Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

I want my Papi back

Okay, enough of this.

I've been doing my damndest to ignore it, but it's getting to be too much. I know JD Drew was the man last night against the 'Stros, hitting a clutch (!!!?!?!??) three-run homer, and you don't even need to ask how much I enjoyed Jonathan Papelbon coming in to blow Berkman away in the eighth, because I'm sure you already know.

But...I'm sorry, I'm going to need my Papi back. In the dugout, on the field. Like, right now.

I know he's on his way back, but unfortunately, that's not going to cut it. He really needs to be back here yesterday. Not because we're not scoring runs without him. Because it's just not the same team without him, and I prefer the other kind of team. The kind with Papi hitting homers and blingin' it up and making the world brighter just by smiling. 

Let me put it this way. At my apartment, I have a full-page photo of Papi, decked out in a suit and chapeau, laden with diamonds and giving the double-guns, hung up in the kitchen. In the living room, my desktop is a photo of Papi kissing a puppy. At work, a photo of him grinning and dumping a pitcher of milk over Coco Crisp's head is hung up at eye level. That is how much I like to see Papi.

So yeah. That was already my level before he went on the DL. This "couple of weeks without Papi" crap? Um, no.

At midseason, depth and transitions for the Red Sox

If there's been one theme to this year's Red Sox team, it's depth. This has been a year of devastating injuries and illnesses (3/5 or 4/5 of our starting rotation if you count Buccholz and Colon, 1/5 of which is now off the table for good in the case of Curt Schilling, Papi, and that's just for starters). And yet now that we're at the halfway point of the season (already!?), this team is just one game off the pace of last year's club. And we all know what happened to last year's club.

Some years are just injury years. 2003 was a bad one, and so was 2006. It happens randomly, and can't be taken personally. It's also not necessarily a deterrent to success, depending on the team's makeup. The outcomes in 2003 and 2006 couldn't have been more different, and show how in a good year, injuries show your depth, and in a bad one, they poke holes in your hull you can't recover from.

This year, the Red Sox are showing depth beyond what I've ever seen before. I can't imagine another year in which removing Papi from the lineup would be remotely survivable, and even this year I'm surprised that it has been. There have been nights this year when the boys taking the field for the top of the first have been wearing the right uniforms, but otherwise are a completely different team than I'm used to, and often even a completely different team than was fielded last week or last month. One guy goes down, another takes his place. We've always talked about rooting for the laundry; now it's like the laundry is actually the one playing.

Regardless of how this year turns out, the Red Sox have already achieved their goal of fielding a competitive team year in and year out, and they've done it with that rut we've worn in I-95 restocking the roster with fresh produce from the farm.

It's hard to overstate just how stocked the Sox organization is right now. To quote Soxaholix, (addressing Yankees-fan annoyance Marty) "While you're getting wood for a washed out has been and general club house cancah, we've got a guy like Charlie Zink in AAA who is ready to step into a Majah League rotation right now but we've already got a knuckballah stahting."

And that knuckleballer, by virtue of being a knuckleballer, has already had a longer career than most any other player has a right to expect, and shows no signs of slowing so far.

We saw the way Tim Wakefield works the other night when he faced, and beat, an aging Randy Johnson. At one point in the game an incredulous Joe Castiglione pointed out that Wakefield had quietly amassed more strikeouts and fewer walks than Johnson.

That's how Wakefield is. Quiet. If some pitchers are artists, than Wake is a craftsman. What he produces has few frills, and a utilitarian purpose, even if it's only chewing up innings. Wakefield works at a steady pace, not too slow, not too rushed. It's a pace I recognize from other craftsmen I've seen, like my father and grandfather, who made furniture and, for my grandfather, little carved treasures out of wood. That measured pace seems to be something universal to masters of a skill, whether it's patiently sanding a curve into a piece of wood or patiently stringing together strikes, outs and innings. Watching Wake work reminds me of childhood hours in a workshop redolent with sawdust, country or classical music on the radio, and watching a deliberate, methodical worker with a pencil between his teeth.

A consistent pace has also been with the team this year, despite things that could have caused them to miss a beat. Papi goes down with a freak wrist injury? JD Drew makes an astonishing season-to-season turnaround and proves a decent substitute in the three-hole. Jason Varitek showing increasing signs of fatigue and age, and some strep throat this season? Kevin Cash steps up Wednesday night with a three-run homer. Hideki Okajima a shadow of his 2007 self? Craig Hansen steps in to serve as a bridge to Papelbon / secondary closer (except the other night, when he loaded the bases in the 9th and we had to burn Paps in a non-save situation, but oh well).

But these transitions from entrenched to up-and-coming are always bittersweet. I know that for every Nomar and Bill Mueller you lose, there's a Dave Roberts or Mike Lowell in the wings, and eventually, it'll seem like the team was never any different, just like the teams over the last two or three years have come to feel like there was never a time when Papi and Manny weren't in the heart of the order and Papelbon wasn't coming in to save the day to the grinding chords of the Dropkick Murphys. But that doesn't make easy to let go of the guys who became regulars in your living room. Guys like Curt Schilling.

I've gotten some messages asking me how I feel about Curt Schilling retiring, since people know that I've sometimes been one of the few to defend him. On the one hand, I'm still frustrated with Curt, because I think this writing was on the wall before he signed another $12 million deal, and it never should've gotten to this point. On the one hand, Curt should've made his emotional departure from Game 2 of the 2007 World Series the high note he went out on.

On the other hand, it's still the same feeling for me, thinking about never seeing big No. 38 tug the cross charm on his necklace out from under his uniform behind the mound again, as it was the first time I thought he was going for good:

as he doffed his hat, his eyebrows furrowed. The grim line of his mouth wavered a little. His eyes shone.  He and I both swallowed hard.

"Bittersweet" doesn't begin to describe the feeling I had watching that scarlet "38" disappear into the dugout [for the last time]. It will never be the same team without him.

Now, you see, is the time when the day-to-day gnitpicks about Curt start to fade: whether or not he talks too much, his Republicanism, and so on. Time and memory, by necessity, whittle things down from complex details to bare essentials, and what we'll remember about Curt is how he was the foundation of this current golden age of Red Sox baseball. From his brash declaration that he was coming to break an 86-year-old curse before the 2004 season began, to the October night he put his blood where his mouth was, it was Curt that opened the door to the first victory, and everything that has followed since.

Mike Lowell's Revenge

And so it was that Julio Lugo began a rally in the 8th inning, which was followed with a quick pair of singles from Jacoby Ellsbury and Dustin Pedroia. Manny chose to keep his contribution minimal, grounding out but advancing the runners.

Behind him came Mike Lowell, who spanked the ball into left center, planting it off the wall and tying up the game. And none other than Mr. Byrnes fell all over himself chasing the ball around the outfield. It was a beautiful coincidence.

After that, Jason Varitek picked a great at-bat to be 2 for 20, lofting a single to right to score the go-ahead run, and it was Papelbon time. In the ninth, Cinco Ocho got to a full count on the Porn-'stache Host, but walked him, so we got a good look at Byrnes' now clean-shaven face while he hung around first base for the rest of the inning. And lo, it would seem we have exorcised the demon.

Papelbon then struck out JD's kid brother on a nasty elevated fastball, and got Orlando Hudson to ground to third. A thoroughly vindicated Mike Lowell put the seal on the game, fielding Hudson's grounder cleanly and throwing to first, where Youkilis was back, in a last-minute substitution, waiting to catch it for the final out.

Pitchers Hitting

Interleague play can be a drag for many reasons, but pitchers hitting isn't one of them. In fact, as your resident pitching junkie I relish watching pitchers, normally so graceful and in command, flail around like newborn calves when handed a bat and told to stand in the box.

With few exceptions (Josh looks as skilled and surly with a bat in his hands as he does on the mound), American League pitcher + hitting = funny. Even if he does strand two men in scoring position, like Bartolo Colon did tonight in the fourth inning.

Because, you see, for the squandered scoring opportunities, Bartolo paid us back in entertainment, swinging so wildly and blindly on Cole Hamels' second pitch that his helmet came flying off. Steve had just gotten done telling me how ridiculous Bartolo had looked last time he'd seen him hitting, but this was something new. "His helmet never came off before!"

Even Hamels put his glove over his face for a few seconds at one point during Bartolo's at-bat to laugh before he could deliver the next pitch. As for us, it was two passes back over Bartolo's at-bat on the TiVo before we calmed down enough to hear what Remy and Orsillo were saying. Which was a classic moment in itself:

Remy: Well, we'll see if Bartolo Colon, now with two men in scoring position, cuts down on his swing a little bit. I don't think he will. I just have a feeling it's kinda like, I'm gonna let it fly and if I hit it, hopefully it'll go somewhere.

Orsillo: This...is my swing. He struck out swinging first time up. Did he go, they check, no. He's able to hold off on that big swing this time Brian Knight says, first base umpire.

Remy: How about the misfortune for the Yankees? Chien-Ming Wang.

Orsillo:Yes.

Remy: Running the bases.

Orsillo: Could be four to six weeks they say today.

Colon takes a Mirabelli-sized rip at the changeup. (It doesn't...! Get...! Old...!)

Remy and Orsillo together: WOW.

Orsillo: Everything leaving that time including the helmet. That's some kind of cut.

Remy: Well, he was fooled on the changeup. He is geared up for every fastball you could possibly be geared up for. And just a tad off balance on that changeup.

Orsillo: Swing and a miss, one and two. He's gonna hurt himself.What if he connects on one of these?The one two.

Remy: Wow.

Orsillo: Colon strikes out. Everything was leaving and so was he.

Remy: That was ugly.

And thank goodness for that comic relief, because otherwise this game has been a disaster. Currently it's the seventh inning, it's 8-2, and Oki is warming up because he's the bottom of the barrel now in this brave new world of 2008, where up is down, left is right, and JD Drew is the big Sox slugger...

Will wonders never cease

Let's review the list, shall we?

Jason Varitek: Yesterday, sidelined in a Wakefield start. (Kevin Cash: 0-fer. Same for Moss.)
Mike Lowell: Started the game on the bench.
Jacoby Ellsbury: Still not 100% after rolling his wrist, also started game on the bench.
Dustin Pedroia: Benched yesterday.
Manny Ramirez: Playing, but with tweaked hamstring.
David Ortiz: 15-day DL with a sprained wrist.

So what happened? JD Drew was the only member of the Sox roster with three hits, and he didn't strike out once. He went a homer double shy of hitting for the cycle.

Unbelievable.

Meanwhile, if reporting in various Boston news sources is to be believed, the source of the Manny-Youkilis fight was one of Youkilis's post-out tantrums. According to a story by Courant reporter Jeff Goldberg:

"Other players have told Youkilis in the past about the situation, which makes him look selfish and that he is more worried about each at-bat than about the team," a source told ESPNDeportes. "There was a meeting where the team let Youkilis know that many of his teammates were tired of his explosive reactions for each bad plate appearance."

So let me get this straight. Youkilis is taking his at-bats TOO seriously? I know nothing about clubhouse politics, but I didn't think such a thing was really possible. Be that as it may, I can see how that would get annoying over 162 games. But then...Manny is the team-first enforcer guy?

Everybody with any kind of inside knowledge of clubhouses has been writing it off. Quoth Jonathan Papelbon in Masserotti's story:

“You’re playing in an intense environment. You’re playing in an intense stadium. And you’re around each other so much...You’re like brothers here. I’ve had more fist fights with my brothers than anybody else. (Younger brother) Josh broke my nose. But when it’s all said and done, you still have love for each other.”

Alex Belth, who has much more experience than me, also wrote me soon after the game to tell me the fight was no big deal, and that it happens all the time, but just doesn't get on TV. Okay. So why did this one?

If it's not a big deal, why don't we normally see it? Because it looks pretty bad for two guys on the same team to be going after each other in front of God and everybody, right? And if you're a professional baseball player (and the fight is about putting the team first and / or looking bad in the first place), shouldn't your first priority be to make sure it stays in the clubhouse, just like all the other ones? (Manny?!)

It's not a big deal to guys on the inside. But I can tell you, from the fan perspective, where we've rarely or never seen such a thing, it was a totally jarring thing to see. As Maxwell Horse put it, "I think my reaction to seeing Manny and Youk go at it was similar to what a small child experiences when they see their parents fighting."

You want to be all, bottom-line, it's-just-a-job, fans-are-naive, it's-an-internal-matter about it? Fine. Then keep it where it belongs. Keep us naive about it. Isn't that what it means to be a professional?

Ellsbury n' Elf

While in the metaphysical sense the Sox seem to have improved just by fleeing the Left Coast, in the strictly reality-based scheme of things, there have been two key factors in the series against the Orioles: Jacoby Ellsbury and Dustin Pedroia, or as Surviving Grady likes to call them, Ellsbury n' Elf.

They've been a one-two rookie punch, kicking ass and taking names from their otherwise separate spheres on the field, since last year's World Series. This series against the Baltimore Orioles has seen them team up once again to fight crime, have high OBPs, and come back from this road trip at .500 after all.

Ellsbury has mainly been doing it with an insanely high OPS (1.007) over the last seven games, hitting .364/.462/.545. He's 8th in the AL with a .389 OBP. But never mind the rate at which he gets on base, what he's really bringing to the table is his work once he gets there. He was caught stealing once over the weekend, but in his last seven games he's successfully stolen 8 times, which means you can almost literally add one base for every base he gets. He's also leading the team and third in the AL with 41 runs scored.

I'll never get tired of watching him run. In the fourth inning yesterday, he laid down a bunt on the first pitch Brian Burres threw, and by the time the newly svelte Kevin Millar had gotten to it about ten feet from first base, Ellsbury had traversed most of the 90 feet toward the bag, kicking up clouds of chalk on the baseline with each precise step. He'd only taken about three of those steps before I was saying, of Millar, "No chance."

Pedroia's bat has gone somewhat limp, like many of his teammates over the last seven games, where he's hitting .185/.214/.333. His superpower in this series against the Orioles has been defense--he's a 5' 7" one-man Iron Curtain on the right side of the infield.  Yesterday, Pedroia also made the highlight reel with a diving, scrambling putout from one knee in the sixth inning. "If he can get to it," was Remy's conclusion watching him vacuum up grounders at second for another night, "You're out."

In addition to his own fielding prowess, this series his tandem with Julio Lugo has been greater than the sum of its parts. Saturday night, Lugo's midair feed to Pedroia ended the game and a threat against Papelbon, who couldn't seem to locate the plate.

Pedroia also had his own adventures on the basepaths. During the Sox rally in the third inning, Pedroia coasted into third on his stomach on a Kevin Youkilis single, flinging himself with such abandon over the ground that he actually spun about 180 degrees before washing up on third base. Sometimes when he's flopping himself around as baseman or baserunner, I get worried that he's going to break himself one of these days. Most of the time, though, I just figure playing with abandon is what's gotten him here, and it's just too fun to watch.

I'd also like to thank David Aardsma, somewhat belatedly, for his appearance Saturday, and for also helping the Sox buck recent trends by coming out of the bullpen and not outright sucking. Continued acknowledgment is also due Manny Ramirez, whose swing is truly sweet right now with the "500" pressure off. He hit his 501st last night, but I was even more impressed with the hit he laced to left field for the go-ahead run in the top of the third inning. The swing and connection with the ball were as smooth and automatic as Jacoby's steps toward first base.

Meanwhile, with Manny hitting so well, the Sox have apparently decided to save Big Papi for later, and have sent him on vacation. At least, that's what I'm telling myself right now. Vacation. Big Papi is on vacation.

500

I was half-hoping Manny would delay his 500th career home run by at least a couple of days so that he could hit it at Fenway Park next week, but I also knew that's contrary to the Tao of Manny. I knew Manny would hit it when and where Manny would hit it, and that was that. It's up to us to derive a meaning and significance to the place where it happened, if it exists; Manny hits in a vacuum.

So it happened that Manny hit his 500th at Camden Yards, meaning that my ideal of hitting it in front of home fans was at least partially realized--a majority of the crowd in attendance jumped to their feet, decked out in red, arms raised, immediately after the ball left his bat. Don Orsillo's ever-more-frenetic call was subsumed in their noise before the ball landed in the bleachers of right-center field. Once there, it immediately formed an impact crater of people bent down, wrestling for it in the stands.

Manny watched, as I knew he would, walking placidly partway down the first base line before breaking into a trot, double-high-fiving Luis Alicea as he rounded the first corner. When he reached the plate, he paused to hug Mike Lowell, and then sauntered over for more love from his teammates gathered at the top step of the dugout.

My favorite moment of the aftermath was when Papi enveloped both Manny and Julio Lugo in his arms and bounced them both up and down there in front of the dugout. That was just cute on principle, but even more endearing was how completely relaxed and exuberant Manny looked, with his cheek pressed against Papi's shoulder, leaping into the air.

It figures Manny would hit 500 today, touching off a Manny-fest. Today was also my Dad's birthday, and we were watching the game together after a birthday dinner. He'd already cussed Manny thoroughly over his two dropped fly balls in left field, and we were back in our familiar pattern of point-counterpoint on his merits as a human being before he hit the homer. When that happened, true to form, Manny came out of a game that had otherwise been a point in my Dad's favor with all sins absolved by the bomb.

After the game, the fan who caught the ball gave it back to Manny in the clubhouse. Manny was wearing what looked like a homemade t-shirt that said GOT 500? on it in big red letters; the kid and his friend were decked out in Red Sox gear. Seeing that they were both Asian, Manny bowed deeply to them when he walked over. Turns out, though, they both grew up in Nahant. D'oh.

Once again, the gaffes melted away as Manny faced the camera for his interview with Heidi Watney. Even if he's supposed to be looking at a person asking him questions, he can't seem to help looking into the camera when it's on him. During the meeting with the fans who had the ball, his eyes kept darting toward the camera; sitting down with Heidi, he just stared straight into it.

I don't recall much of what he said except that it was perfunctory and towed the public-relations line.I focused more on just looking at those eyes of his, fixed on the camera, unwavering.

Much is made of Manny's swing, but it's those eyes that have made him what he is. Every one of his 500 blasts out of the park has begun with his eyes judging correctly the trajectory of a pitch, in the fraction of a second it hovers between him and the mound.

Much is made of Manny's hair, the untamed dreadlocks that continually escape do-rags and caps, but those eyes are the most expressive and enigmatic part of him--bottomless, velvety brown, at once riveting and inscrutable. Charles P. Pierce wrote in a 2004 profile of Manny, "[His] is the face of a great silent comic, one that Mack Sennett would have cast on the spot. It is open and broad. Part of the appeal is the huge brown eyes and another part is the wild, brambly hair above them. But mostly it comes from the ability to reveal most of the humor without sharing all of the joke. "

As I watched him speak, with the seemingly permanent half-sheepish smile on his face playing against the eyes so focused and serious, I chuckled in spite of myself. It was partly affection, but it was also because of the ability Pierce pointed out, to make even the most innocuous moments seem mischievous. The sense he projects, that uproarious laughter is just around the corner.

And then I had the same thought about Manny some of his teammates have expressed, awestruck, when talking about his exploits with the bat--what must it be like to be behind those eyes? What must it be like to be who he is, to do what he does? What does he see as the ball heads toward the plate? What does he see when he looks out at all of us, through a shining pane of glass?

Numerology

Something to think about besides the fact that the Sox wasted a gem from Wakefield and lost yet another West Coast series to one of the worst teams in baseball:

In reviewing Manny's home run last night, NESN made note of some interesting factoids--we all know Manny's set to become one of the members of an exclusive club of 500-home-run-hitters. We also know that he could break Lou Gehrig's record for grand slams.

However, as it turns out, there's another weird little detail: when Manny hits that 500th homer, he will become the 24th member of that club. He is also currently ranked 24th on the all time homers list. Finally, if he breaks Gehrig's grand-slam record, it will be by hitting a 24th granny. Meanwhile the man's been playing for years with a huge 24 on his back. Obviously it must be DESTINY.

Okay, it doesn't really mean anything, but my weird little mind likes to think about this stuff. Especially in lieu of thinking about last night's game.

One Hit? That's all we got? One goddamn hit?

So there's one moment I'm personally salvaging as my favorite from of last night's game, which otherwise was a total smoking wreck on the Sox side that I'd rather not even get into.

Bottom of the sixth inning. Nobody on. Two outs. Frank Thomas at the plate. Beckett gets two strikes on him, then jams him with a fastball that Thomas hits with the skinny part of the bat, hard enough and in such a perfect location that it stings Thomas's hands severely. He cries out almost immediately as the ball leaves the bat, in pain, and frustration that he's given Beckett an easy fly ball out.

But wait! Coco Crisp and Alex Cora are sprinting toward the ball in shallow center field. As they close in, both of them have blank yet panicked looks that are immediately enough to make a fan's heart seize, to say nothing of the starting pitcher who just worked through this at-bat in textbook fashion. They clearly, obviously don't know where the ball is.

It finally drops in, between Coco and Cora, but also, alarmingly, about three feet to the left of Crisp. What should've been a moderately easy catch turns before Beckett's eyes into a complete CF.

So this is what Beckett does, turned around looking directly, with narrowed eyes, at Coco. He waits until he has Coco's attention, and then...

After this, he sarcastically mouths, "Two Outs."

Classic.

Jon-Jon's no-no

As Jon Lester put the finishing touches on his no-hitter Monday night, I was sitting on a coach bus in Las Vegas with about 80 other people, on our way to a group dinner as part of the conference I was attending. As we stepped off the bus into the blistering desert heat, a colleague of mine held out his Blackberry with the mlb.com story on the screen. "A no-no!"

"Who?!"

"Lester!"

"No!!"

"Yes!!"

And then it was time for cocktail hour, to be followed by appetizers, to be followed by dinner, to be followed by dessert, to be follwed by a few highlights of the game through half-lidded eyes later on in my hotel room, still before midnight local time but with my body screaming to me about it being 2 am. Tuesday: lather, rinse, repeat, plus redeye flight back to Boston. The blogging has had to wait.

Since getting home today, I've seen most of the game on TiVo. It's been a mystery to me why Jon Lester gets bopped all around the ballpark one start, and tosses gems like the one on April 29 and Monday's no-hitter the next. I mean, I understand that he's a young pitcher who's still learning, but I haven't been able to tell specifically what it is that hasn't been working for him.

In Monday's game, it became clearer, because of what what WAS working - a quick pace, a good mix of pitches and a fidelity to the strike zone, good velocity, and most of all a vicious, filthy, virtually unhittable cut fastball. He also seemed to get stronger as the game went on, fanning three in the sixth.

When the last out finally happened, Lester's reaction was much different from that of the last Sox youngster wer got to see pitch a no-no, Clay Buchholz, who looked stunned and uncertain what to do in the wake of his own momentous last out, even as Jason Varitek heaved him up into his arms and the rest of their teammates charged toward the mound. Lester had both fists in the air a split second after the final strike call, and as Varitek grabbed him, Lester grinned and hugged his head. Buchholz had seemed bewildered; Jon Lester, despite his similarly young age, looked like a man who knew exactly why and how he should seize the moment.

Though the reasons for the depth of emotion here were obvious, Texas Gal made a point I very much agree with, in her brilliant and much more timely post about the game, about the cancer storyline having been slightly overdone in some circles. It's not to minimize what happened to him or the fortitude he showed in coming back from it so quickly--it's just that to Red Sox fans who have watched him grow up, Jon Lester isn't just "the kid who had cancer". He's been one of the top products of the Red Sox farm system for years, and people were talking in epic terms about his upside long before lymphoma. After a while, there's a fine line between acknowledging what he's been through and reducing him to it.

That said, you can't discount the effect of what Lester has overcome on our reaction to this moment. In the second or two betwen hearing a no-hitter had been thrown and finding out who'd thrown it, I was hoping it had been Jon Lester. Among Red Sox fans, his already storied personal history has bonded us to him unlike any other player to wear the uniform. As I wrote last July:

I've seen people battle with cancer, and I've even seen a few lose the battle. But somehow, though each case is different, watching those who survive can still shine a ray of hope onto a subject that can seem dark and impossible. Thus Jon Lester has become more than a pitcher, and more even than an individual cancer survivor. He is proof. He is hope. He is a symbol of survival.

He may not want that role, and he never asked for it. Being a pitcher in Boston is aggravating enough without the onus of greater societal pressures. And yet through it all he's handled it with grace and aplomb beyond his years. He's made an incredible comeback, and despite the trade rumors that mention his name, I want him to stay in Boston, where we can see him grow after seeing him stricken. He is our prospect, our pitcher, and our survivor now--what he's been through in the past year has bonded me to him as a fan in a way I haven't been with any of his teammates. I think he should belong to us.

And he does. During the trade talks about Santana last year, I heard some people say they could part with Lester, but not Jacoby. I even had the thought myself, once or twice. But in the end, it feels like it would've been impossible to let him go--by now, it feels like he has become a permanent part of this place.

As Tito put it, "He's a wonderful kid, not because he threw a no-hitter. He's a good kid because he's a good kid," and the same goes for his victory over cancer. But there's an undeniably different tone to Boston's collective happiness about this no-hitter from the last one.

More on the baseball that's happened in my absence after the jump.