Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

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.

"That is the mystery of grace: it never comes too late."

(Jim Davis / Boston.com / full gallery)

One of the most amazing moments in my experience with the Boston Red Sox took place at Fenway Park today, and it wasn't a part of either the ring ceremony or the game.

The ring ceremony had been a glossy production of pomp and circumstance, complete with an unruly 2007 Monster-sized championship banner and a truly touching scene between Johnny Pesky and the rest of the ring recipients, who could be heard calmly encouraging him as he struggled to haul up the 2007 flag.

It was less well-produced in some ways than the 2004 ceremony--I still don't understand why they didn't introduce the players aloud when they came out to get their rings, because it honestly sometimes sounded like the crowd wasn't into it. I wonder if that's because anyone seated more than 20 feet away from the home dugout might not have had a clue who they were looking at half the time.

Still, I thought I had experienced true Sox Zen when I watched Mike Timlin greet Curtis Leskanic (who had been entrusted somehow with the 04 trophy) for the first time in years; when I watched Oki and Papelbon stand together and quietly admire their rings; when I watched Manny point to his ring box and say to Johnny Pesky, "this is for you"; when the camera zoomed in on Jonathan Papelbon popping his gum enthusiastically as the fighter jets flew over during the Star-Spangled Banner.

But as it turned out, I was unprepared for what would follow Joe Castiglione's next lines in the script.

"Now it's time to welcome the star who will throw our ceremonial first pitch, on this day that we honor champions."

The Boston Pops were packing up. Grounds crew and volunteers were hustling back and forth with folding chairs and rakes. A buzz was building as people resumed conversations. The fireworks seemed to be over.

"And how happy we are, that amidst this celebration and joy, this Red Sox alumnus has come back to join us."

"Dave Roberts," I encouraged.

"He amassed Hall of Fame-caliber credentials in his 21-year Major League career, and the Red Sox would never have won the 1986 American League Pennant without him--"

"No," I said out loud to my TV screen. "No freaking way."

"--won't you please welcome back to Boston, and let him know that he is welcome always. Number 6--"

"Holy shit."

"Bill! Buckner!"

He came out from among the soldiers anchoring the huge American flag at the base of the Monster. By the time he'd reached center field, as Bobby Orr and Bill Russell and Tedy Bruschi and every single person at Fenway Park stood up and clapped for him, he was wiping away tears.

Dwight Evans stood at home plate in a jersey with a glove, ready to catch the first pitch. The camera slowly circled Buckner as he stood on the mound in the middle of Fenway Park. The crowd gave him a five minute standing ovation, while my goosebumps grew goosebumps.

It's not that it's so amazing that we've collectively 'forgiven' him--that, in fact, is only proper, a return to reality from a clearly insane injustice of the past. What had me in such awe is that he's forgiven us.

(Title: -François Mauriac (via)

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part VII. Epilogue

Part I  Part I Cont’d  Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part IV Cont’d   Part IV Conclusion   Part V   Part V Cont’d  Part V Conclusion  

“Re-sign Lowell!”

Red Sox fandom in the wake of two World Series does continue to change. It would be impossible for it not to. From $90 ticket prices to the advent of Web-based social networking to new statistical approaches for evaluating on-field talent, the team and the sport and the nature of sports in general have changed.

And maybe Shaughnessy has at least half a point, aside from the one on top of his head, when he notes the growing boldness of requests from Red Sox Nation, whether directed at the front office or invisible baseball gods. We used to fear their wrath, and now we are making more demands. In fact, the demands began before the dust had even really settled on the final out of the 2007 season. Even that night in Denver, Red Sox fans began what would become a ubiquitous chant over the next several months: “Re-sign Lowell!” Yes, right there in the wake of a victory no one would’ve expected even five years ago, Red Sox fans were already looking ahead to the 2008 roster, and making their wishes known. And so many Red Sox fans can plead guilty to at least some of the criticism levied against them: we remain, at times, a strange mix of sentimental and ruthless, and vocal participants in all the goings-on that surround our team.

Where I disagree with today’s Sox critics is in describing this as a recent phenomenon. This behavior, it turns out, has its own tradition, but it’s rooted not in the Bambino and 1918. Instead, it’s to be found in the dynasty era of the Red Sox, and the early days of the American League.

The Royal Rooters are the most well-documented early Red Sox fans. They actually existed before the team did, and were part of what led American League founder Ban Johnson to establish a new team in Boston. According to Glenn Stout’s gold-standard history of the team, Red Sox Century, Mike Lowell in 2007 was certainly not the first player whose contract earned the scrutiny and vocal lobbying interest of Red Sox fans.

The Royal Rooters above all others show that we have something of a tradition in this town of being annoying (just ask the 1903 Pirates), as well as of being overly invested, overly identified, and perhaps overly involved with the day to day workings of this team.

For more recent evidence that unfavorable comparisons of today’s Red Sox fan with the pre-World Series edition are perhaps misguided, here’s an excerpt from my 2003 edition of Century that would surely rankle the Boston-weary national audience were it written in a national sports column right now:

Since fans here believe they deserve to win, losing, particularly in more recent seasons, means more than just the loss of a simple game. Here, losing isn’t a transient event. It’s a permanent affront, a challenge, an insult and a slur. It is truly a loss, for losing deprives Boston fans of something they feel they’ve already earned.

[…]

And that’s why in Boston, in a funny way, any victory that doesn’t result in a world championship isn’t really winning at all but just another form of loss, which makes the experience of rooting for the Red Sox a peculiarly devout experience. That’s what makes Boston fans special; they are different, and they know it.

It might be that we have just never crossed paths so much, especially not as victors, with fans in other places. It might be that we will continue to misunderstand each other for years into the future. It might be that we will always misunderstand each other. But in the end, I don’t put much stock in the idea that Red Sox fans have suddenly become fundamentally different, or that they’ve suddenly sprouted personality traits others find annoying that weren’t in evidence before.

And so even with all the differences between our two World Championships I find myself closing this essay with a thought similar to the last one—that if there’s one thing for certain, it’s that we in Boston and New England will continue to weave the Red Sox heavily into our daily lives. That we will continue to struggle with the ways it intersects with the rest of our culture, and with reconciling it against our past. But we will never stop wanting more.

GO RED SOX

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part VI. The Aftermath

Part I  Part I Cont’d  Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part IV Cont’d   Part IV Conclusion   Part V   Part V Cont’d  Part V Conclusion

Celebration

When the Red Sox won the World Series on October 28, 2007, I was at a friend’s apartment in Brookline, pacing and chain-smoking as Jonathan came on to close out the ninth inning.

As I sat with my head in my hands in their living room, it felt like we were attending a birth—something momentously joyful but nerve-wracking at the same time. Yet its arrival felt that certain. We were going to be witnesses to history again, but we realized that long before we could permit ourselves to talk about it.

When Papelbon came on to pitch, the four of us, adults by legal definition, were huddled up on the couch with our arms around each other, screeching and holding on for dear life. When the final pitch came in, and Seth Smith swung and missed, Ryan leapt from the couch the same way Papelbon leapt from the pitching rubber. The rest of us screamed in each other’s ears as NESN cut to shots of the Cask N’ Flagon going similarly crazy, just a mile or so to our East.

A few days later, I stood on Boston Common amid the throng and watched the parade pass by. In 2004 a combination of weather and fears about crowd control had convinced me not to go, and ever since I have promised myself that if I was ever lucky enough to have the opportunity again, I’d never make the same choice, no matter what the circumstances.

From my post just after getting back from that experience:

The weather last time was cold, clammy and damp; today was the polar opposite. Sunlight was streaming from a cloudless October sky, catching in the confetti streaming down from the windows of buildings when I came upon the scene. I could not believe it was real. I still can't believe any of it's real.

There were several false-alarm cheers from the crowd that piqued our attention as they jumped around for TV cameras a block or so down, but then finally we heard the thumping bass from the Dropkick Murphy's flatbed truck, and as the rumble got louder a crowd that had already looked like a teeming mass of millions just milling aimlessly seemed to multiply in size, just from the sheer volume of arms and banners and cameras and pennants and signs being waved in the air as the Sox approached.

Someone in one of the buildings on the corner of Tremont St. let out a huge burst of red, white and blue confetti just as the first Duck Boat made a lolling turn onto the block where I was standing. I shielded my eyes against the glare of the sun and watched it emerge from shadow, and I thought to myself, rather matter-of-factly,

this is one of the purest, happiest moments I've ever experienced.

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part V. World Series, Conclusion

Part I   Part I Cont’d   Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part IV Cont’d   Part IV Conclusion  Part V   Part V Cont’d

Tim Wakefield’s World Series Sacrifice

As I’ve said earlier in this essay, it was the interplay of players at opposite ends of the seniority spectrum that made 2007’s team truly special. It wasn’t just a mix of veterans and youngsters—it was at times a mix of icons and the unknown.

Nowhere was the power of this mixture more evident than with Tim Wakefield, and his fellow hurlers who were wet behind the ears. Somehow, it was appropriate that a player who already serves as a conduit between the current era and the memories of 20 years ago should be the one who stepped aside just in time to let one of his younger teammates put some of the most classic performances in Red Sox history, and he did this not once, but twice.

The first time, it was Clay Buchholz Wakefield stepped aside for, when on Sept. 1, 2007, he was scratched from a scheduled appearance, and Buchholz was tapped to fill in.

Now, in the World Series, Wakefield’s substitute was Jon Lester, with a wondrous story of his own, and another stellar performance to seal another kind of unprecedented victory, with his mother, as always, cheering in delirious joy from the stands.

After the game was over, Mike Timlin would pull a cameraman aside, put his arm around Tim Wakefield, and deliver the following unforgettable speech:

I just want to say one thing. This guy right here? This win is for this man, because he was not on the roster and he showed so much heart by saying, ‘I can’t be on the roster,’ and it was good for the team. This is what kind of person is standing right here. I love this guy. I’m proud of this guy. It’s the hardest thing to do to take yourself out of the game for someone else. But he did it, and I’m proud of him.

And yet, while I take nothing away from Tim Wakefield’s generosity or his sacrifice, somehow, it felt all along like it was meant to be.

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part V. World Series, Cont'd

Part I   Part I Cont’d   Part II  Part III  Part IV   Part IV Cont’d   Part IV Conclusion  Part V

Game 3: Daisuke, adjustments and expectations

Daisuke Matsuzaka began this season a study in expectations.

He arrived like a force of nature, doubling the media population in the Sox clubhouse and being scrutinized at seemingly every possible moment. People talked about his fabled endurance like he was Paul Bunyan. And when we finally got to see him on the field, I was instantly smitten.

Before opening day, I had a chat with my blogfather Edw. about the pitching staff, and he tried to give me a warning. "Don't over hype Matsazuka or you'll be disappointed," he typed, surprising me. "He's a #4 starter, not a Cy Young or #3, I guess..."

We chatted back and forth on the topic, and I made a case for Matsuzaka while he listened patiently but gave no indication as to whether or not he was inclined to change his mind.

After that, I began to get antsy. This feeling increased when I attended his disappointing Fenway debut:

The moments just following the game were strange, as I trudged out of the park past souvenir stands stuffed with Daisuke memorabilia, past all the Japanese signs and fans wearing karate-kid headbands. I remembered what Edw. had said when we talked about Daisuke, and it occurred to me as I passed a rack of T-shirts with Daisuke's face on them that this could all look very foolish indeed in six months' time…

In a way, I was correct to sense I had the wrong idea when it came to Daisuke in those early, heady days of hype. In the end, what would impress me most about Daisuke this season admittedly was not his pitching, which was at times mediocre; instead, it was his mental toughness, making it through culture shock and homesickness and a longer season than he’s used to, while part of a rotation one day shorter than he’s used to.

Who knows what he must’ve been like in private, but whenever we got to see him, he sucked it up and made adjustments, which is the mark of a fine pitching mind, even if the physical mechanics take longer to catch up (cf. Josh Beckett, 2006 offseason edition). By the time September rolled around, he still seemed the worse for wear, but he came through with a second wind of effectiveness that month, and earned crucial victories for the Sox. By then, he was running on fumes; his victories seemed as much will as skill.

Now, in game 3 of the World Series, after still more months of fatigue and unfamiliarity and hard-learned lessons, here he was, at the end of a longer season than he has ever pitched, more exhausted than he probably has ever been, facing down the opponent in an unfamiliar stadium in an unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar country, with a critical tool of the trade—the ball—shaped differently from the one he’d used his entire career. And doing it with aplomb.

Adjustments must be made to our expectations also.

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part V. World Series

Part I   Part I Cont’d   Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part IV Cont’d   Part IV Conclusion

Game 1: Becketts from an alternate dimension

By the time he pitched his first World Series game in 2004, Pedro Martinez was well past his prime, though he summoned as much as he could of his old fire. By the time Josh Beckett was an inning in to his appearance in the 2007 World Series, it was his second Fall Classic by the tender age of 27. Going to the World Series with Josh Beckett in 2007 was like getting to go to the World Series with the 1999 version of Pedro.

He was vicious. He was ruthless. He was aflame on the mound, calling down spirits. His fastball was filthy. His curveball was devastating. He opened the 2007 World Series with three straight strikeouts.

Here in Game 1 I felt a sense of unreality similar to what I experienced in 2004, as the Sox scored run after run and the first game of another World Series began looking more like an interleague blowout you might switch off in the middle of the regular season. “Are we dead?” I IMed Sam in disbelief. “Is this heaven?” Sometimes, watching it on DVD, I still feel that way.

Game 2: My home sweet home

This was thought to be Curt Schilling’s last stand, and would wind up being a bullpen performance for the ages, but what I remember most about this game, now that some time has passed, is ‘God Bless America’.

It was sung per tradition during the 7th inning stretch, by, of all people, Boys II Men. This was in keeping with a strange 90’s theme to postseason performances, which also saw a random appearance by Paula Cole.

If you’d asked me what I thought of Boys II Men in their heyday, which was approximately the same time I was investing most of my disposable teenage income on fishnets and eyeliner, my response probably would have been to mimic sticking my finger down my throat. They were the epitome of cheesy, manufactured, personalityless pop music.

And yet when they came to sing during Game 2, the intervening years of mediocrity in the music industry made them look like ghosts from a generally more talented age.

I remember that for this game, like many of the games, I was at my best friend’s house in Brookline, watching with her and her boyfriend Ryan, also a good friend. And for some reason, Boys II Men or no Boys II Men, I remember that moment so clearly, the warm mellow harmonies from the a capella group booming over a quiet, rapt crowd at Fenway Park on the TV, the sudden sense of the cold vastness of the world and our contrasting coziness in this unexpected, perfect moment. A moment where suddenly it occurs to you that you are in the midst of joy it will take you years to fully fathom.

Believe me, I never thought I’d feel that way about Boys II Men.

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part IV. ALCS, Conclusion

Part I   Part I Cont’d   Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part IV Cont’d

A certain symmetry

The comparisons with 2004’s ALCS are inevitable—in both series, the Sox faced elimination at or before Game 5, and in both series, the Sox prevailed.

But there were some differences, of course. This time around, the Sox were down 3-1 rather than 3-0. This time, they faced the Indians, rather than the Yankees and a supporting cast of every ghost and demon plaguing the franchise. This time, they faced elimination in Game 5, but won that game and the rest of their games with authority, rather than on the backs of miraculous skin-of-the-teeth performances.

In the first Pretty Good Year, I wrote about the way baseball’s symmetry and the dramatic, stranger-than fiction story of the Red Sox’ journey made me able, if only for a moment, to imagine a similar logical meaning to life in general:

it's not about what's real or factual--it's about what we want, what we want to know. We want there to be a connection between what's important and vital to us and what goes on beyond our stratosphere. We want a systematized universe--one that has a discourse, a dialog, a story.

That's what I want, anyway. A story that makes sense.

I want to believe that there's something more to the world. More to the universe. I want to believe, looking up into the sky where a small white ball is hurtling off into the distance, that its much bigger brother millions of miles away is sending some sort of message, that somehow the alignment of the planets is connected with the alignment of bat and ball and glove and foot and base.

I want to believe that this story, of the Red Sox, that has been unfolding for the last eight and a half decades, and finally bloomed into this beautiful, satisfying, serendipitous conclusion--a linear story, a problem and a climax and a resolution--means I can hope for anything similar from life in general.

Once again, I am tempted by a certain comforting logic in the way both of the pennant series of the last four years unfolded, not only as individual 7-game masterpieces, but in comparison and contrast to one another. No Red Sox fan could’ve drawn it up any better, and I’ll tell you why.

Because the 2007 ALCS came about as close as possible to replicating what happened in last time—but it remained, by necessity, slightly inferior. It demonstrated by how imitative, yet how different it was, just how impossible it will ever be for any series to match what happened in 2004. It also demonstrated just how deeply joyful it can be to try to match it anyway.

Our two treasured trophies are now like matching mantelpieces, one slightly less ornate than the other. And on the older artifact, I now imagine an inscription, of some famous words by St. Anselm about the nature of God: “That than which nothing greater can be conceived.”

Tomorrow: Part V. World Series

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part IV. ALCS, Cont’d

Part I   Part I Cont’d   Part II   Part III   Part IV

Game 6: JD Drew and the Unlikeliest Grand Slam Ever

Beckett’s performance had been dominant, but it hadn’t been decisive.

All it did was send the Red Sox back home for another chance to turn things around. In retrospect, Beckett’s game 5 was the turning point of the series, but at the time, it was only a step in the right direction.

The Red Sox, having brought the series to a more respectable 3-2 and returning to their home field, still had to take advantage of the opportunities that afforded them. Following the return of Mr. Hyde in the middle games of the series, whether or not they would still felt like a matter of a coin toss.

The context of 2004 was in the balance, and up in the air, as well. Would the Red Sox revert to their former futility, leaving their sole victory just a fluke? Or would they begin to make a habit of coming back with their backs against the wall?

The first inning of Game 6 unfolded into a microcosm of the overall series. The Red Sox once again were a powerhouse of potential energy, loading the bases with no one out. And then as the heart of the lineup started going down, one after another, first Manny Ramirez, then Mike Lowell, we were painfully reminded yet again that potential energy is nothing without work to make it kinetic.

If anyone claiming to be a Red Sox fan tells you they believed in, hoped for, or even thought about the possibility of a grand slam when J.D. Drew followed Lowell to the plate there in that first inning, you can be sure they are an impostor. From the moment he replaced our beloved, spunky, funny Trot with expressionless ineptitude in right field last season, J.D. Drew took on the time-honored role, previously occupied by Mark Bellhorn and Edgar Renteria, of our favorite whipping boy.

Except even then, the phenomenon of Drew-hatred had a vitriol and persistence neither of those other players experienced. Aggravating the angst were two things: Drew’s $14 million salary, which many felt was too high even giving Drew’s skills the benefit of the doubt, and his utter ineptitude with runners in scoring position. In fact, for the ALCS up until that point, Drew was 0-6 with RISP. In his entire career, he had an average of .198 with the bases loaded.

Even as it happened, even as the ball floated into center field, first looking like a flyout, then maybe like a wall ball, and then finally just edged itself over the wall to plop at the feet of one of the cameramen, it was beyond belief. Even as J.D. rounded the bases, allowing himself a single stiff fist-pump in celebration, it was absolutely unreal.

And yet even as I write about how he finally came through in the clutch, and recall what a soaring moment that was, I still feel alienated from J.D. In part, that may be because he’ll never be one of our warm and fuzzy fan favorites. But in another part, it’s because when I watch his run around the bases while a stunned Fenway audience cheers bewilderedly, I feel like we the fans were among those who got our comeuppance with that improbable Granny. Like at least part of his teammates’ sincere leaps of joy and back-slaps and wide grins comes from the power of that rebuke to all those who stubbornly and insistently dogged J.D. from day one to Game 6—and like that includes us.

Unlike Manny’s walkoff in the ALDS or any of David Ortiz’s clutch heroics, J.D.’s home run feels like something that we fans are less entitled to share. When it comes to our inscrutable right fielder, it feels to me like I have been like the characters in Aesop’s The Little Red Hen: not around to help when the hard work’s being done, and so not able to share in the bread when it finally appears.

When I watch this home run again, I pay attention to the grins on J.D.’s teammates’ faces: it’s clear the sense of vindication they feel for him, and it’s not beyond reason to believe that showing us up for the way we’ve turned on J.D.—the way we’ve turned on lots of players—might be a part of their exuberance.

Because we’ve done it to all of them at one time or another. Because at the end of the day, there is the world we occupy, and the world they occupy. Because 2004 erased them for a few shining moments, but here in 2007, we are reminded of the spaces between those worlds that will never be closed.

Still, Pretty Good Year: Part IV. ALCS

Part I   Part I Cont’d    Part II     Part III

Games 1-4: Dustin Pedroia recapitulates phylogeny

Dustin Pedroia smashed the fastball right back into CC Sabathia’s face.

Much is made of the size of both men, who occupy opposite ends of the spectrum. CC is listed at 6’ 7” and, charitably, at 290 pounds. He’s not only towering in stature but thick, carrying around a paunch low-slung on his midsection like a kangaroo. Dustin, as we know, is undersized.

Sabathia started Dustin off in the first inning of Game 1 with straight heat, feeding him fastball after fastball just to see what Pedroia would be able to do with the pitch. Dustin finally answered by getting his bat around on a heater, sending a screaming liner straight back toward Sabathia’s head. Though CC would safely glove the returning missile, the point was across: CC fed Dustin fastballs, and Dustin took his bat and brushed him back.

The Sox, as represented by Pedroia, would come out swinging in this series, and through the first 19 innings looked as though they meant to continue piloting the steamroller they’d fired up against the Angels on a straight course for the awaiting NL pennant winner. But somewhere in the midst of game 2, something odd happened. The bullpen uncharacteristically broke down. Well, uncharacteristically except for Eric Gagne, whom everyone in Boston agreed the next day had been the official Least Valuable Player of the night, since he put the two men on that started the Indians’ 7-run rally in the 11th.

Pedroia would also embody the fate of the Red Sox as the pennant series drew to a close. He was just 3 for 17 going in to Game 5, and had spent the ALDS in a two-fer slump as well, and then as the Sox surged to take the last three games, began mashing the ball, finishing with a series average of .345 and a 5 RBI effort in Game 7. Pedroia’s entire season, in fact, was an encapsulation of this concept—from struggles in April to red hot in June and beyond on the way to Rookie of the Year. Tough breaks, followed by breaking out.