Reese, if Pokey Reese was as mobile as Ted Kennedy. On a larger scale, I think, the Nation saw you as emblematic of what was wrong with the team; a lack of clutch hitting and a severe lack of true baseball athleticism.

You were, and still are, a leader, Colonel. What you have to understand is that leaders are symbols. It's nice to be a positive symbol, but once you start to falter, it starts to look very lonely on that podium. That and the wolves start glaring at you from the dark.

The wolves are the media, by the way. They've been giving you a beatdown lately, and some of your quotes seemed to display a lack of fire, or intensity. Complacency, if you will, and we despise complacency. You were turning from the Rally Karaoke Guy into Some Asshole.

That's not fair, but it's what we felt.

Now, Colonel, one of the reasons I love baseball so much is the sense of familiarity that comes with following a team. You guys wear open-faced helmets and are stationary for most of the game, so the camera is able to give us a greater piece of your personality than just about any other team sport. It's easy to recognize habits or ticks in a player you've seen at length hundreds of times in the batter's box. This plus the fact that the game is slow-paced enough that we see your interactions with teammates in the dugout means we start to think of you as our friends. Or enemies (See the New York Yankees, current and former editions).

With that comes a fatal flaw; by seeing a bit of your personality, we start to believe that we know your motivations. This is the grief we've given Nomar for the past five years--accusations that, because we think we know him, that we have determined that he does not care. You got a taste of that, and it powerfully sucks.

The only thing that serves as penance is performance. It's better if it's consistent performance, and it's even better if it's against the Yankees.

Four home runs in three games? Raising your OPS a hundred points in a week? That sounds like a man who's decided to carry a team on his back.

Keep it up. Your penance has been served so far, Colonel, but you're not out of the cave yet. You were a symbol for everything that was wrong with this team, but for a time, you were also a symbol of everything that was right with it.

Care to try? I sure won't mind.

-Joe DeMartino
A Fan

P.S. I would highly reccommend a new director next time you do a commercial for KFC. Seriously. It was way too easy to make jokes about you trying to eat a chicken wing, but dropping it and allowing a run to score from third.

Hoo-ah, Master Chief

2004-07-24T17:50:00.000-07:00

SabreStewie (8:04:06 PM): BELIEVE
scuromezzo (8:04:10 PM): man...
scuromezzo (8:04:13 PM): I love baseball
scuromezzo (8:04:31 PM): make no mistake about it - that game was dumb as hell
scuromezzo (8:04:35 PM): but I love baseball

Also, as Beth at Cursed and First would say....clemency for Millar. Believe that.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer...

2004-07-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

No... the title isn't some clever Joe-esque metaphor. I was watching Buffy (season 2) tonight... all night - instead of watching the Sox-Yankees game. And you know what... I'm on to something here I think... I can return home - see the look in my fathers eyes... I take that back.. find him passed out drunk on the couch and know... just KNOW what happened. I don't need any details about being in the lead or Millar knocking three round trippers - all superfluous. I enjoyed myself some excellent Buffy tonight...

Now... had they won... Well... The sheer elation of still being naive enough to think we were now two games from a sweep to take us back into (slightly near) contention for the East... that would have outweighed missing the game... And I still got to watch Buffy, Xander, Willow, Giles, and Cordy (can't leave out Cordy!!) save Sunnydale for the umpteenth time... I'd say Angel too... but he's in Angeles mode right now - aka Mr. Evil Loverboy...

Some doctors say a common defense mechanism for people is denial... To those people I say: I mock you with my monkey pants...

The Medium is the Instant Message

2004-07-21T15:15:00.000-07:00

Last night's game, were it an IM conversation between two middle school girls

CwbyUp2004: whatup, son?
IchirosLastStand: buddy! whassup on the East Coast?
CwbyUp2004: not too much. hey, nice job on the game last night
IchirosLastStand: lol sorry
CwbyUp2004: s'ok.
IchirosLastStand: I really thought u guys were gonna pull it out
CwbyUp2004: lol no way. I hate winning streaks! make me soooooo nervous!
IchirosLastStand: lmao
IchirosLastStand: me too. good thing we haven't had any this year. BTW, do u want to take Piniero off our hands.
IchirosLastStand: ?
CwbyUp2004: LOL
CwbyUp2004: NO
IchirosLastStand: haha
CwbyUp2004: how bout Guardado?
IchirosLastStand: dude! that's not funny!
CwbyUp2004: lol sorry
IchirosLastStand: whatever
CwbyUp2004: ok seriously STFU. you suck, you dont need him
IchirosLastStand: haha, who r u gonna give me? Lowe?
CwbyUp2004: ...
CwbyUp2004: I hate you.
IchirosLastStand: haha sorry, j/k. I used to hang with him, u know.
CwbyUp2004: ya, I know. haha
CwbyUp2004: you know, I feel kinda bad
CwbyUp2004: tell you what.
CwbyUp2004: I'll let you win this game tonight.
IchirosLastStand: NO WAY!!!!!!!
IchirosLastStand: r u serious?!?!?!?1!!11!!
CwbyUp2004: totally
IchirosLastStand: dude. I don't think I can do that.
CwbyUp2004: I insist.
IchirosLastStand: no, thass ok
CwbyUp2004: seriously, go right ahead, score a few runs
IchirosLastStand: ok, I guess so
CwbyUp2004: ok, be back in 5 innings
CwbyUp2004 is idle...
CwbyUp2004 has returned
CwbyUp2004: dude I changed my mind
IchirosLastStand: WTF?
CwbyUp2004: ya, I want to win this game
IchirosLastStand: ...not cool
CwbyUp2004: ya, I know. sorry dude
IchirosLastStand: don't do that again. I h8 having my guys stike out.
CwbyUp2004: lol I kno the feeling.
CwbyUp2004: ok, I gotta go.
IchirosLastStand: c u l8ter boi
CwbyUp2004: lol avril

CwbyUp2004: lol what's up?
Ripkenisgod: dude, that's lame.

Up Up Down Down Left Right Left R--ah, screw it

2004-07-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to my father telling me not to bother to read the paper.

"Any reason why?" I asked him. The Globe didn't have the Sox score--I figured the game just went too late.

"They blew it," he said. Then he gave me a cup of coffee.

Mornings are when my blinders are still on, so I didn't start processing what he had said until he had a few sips of coffee and sat down. I thought for a little bit, and, after going over the particulars of the game, remembering how Seattle just had a fire sale and brought up Larry, Moe, and Bocachica to hold down the fort, I came up with this:

"Whuhbuh?"

Roughly translated:

"They were crusing when I went to bed! Sure, they missed an opportunity in the first with the bases loaded and one out and a crappy pitcher throwing wild, but this was a game they could win! They were playing the Mariners! What the hell happened?"

"Foulke blew it in the ninth, and they lost in extra innings."

That hit me pretty hard, and I'll tell you why. I expect Kevin Millar or Derek Lowe or Some Guy From AAA to blow a game with shoddy play. It's almost expected, and heck, if they don't, it's like a pleasant surprise. But Keith Foulke, as early as a month and a half ago, had a 0.31 ERA, and was the best assassin on a bullpen that had, for a while, given up no runs in 33 innings. You're telling me he gives up two home runs with one out in the ninth?

"Bull!"

My dad shrugged. "They suck, Joe."

By this point, I think, I had stopped blaming the loss entirely on Keith Foulke. They refused (and yes, I think that's an appropriate word choice here) to take advantage of horrendous pitching, letting Villone off the hook in the first inning after he hit and walked the bases loaded. Nomar's "swing-at-the-first-pitch" approach doesn't work so well when the guy you're facing hasn't thrown a strike all day. At very least, try to get a fly ball in the outfield!

I hate when we lose to bad teams. It's like letting the baddies take away all your health before you face the boss in any video game you'd care to name. You might as well hit the reset button.

Hypothesis

2004-07-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

Leskanic comes into a game when the Sox are prepared to lose.

If this hypothesis is to be proven true as I believe it is... should I save myself time... pain... and energy by turning off the game when he starts warming up? Cause to me it feels like standing on train tracks in the pitch black - and seeing an ever increasing beam of light rolling straight for you - and pausing to think... "Hm... when that light reaches me... will I be rewarded with a million dollars? Or crushed into a fine red paste?"

Quick Question...

2004-07-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

Does Bronson Arroyo have a giant sign that says "My Team" at home... that he throws darts at? Poor bastard...

Rage against the Matt Hollowell

2004-07-17T16:49:00.000-07:00

I didn't catch Dio's outburst last night; for once, I was confident enough that the Sox would win that I went to bed at a reasonable time. I saw it on ESPN this morning, however, and it does look pretty bad. Ortiz is a happy guy, and apparently one of the nicest in the league (recall the last time anyone on the opposing team complained about him?), but when he's angry, it's very easy to imagine him taking someone's throat out with his teeth.

Now, here's why I don't mind.

Out of all the guys who played on the powerhouse Yankee teams in the late 90's, the guy I hated the most was Paul O'Neill. Sure, Jeter (Captain Intangibles, as he's derisively called on the Sons of Sam Horn) and Posada were worthy of my ire, but I plain hated O'Neill. Every time an umpire called a strike against him, he would have something to say about it. He'd always seem to spit the words out, too, grinding his teeth together and making me hate him even more. That bitch.

Now I'm starting to see parallels between him and Dio.

Ugh, it feels wrong even to type that. Lovable Tizzle, comparable to the worst Yanquis of them all? But it's true, in some ways. Dio's got O'Neill's penchant for turning and yapping at the umpires, although I don't hate him when he does it.

What this comes down to is that O'Neill and Dio care.

The ultimate baseball sin, especially in Boston, is to look like you don't give a damn. Dio arguing with and exploding on the umpire last night was a pretty clear indication that that at-bat meant something to him. Call it selfish (which I don't think it was. We don't know whether Dio was mad about striking out personally, or sticking up for his teammates and pitcher as a whole, while using his at-bat as a podium), call it stupid (at best, it costs him three games), but never say that David Americo Ortiz doesn't care.

Never say, also, that I'm putting Ortiz and O'Neill side by side. I still think O'Neill was a tool. Dio's my boy. Anyhow, maybe the Sox needed one of their own to blow a gasket. Once they see how much Ortiz cares, maybe the more lackadaisical ones will follow.

Too Big for his Bridges

2004-07-14T10:33:00.000-07:00

Lakeshore Drive winds past Lake Michigan like a concrete shoreline, hugging it so close that you can hear the smallest wave if the traffic's light enough, which it never is, but it's honestly not that hard to imagine. I'll be travelling on it intermittently when I return to Northwestern in the fall, and I can't help thinking that Nomar will already be there.

I remember watching him in 1997. I was in middle school, and it sucked, powerfully. I was one of the unpopular kids then, awkward and unathletic, your typical quiet nerd who loved watching sports he could barely play. I had spent my evenings in awe of Clemens and Vaughn, Valentin and Greenwell. The older fans reading this might not know, but to we young initiates to the fandom, these guys were the pinnacle of baseball. We slept through '86, and were in kindergarten when Morgan Magic came to town, so the only baseline we had for what a good season looked like was 1995-and we lost pretty quickly in the playoffs that year.

My impressions of these players, then, are inflated beyond what the stats now tell me. In my mind, John Valentin is a Hall of Famer, as is Tim Naehring, Mike Stanley, Troy O'Leary, Lee Tinsley...these were the guys who made me a fan of the Red Sox.

Then they all left.

Clemens was gone in 1996, taking with him a still-golden arm and Dan Duquette's credibility. Vaughn hauled off in 1998, after one of the best years by a Sox hitter in a long time. Tinsley and Stanley's careers crapped out, Naehring's knee betrayed him, and Reggie Jefferson never lived up to his promise. All my heroes were leaving me, and now that the veneer of youthful idealism was wearing off, their replacements were a poor comparison. Ladies and gentlemen, Wilfredo Cordero.

Those guys made me a fan. Nomar kept me one.

I turned on the TV one day, and John Valentin was at third base. I didn't recognize the guy playing shortstop, taking Johnny's place. Tall, razor-thin, eagle's beak of a nose...no, definitely not John Valentin. What was going on here?

I don't remember who was up at bat, but he hit a quick ground ball between second and third, the kind that Johnny, bless his heart, would always try but never get to. I had almost written it off as a hit when this new guy came streaking into the picture. As he stretched out his glove hand to, impossibly, scoop up the ball, I saw a red number 5 on the back of his jersey.

Then, like he would a million times afterwards, Nomar snapped upright, jumped, and fired his cannon arm towards first. Inning over.

Much as I respected him, suddenly John Valentin was forgotten. This guy...this guy might be something.

Much of the familiar cast came around within a few years of Nomar's first monster season. Tek and Trot were playing regularly by 1999, as were Pedro and Lowe. I had new heroes, and reasons to start caring again. Like I said, Nomar kept me a fan.

Now he might be just another in a long line of stars who left this town a little bit tarnished, red dwarves instead of supernovas. He might be going to Chicago. Which team he's part of is irrelevant. He won't be our guy anymore.

I'll be living in Chicago, so I'll get to see him play almost every day. Wrigley's not so different from Fenway, you know. They care as much as we do. Maybe all he needs is a change of scenery. Maybe all we need is Randy Johnson.

Maybe we'll re-sign him at the end of this season. But I doubt it.

When it comes to optimism or pessimism, I always run screaming towards pessimism. It's like Ozzy Osbourne said once, actually fairly lucid for a change..."I'm a pessimist because if something goes wrong, I expect it. If something goes right, it's like...a pleasant surprise".

Too many bridges burned here. In Chicago, Lake Michigan's too big for bridges in the first place.

Where does he get those wonderful toys?

2004-07-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

Adam: Wade Boggs used to eat whole chickens, man! I swear, they'd show him break the chicken's neck, pluck it, toss it into the pot, and then eat the whole damn thing!

Me: That explains a lot. Maybe he absorbed the chicken's life force.

Marc: Wonder what Pokey Reese eats?

(pause)

Steve: Unicorns.

Yeah, Unicorns. You heard it. How the hell else can he do what he does?

Longer entry later. I promise.

Smile as the robots stomp their way to freedom

2004-07-11T01:42:00.000-07:00

Here's how I know the season's going well.

Friends of mine, particularly those who sat with me in my room during the 2003 playoffs, know very well how angry I can get at a game when things aren't kosher.

"You tool!," I'd shout, when Todd Walker misplayed a ground ball, or Tek whiffed with the bases loaded. "What the flying hell are they paying you for, you unspeakable bastard!?" Then I'd either storm around the room, rich in vengeance and looking for an blood, or flop down on my bed, exhausted, like the game itself prevented me from standing. About this time, everyone would leave. They had the right idea.

So when Derek Lowe, as is his wont, failed to get out of an inning where his defense let him down, as is their wont, I was surprised at myself when I didn't explode.

"Iss cool, esse," I though to myself. "We'll get 'em back."

And we (well, they. I had jack shit to do with it) did.

I once read a translation of a Spanish-language Red Sox story that described Manny and Ortiz as "massive artillerymen". Tonight, even without Dio's presence ((Myself and my friend Adam, both loving metal music way too much, call David Ortiz "Dio", after Ronnie James Dio, famous for horrifically bad outfits and replacing Ozzie Osbourne after he left Black Sabbath. It's a bit of a stretch, but I like it), the Sox looked like giant killer robot war machines, mechwarrioring their way to 14 runs. I shouldn't get too optimistic, 'cause any game that features John Wasdin inevitably also features outfielders looking helplessly upward at out-of-reach bombs.

But still. Tonight's game made me smile. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?

Setting the Borders

2004-07-08T23:46:00.000-07:00

Games like this always remind me a little of Rome.

The beginning: bombastic and warlike. A conquering people establish dominance in short order, smashing down their enemies while building the beginnings of an empire. Their bullpen coach makes fun of a bobbled catch by a Spanish-language announcer. All is right in the Mediterranean.

It's when the empire builds what seems to be an insurmountable advantage and sets the borders that everything starts to go wrong. People forget that Rome was doing alright until it stopped conquering.

Oh, sure, it starts off small. A homerun by an overwhelmingly dimwitted, curly-haired left-fielder (and no, I'm not talking about Manny). A few legions lost to barbarians in the forest. A little bit of paunch in the eagle standard. Those seven runs, like the seven hills of Rome, are still impregnable. Right?

You lose another couple of legions, and your citizens stop innovating and start eating. Your closer is making jokes in the bullpen.

A few runs later, your closer has blown a save, and the barbarians are ransacking the Senate.

Hold on a minute, though, or at least another inning. The Empire never really fell, you see, it just kinda split in two. The Western half descended into barbarism, but the Byzantines, in Constantinople, lasted another thousand years. Their greatest emperor? Guy by the name of Justinian.

Our greatest savior? Johnny Damon.

With a little help from Bill Mueller and Mark Kotsay, of course.

OK, so the metaphor's a little mixed. But, hey, we're tied for first in the Wild Card race, and slowly gaining back what we lost to the Yankees.

Roma Victor, si?

First Fandom

2004-07-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the first Red Sox game I ever watched.

I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you that, on a magical spring afternoon, I entered the secular church on Yawkey Way and, my young eyes blazing with wonder, fell in love with the Sox. That might have been the way it happened, but it's equally likely that I fell into a rhythm of watching games on sleepy Sunday afternoons to put off doing my homework. There's too much haze surrounding the first seven manic years of your life to remember a single event, unless it was especially traumatic.

I remember breaking my leg, for instance. Not much else. It sticks out in my mind because, frankly, it hurt like nothing has ever hurt before. I had a spiral break of my right leg that left my doctors thinking I might not walk again. I came through it alright, though I've never been accused of being speedy.

Anyhow, you remember the really bad stuff. I think I'm lucky, then, that I can't remember that game.

You know which one I'm talking about.

I was two at the time, and asleep. My dad wasn't. He saw the whole blasted thing, start to finish, with a dedication born of hope and the lack of a remote control. When it happened, his reaction, from what he told me more than fifteen years afterwards, was sadness. He couldn't sleep that night.

That should be obvious enough, right? Your team blows the best chance it has had in years, perhaps the only chance in your lifetime it'll ever have, and to make matters worse, does it in the worst bloody way possible. What are you supposed to do?

I always thought that, had I seen that game, my reaction would be anger. I am a furious fan. Watching a game with me is the equivalent of debating evolution with Carl Everett; completely illogical, and I might swear at you. I can't enjoy any part of a loss. When they're losing (I also fall victim to this bad habit: We are winning, but they have lost), I hate everyone and everything involved with the production, conduct, and concept of baseball. I despise the umpires--lousy mooks are in Steinbrenner's back pocket. I despise the cameramen, for tricking me into thinking a long fly ball is a homerun rather than an out. I reserve my worst loathing for the announcers--I'm looking at you, Tim McCarver. Honestly, I don't think it's healthy.

So when my own personal heartbreak came, alone in a dorm room, watching Aaron Boone's home run ball sail into the night, I turned off my television not with anger, but with sadness. I think I had just given up.

So, after having a drink with the resident true Cubs fan in my hall, I called my dad. Having come late to the Fandom, I had never heard what Lou Gorman had to say, way back when my dad was my age, maybe as hot-blooded and fanatical about this bloody team as I am now.

"Joe," he said, sounding surprisingly lucid considering the ordeal and the late hour, "The sun will rise, the sun will set, and I'll have lunch."

True that, Dad, but you also told me what someone else said about this team.

"Baseball in Boston isn't a matter of life or death. It's bigger than that."

Which is it?

Tonight, the Red Sox will start the second half of their 2004 season. Winning this series might set the tone of the rest of the year, and may decide whether they get into the playoffs or not. Then again, it might mean nothing.

Could be, maybe, it's both. I still haven't had lunch yet.