I'm not a big fan of the midday post. Even when I don't have better, or at least more important, things to do, I try to give the impression that I do. But I was just too damn tired, and quite frankly a bit angry, so I couldn't do this last night. In part I was mad that the Spurs won, and a lot of my anger had to do with the guy who was tailgating me in his minivan for a good 10 miles last night. And I'm not an easy guy to tailgate, as I tend to be somewhere around ten miles over the speed limit at all times.

I find myself wondering as I watch certain commercials (like this recent one from Nike) whether I am the only one out in the wide world with a sense of irony. I thought it when I first saw the old Campbell's Chunky Soup Ads that featured Michael Strahan's grinning maw peering in the window on a NYC subway car, with his face framed above a decal that said "Watch the Gap." And I think it now, watching the We Are All Witnesses spots from Nike which will surely go away now that the NBA Playoffs are finished.

We were witnesses, that much is true, but not necessarily in the sense that Nike commanded us to be. We were supposed to witness LeBron James become the basketball player he had better be for the sake of the NBA's future. And he very nearly did. He submitted what would have been the mother of all transcendent sports moments for this very young century in that ">amazing Game 5 performance against the Pistons. I say would have been because he really needed to submit a couple of 30 point efforts, maybe force the Spurs to a game 6 (or at the very least game 5) to cement that status. Alas, it was not to be.

What we, the basketball watching public, instead witnessed was a shameful display of dreadful basketball with a few brief shining moments where the games aspired, didn't quite reach but aspired nonetheless, to something verging on mediocrity. Now for a regular season game in early January where one or both teams comes into the game on the second leg of back-to-back games, that wouldn't be so bad. Unfortunately for us, this wasn't a throwaway game. This was the end-all, be-all. The NBA Finals. These were the last two teams standing slugging it out for the O'Brien Trophy.

Back when I thought it was a good idea to study European History, I remember reading about the Battle of Jutland. The British and the Germans invested ludicrous sums of money in big fleets of massive battleships. The two navies sailed out and met off the coast of Denmark. They fired their big guns at each other for hours, and at the end of the day it was just a big waste of time. The Germans ended up inflicting more damage on the British ships, but they went back to port and never tried their luck again.

That's what this series between the Spurs and Cavs boiled down to in the end. A big, giant multi-million dollar waste of time. I wonder whether some marketing czar at Nike is answering to the CEO as we speak. I wonder whether David Stern is thinking that maybe some rule changes are in order. Maybe Mark Cuban is thinking he really shouldn't have hired Dan Rather, what with the fact that he said CBS is tarting up its evening news with Katie Couric. God forbid we get a younger woman who doesn't look like Methusala's older brother and doesn't have an alleged penchant for broadcasting doctored documents about the President of the US as though they were true. But enough about that.

I think that the easiest way to fix the NBA is to have the officials actually call fouls that are in fact fouls. A foul doesn't cease to be a foul because the player scored, nor does it become a foul when the shot misses. This late whistle nonsense must come to an end. This can never happen, as it would require a miracle and the present NBA regime has apparently outlawed miracles.

If, however, the league office desires to be more proactive about fixing its product than interfering in off-court behavior and imposing a dress code as though this were reform school and not a professional sports endeavor, I have a suggestion I think is constructive (for a change). Get rid of the 24 second clock and replace it with a 14 second clock. Get some positive ball movement back into the game, speed up the tempo and end the trend of the superstar who dribbles at the top of the key until fans decide to surf channels to see if Masterpiece Theater is showing an interesting Miss Marple mystery.

But what do I know? I'm only a rabid sports fan who found himself watching Too Late the Hero last night during the first three quarters of the last game of the NBA Finals. And wouldn't you know, the damn hero was, in fact, too late. And that ending was still more of a surprise than the Cavs losing the game and the series to the Spurs.

But every cloud has a silver lining. This time, to paraphrase the immortal words of MeatLoaf, two out of three is not, in fact, bad, not bad at all. The Red Sox lost the rubber game against the mighty Colorado Rockies. It could not have been better. Josh Beckett was shelled. Francona dug deep into his bag of tricks and ordered JD Drew to bat in the leadoff spot, where he submitted probably the single most impressive 0 for 5 game in the history of Major Leage Baseball.

In case you're keeping score at home, this was the seventh time in the last nine games the mighty BoSox have managed to put two or fewer runs on the board. JD Drew, Coco Crisp and Julio Lugo are all hitting .230 or below and making millions. Kevin Youkilis and Dustin Pedroia have a long way to go to hit the seven figure plateau in terms of salary, but are both hitting over .300. Sooner or later the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men are bound to catch up to this team. But at least John Henry has his little foray into professional beach volleyball to console him.

For long time readers familiar with my habit of quoting the Grateful Dead in order to remind everyone that every silver lining has a touch of grey, here it is. The Yankees are seven and 1/2 games back, but they host the Mets (whom I absolutely hate, except for that nice little two week stretch back in October of '86) who enter the game at 36-28 and in first place in the NL East while the Red Sox host the Giants who enter the game at 30-35 and in the cellar in the NL West. It was a nice run while it lasted, now we need the Yanks to stay close through the weekend and then mount another run before the All Star break.

PS - I hate to do this, but it was a nice, empty gesture on the part of the Red Sox to ask that MLB replace David Ortiz with Kevin Youkilis on the All Star ballot.

Tonight was another interesting night watching the NESN telecast. At one point in the second or third inning, Don Orsillo brought up a topic for him to discuss with the Remdawg. I forget what it was, but it was significant because it happened with two out, so there was very little time to discuss it. Remy said curtly that he agreed with whatever point that Orsillo had tried to make during the play-by-play call of the final out of the inning. When NESN came back from commercial, Don Orsillo was very apologetic about his lack of professionalism and on went the show.

Now perhaps I'm looking for cracks in the facade that simply aren't there. If that's the case, I hope you forgive me and bear with me since there has been so very little for me to enjoy in this terrible season to date. But I got to wondering what the Remdawg is like off camera. Could it be that he straightened Orsillo out as Moe Green straightened out Fredo Corleone in Vegas in the early 50s?

Hearing Remy's uncharacteristically curt tone in the exchange prior to them cutting to commercial got me thinking about the famous Kasey Kasem rant from back in the old days of American Top Forty. I don't know if you've heard it, I know it has made the rounds of the internet several thousand times by now but in case you did miss it, or want to hear it again...have at it. It's jarringly funny to hear a guy we've always associated with a good natured affability blow his stack over something that seemed fairly trivial. And I found myself wondering whether that was what we had during the TV timeout between Remy and Orsillo.

As I thought about it some more, I started to wonder just what it would be like if some NESN engineer flipped the wrong switch and those of us watching at home got to hear the Remy-Orsillo behind the scenes conversations instead of the one billionth airing of a Wonder of It All spot that makes even the most kind-hearted among us think that Andrew Jackson's grossly inhuman policies toward the Native Americans might have had a method to the madness.

I don't know if you've seen the classic Elia Kazan film A Face In The Crowd. If you're a Sox fan, I'm going to go ahead and assume that you haven't. After all, you might have to miss a few shots of incredibly expensive bad hair day number 2,224 in a row for Hazel Mae to see a movie like that. But the film is about a bum who becomes a megastar in the early days of television through his homespun wit and man-of-the-people charm.

And if I operate under the assumption that those of you who are reading this are Red Sox fans, I must now spoon-feed the logic behind this particular rant. Remy was basically a bum as a player. Look at the Remdawg's career stats, they're not very good.He was a scrapper, a hustler, an overachiever, and kind of a bum. He's Lou Merloni with a damn good sense of timing.

Remy signed on to broadcast Red Sox games in 1988. And it took him until 2003 to become the local celebrity icon that he is to this day. In that time a lot has changed, the die hards were all but priced out of Fenway, leaving it now a place to see and be seen. Since the die hards are now sitting on their couches and watching games at home they needed some one to latch onto and embody their misguided affection for this organization.

But people love the Remdawg. I find it baffling, since I do not find him insightful or interesting. I think in large part it's due to the fact that Remy with a room temperature IQ is just a little bit smarter than the average Red Sox fan. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, as they say.

But that brings me back to my point about the movie A Face In The Crowd. After his meteoric rise to the top of a nationwide broadcasting empire, the lead character is destroyed through his own arrogance. A member of his inner circle becomes alarmed at the influence the lead has acquired over political campaigns, so she switched on the audio feed from the studio during the closing credits to one of the shows. The lead character was sitting talking to his cronies and saying unflattering things about the American public and his audience in particular. Unfortunately for him, the show was going out live coast to coast, so millions heard his insults and it killed his career.

I don't necessarily wish the same fate on Remy. After all, the odds are that the Red Sox and NESN will replace him with a broadcaster I will end up disliking even more than I dislike the Remdawg whenever his reign of terror ends. I just wonder what he's like off the air. Somehow I think that without his audience around him, Remy is not the same down to earth boy from Fall River who lucked his way into his celebrity status. And I'd really like to hear it.

I am not a nice guy, nor am I tremendously sensitive. But even I have limits, there were some lines that I never intended to cross in this blog. I didn't want to do this, but with the way Red Sox fans find the fact that Matsuzaka hit A Rod and Jeter so piquant, I felt it was time for me to send a more serious message of my own. So without further adieu...

GREAT MOMENTS IN RED SOX HISTORY #7 - 8/18/1967

On August 18 in the middle of the Impossible Dream Season of 1967, Tony Conigliaro came to bat against Jack Hamilton of the California Angels. Hamilton's pitch hit Tony C in the face, causing massive trauma. Tony missed the entire 1968 season. He won the Comeback Player of the Year award, which now bears his name, in 1969, but he was never the same. By 1975 he retired because his eyesight was deteriorating.

Bob Ryan wrote a piece on the tragic event last year on its 39th anniversary. I thought this particular paragraph was worth noting:

But Aug. 18 is always a somber date for me, and, I'm sure, for many others. Tony C is the greatest of all ``What-Ifs?" in Boston sports history. When he stepped into the box in that fateful fourth inning, he was 22 years old. He was the Golden Boy, en route to the Golden Career. Who among us wouldn't have traded places with Tony C?

I just don't see how a fan base which professes to possess a sterling knowledge of baseball history can in one breath lament the pitch that ended Tony C's career but still enjoy the spectacle of Alex Rodriguez or Derek Jeter being hit because they wear another uniform. If Roy Halladay had hit David Ortiz or Manny Ramirez or JD Drew this evening, Red Sox Nation would have deluged Governor Patrick's office with demands that he call out the state militia and declare martial law to punish the offending pitcher.

Is it a really a coincidence that Red Sox pitcher Tim Wakefield has hit more batters than any other pitcher in Major League Baseball since the start of the 2003 season? Is it a coincidence that the Red Sox seem to dominate this Sports Illustrated feature on basebrawls, including this shot of Pedro Martinez getting his just deserts?

Pitchers who have spent significant time on the Red Sox currently rank 2, 3 and 4 in active leaders in hit batsmen.

The guy who comes to me with his Red Sox information has an insufferable bravado he uses when he talks about Red Sox pitchers hitting opposing batters "by accident." He pauses, which would add dramatic emphasis if his rhetorical gifts measured up to his opinion thereof. And it's typical of Red Sox Nation's reaction to the bullying tactics of the Olde Towne Team. And if you don't believe me, look at this shot of the famous moment when Varitek bravely stood up to A Rod.

It truly takes a brave man to stand up to another man whilst wearing a mask, helmet, chest protector, shin guards and a big leather catcher's mitt. Just ask a Red Sox fan, and that fan will tell you how tough 'Tek is and how that moment was an impressive achievement.

Maybe I'm being a little too harsh in reminding New Englanders of a superstar cut down in his prime and dying before his time because he was hit in the face by a pitched ball. But that is the end result of throwing 96 mile per hour fastballs as you learn to pitch inside, or try to remind the world that you own the inside part of the plate.

I understand that pitching inside is part of the game. But I don't believe that the Red Sox make mistakes when they hit opposing players. I don't know much about baseball as it's played in the Japanese League, but I highly doubt that they only pitch to half of the strike zone in the Far East. I just find myself imagining that it's more than a little coincidental that the two hitters beaned by Daisuke Matsuzaka were either notoriously successful against the Red Sox (Jeter) or on pace to break all records for hitting in the month of April (A Rod) while he learned the subtle nuances of pitching in North American baseball.

I think we all know how Red Sox Nation will react should the next message pitch hurt one of their heroes. What I fear in this situation is that Red Sox Nation will show as much dignity as they have in all of this discussion of the A Rod and Jeter incidents should another unfortunate incident like this

befall and opposing player in Fenway.

Before we get to tonight's post, I want to address something that came up in the comments on my last post. An anonymous reader called me a blowhard. While I'm quaking with shame, I'm also wondering, how many cool people have made a habit of using the word blowhard. Without having done the necessary legwork, I can't go ahead and say zero, but I'm going out on a limb and saying that it's in the low single digits. By the bye, I am leaving the kobrakommander out of that particular generalization, as he quickly came to my defense and used the word blowhard in turning the anonymous comment on its ear. And now, on with the show...

GREAT MOMENTS IN RED SOX HISTORY #6 - 5/1/2006

I know I just did a GREAT MOMENT IN RED SOX HISTORY installment two days ago, but I've been planning on this one for a long time now. I've been waiting for the eve of the first Sox-Yanks series to remind Red Sox fans that they are hypocrites. On May 1st last season, Red Sox fans (with a few exceptions) showed themselves to be classless idiots when Johnny Damon returned to town for the first time in a Yankee uniform.

Some fans did cheer him when he returned, remembering his accomplishments as the catalyst for the championship team in 2004. The majority of the fans were not quite so nostalgic, however, and Damon was booed each time he came to the plate. Boston.com provided a slideshow to document fan reaction. It was not a particularly stellar moment for New Englanders.

Red Sox fans called Damon a sellout, a traitor and other names in that vein. I found it fascinating then, and I still do today. In the end, after all, it's not as though Damon was a Red Sox draft pick. He didn't come up through Lowell, Trenton and Pawtucket. The Red Sox signed him as a free agent because they could offer him more money than Oakland could. Oakland in turn got him via trade with the Kansas City Royals, who were forced to trade him because they couldn't afford to keep him.

Apparently, baseball is only allowed to be a heartless, bottom-line driven industry only so long as it benefits the Red Sox. Yes, the Red Sox stepped in and signed a player that other teams wanted but could not afford. But that's where the cycle was to stop. The Red Sox were supposed to be the other team to end all other teams, which would make them the mother of all other teams (the line comes from an episode of Becker).

Unfortunately, that's not the way it worked out. Even though the fans with the gruff, cynical, Puritan-inspired exterior hiding a collective heart of gold embraced their idiosyncratic caveman center fielder, Damon departed for the greener pastures of the hated Evil Empire. Suddenly, Red Sox fans were able to ignore the past and assume their favored position - victim of Yankee aggression. And at the end of the day, nothing riles up Sox fans like the chance to gang up on a convenient target.

This particular image from the slideshow captures the spirit of the crowd that night.

It is convenient to assume that Damon is a traitor and a liar and harbor for any of a whole host of dishonorable traits. It helps people look past the business practices of their own team management.

That's what bothers me most about Red Sox fans. They can ignore the fact that Damon left two other teams before he left Boston because he is a mercenary player in a mercenary business. Red Sox Nation can somehow delude themselves into thinking that theirs is the only organization worthy of loyalty. New Englanders can look at a chart displaying the payroll figures for every team and see only the gap between the Yankees and the Olde Towne Team. They never seem to notice the two dozen odd teams in their own rearview mirror.

Red Sox Nation has an incredible gift for swallowing the propaganda that comes out of the team owners' mouths. How many asked the team if it did all it could to keep Damon? How many asked themselves exactly how loyal they would be to a baseball team if there were a question of $3 million per year in the balance? How many have wondered whether team management has a long term strategy other than simply trying to out-Herod Herod?

At this point, after more than two decades of living in the Boston area, Red Sox fans have begun to remind me of the citizens of Oceania from Orwell's classic 1984. The team sits in the center of the web, like the Ministry of Truth, revising its own campaign of misinformation each time a situation comes up (like Damon leaving for the Yankees) so that no matter what has happened the team tries to get the fans to believe that it is victim or victor. And the self-proclaimed most intelligent fans in the nation swallow it hook, line and sinker.

I don't think it's too early to wonder how the process will play out should the team decide that life no longer begins at forty for baseball players in the post-performance enhancing drugs era and Big Schill should take 38pitches to another city. How will Henry and his crew spin that tragedy?

GREAT MOMENTS IN RED SOX HISTORY #5 - 4/16/07

Ladies and Gentlemen, I realize that it's been a long, long time since I last posted one of these Great Moments in Red Sox History. But there really wasn't a lot I could do with the events that unfolded at the end of last season. The moments were either too insignificant or too catastrophic for me to mock. But that all changed on Patriots Day.

For the past year, I have portrayed Red Sox fans as a tribe of slackjawed morons, hypocrites and tools. And two fans sitting in the grandstand on the left field foul line decided they had to live up to all of the negative characteristics of Red Sox fandom in one shining moment of childish behavior. I'm sure you've seen this highlight a thousand times by now, but it's still worth watching again and again and again and maybe a fourth time.



So here it is, the triumph of Red Sox fan sophistication with the added benefit of Jerry Remy's keen analytical mind. One grown man took issue with another grown man eating a full pizza at a baseball game. In a free country. So the other grown man looked deep within his soul and summoned up every ounce of maturity he possessed. He took that maturity compressed it into a ball of fury, waited until his adversary was distracted by a foul ball and the opposing left fielder and lobbed a slice of the aforementioned pizza at the back of his antagonist's head.

It was a proud moment for Red Sox Nation. I have seen monkeys at the zoo comport themselves with a higher standard of decorum than these men exhibited. Of course when the monkeys are riled up what they tend to throw is a bit more unpleasant than cold pizza, but on the whole they're still better behaved than their less advanced cousins at Fenway.

I wonder what business is it of any fan's if a paying customer wants to eat pizza at a game. When a person goes to a game he or she tends to overindulge in unhealthy food and adult beverages. If the unhealthy food of choice happens to be pizza as opposed to the more traditional hot dogs or peanuts, so what? It's the same problem I have with people who decide that they and they alone are the arbiter of what potable can and cannot be consumed with a given food.

If I order a steak at a restaurant and I choose to have a Miller High Life with it, it isn't because I'm blundering along in the metaphorical darkness just waiting for some superior being to enlighten me as though I were one of the damn apemen from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It's because I like steak and I like High Life. I am what Charles Barkley would call a grown-ass man. I can make my own decisions. People should leave each other the hell alone, that way they wouldn't get a piece of pizza whipped off the back of their domes.

That said, people really hadn't ought to settle their differences by throwing pizza off the back of people's domes either. But what can you do if you happen to be a Red Sox fan and as such only discover your courage when an adversary is outnumbered or has his/her back turned?

To give credit where credit is due, I have to thank the man I go to for my Red Sox info and the man I go to for my Chicago (the sports scene, the city and the band of the same name) information, both of whom sent me the youtube clip first thing this morning. Keep up the good work.

And if that's not enough, Mitt Romney wants you to be his friend. On myspace, if not in real life. If only he'd explain what Elvis ever did to deserve such shabby treatment.

Great Moments in Red Sox History #4

Dateline: 10/1/61

On October 1, 1961 Jackie Jensen retired from baseball for good. In 1958, he'd won the AL MVP. He was a three time All Star. He led the league in RBI and won the gold glove for right field in 1959. He retired after that, but came back in 1961 and gave baseball another shot. His numbers weren't great so he gave the game up again.

Those of you who haven't heard of Jackie Jensen might assume that he retired because of injury problems. Not quite. Baseball's expansion to the West Coast in the mid 1950s ended Jackie's career. Granted, the first two teams to move to California were in the National League, but it was only a matter of time until an American League team moved out there too. Playing games on the West Coast meant that teams could no longer travel by train, the distances were too great and there simply wasn't enough time.Jackie Jensen retired from baseball because he was afraid of flying.

I had intended to post this earlier, but I myself had to do a bit of air travel in May. Even the Cincinnati Kid is a bit afraid when it comes to the miracle of heavier than air flight. I don't get cold sweats, and I don't need the Dutch courage to get on a plane, but I don't like flying. I don't like it when the plane banks suddenly. I'm not a fan of looking out the window and seeing the ground at a 45 degree angle. That is not a good time.

I also watch My Name Is Earl (the absolute best show on TV, and if you try to tell me Idol is better, then you're a moron). Karma can get you. The last thing I need is a post making fun of someone for being afraid of flying before I get on a plane. That would look quite funny in my obituary: "A guy afraid of flying dies in a plane crash after he made fun of some other poor guy whose career was ruined by aviphobia." Of course, there are only about 10 people in the world who know the Cincinnati Kid's real identity, so there wouldn't be much of a story. Outside of unrequited love, there's nothing sadder than unappreciated irony.

Another reason I held off for a while is that Jackie Jensen died in the 1980s. Speaking ill of the dead isn't particularly cool. But I am (as I've said a time or two) a sad, small, bitter person. I can't let an opportunity pass to remind Red Sox fans that times weren't always this good for the Old Towne Team. There was a time when star players retired because they were afraid of a little bit of air travel. And one day, if the Universe decides to do the right thing, those days will come back.

P.S. Why is alcohol called Dutch courage? If I were Dutch, I think I'd be just a little bit bent about that. After all, France is practically next door. There's no way the Dutch are any less tough than the French. And what about Belgium? Why not Belgian courage? Obviously Luxembourg is out, because there'd be too many syllables. The sad thing about this post is that I haven't even started drinking yet. I have some problems.

Great Moments in Red Sox History #3

Dateline: 5/25/02

I must confess, I don't know who the Red Sox played on this date. It seems like a strange intro for the third episode of Great Moments in Red Sox History, but you have to bear with me for a second. All will become clear in time. Or at least it will become less clear but in a way that I hope is somewhat entertaining.

The scene for our great moment in Red Sox history is the Fleet Center. It was a great day for Boston sports. The Celtics completed the largest 4th quarter comeback in NBA playoff history, overcoming a deficit of 21 points at the beginning of the last quarter. They beat the New Jersey Nets, a team which I really hate. Antoine Walker had a big game (he ended up with 23 points, but he kept the Cs alive when the rest of the team was ice cold from the floor).

I was at this game. I was having a hell of a time. When Jason Kidd touched the ball, I booed and screamed "Wifebeater" at him with the rest of the crowd. Perhaps it was not an enlightened way to pass an afternoon, but life is too short not to do dumb things on occasion. Over the course of the game, I noticed something I found disconcerting. Fans in the Fleet Center started up a "Yankees Suck" chant. I found that to be pathetic.

Since I am not a Red Sox fan, I do not suffer from the inferiority complex that bedevils Bostonians when it comes to the Bronx Bombers. I don't have a problem with negativity and hostility against opposing teams (as I said in the preceding paragraph, I booed Jason Kidd). I do, however, have a problem with chanting "Yankees Suck" at every opportunity.

There is a time and a place for that sort of behavior. It's at Fenway Park when the Yankees are in town. If you chant "Yankees suck" when the Royals are in town and losing by 10 runs, you are a tool. One day when I have more time and find myself less depressed than I am at the moment (there's nothing like a 3 game Red Sox winning streak to put a damper on a weekend), I might describe in detail the order of magnitude for tools of the human variety. Tonight just isn't that night.

I don't really know where I'd put the tools who chant "Yankees Suck" at Fenway when they aren't playing the Yanks. It's not really that high on the list. It certainly doesn't challenge the level of tool that sings U2's One at the top of their lungs in a bar.

That image is fresh in my mind since I recently witnessed such a spectacle. Now I like U2 a lot, and I really like that particular song. I merely think Bono recorded the definitive version. I certainly don't want to hear some jackass with a beard the like of which hasn't been popular since Sir Walter Raleigh stalked the Earth sing it. It was not a good time, but I digress.

That kind of tool, the lizard king of the yuppies in Anytown, USA is the same kind of tool who chants "Yankees Suck" at a basketball game. A basketball game. A playoff basketball game. The first time the team had been to the conference finals in over a decade. The series was tied 1-1. The team pulled off a miraculous comeback. And all that people in the crowd can think about is that now would be a good time to chant "Yankees Suck."

You can tell yourself whatever you want about the myth of the inferiority complex in Red Sox Nation. You can't change the fact that Red Sox fans chant "Yankees Suck" at the drop of a hat, regardless of time and place. I've seen people with "Yankees Suck" shirts walking up to the Communion line at Mass. It really makes me question whether intelligent life exists on this planet.

I suppose I'm overreacting to this particular instance of the "Yankees Suck" phenomenon. Just because it was an historic moment for the NBA and for the Celtics organization does not mean that it should displace a preoccupation with New York and the Yankees for even an instant. After all, it was just another moment. It's not as though Red Sox fans saw fit to chant Yankees Suck at a moment as significant as Bruce Springsteen playing the first rock concert in Fenway Park's then 91 year history. Oh wait, they did.


P.S. I have it on reliable authority that Danny Ainge was quoted in the Herald in the not too distant past intimating that he had no idea what direction the team needed to take in the upcoming draft. What a shock! I must say, I'd be infinitely more surprised if he did know that. It might be a first sign that a man who has been around the NBA as a player, broadcaster and executive since 1981 is developing a small measure of basketball IQ.

Here's an idea for you, Danny. Draft the stiff from West Virginia. The best way to find out if he's really the second coming of Raef LaFrentz has to be to pair them up on a team. Then we could completely reverse conventional wisdom as it applies to basketball. Guard could go down and post up, and 7 footers could stand at the three point line and look useless. That will sell some tickets.

GREAT MOMENTS IN RED SOX HISTORY - INSTALLMENT 2

Dateline: 7/28/04

This should ring a bell with most people, since it was recently voted the most memorable Red Sox vs. Yankees regular season game since 1979 by the brilliant men and women who make up the ESPN Baseball Tonight audience.

Bronson Arroyo, who is now known in Cincinnati for his bat and his pitching and not his unbelievably terrible music, hit A Rod with his 81 mile per hour fastball. A Rod, tool that he is (bear in mind I write this as a hater of the Red Sox, not a fan of any team), took issue with that. There are a couple of ways to look at this. First, A Rod is a bully and a fraud trying to intimidate Bronson. Or, getting hit by a baseball hurts a bit, and A Rod was just a bi upset, as anybody would be in that situation. It isn't really important which interpretation you favor.

Jason Varitek took issue with A Rod's verbal jabs at Arroyo. Then Varitek pushed A Rod, and a fight ensued. The momentum of the game changed, Bill Mueller hit a walk off home run to end it, and the Red Sox turned their season around. They made a huge comeback in the ALCS and then beat the Cardinals (who were either confused about the start date, or simply had a morbid aversion to winning big games) in the World Series. That was not a good time.

Since that time, I have been assured that this particular game was of great import. I have also been told that Jason Varitek is a tough guy. Of course, I've been assured that Jon Stewart is funny, Santa Claus brings presents to good children, Diet Dr. Pepper does in fact taste more like regular Dr. Pepper and that there is a possibility that intelligent life could exist somewhere else in the universe.

Of all those statements, the only one I firmly believe is the first. It was a big game. I find Jon Stewart smug and insufferable. I think my problems with Mr. Stewart rest in a difference of opinion: he (or his writers) think that he is the smartest guy in the world, I think that alone doesn't make a guy funny. Nobody wants to see Stephen Hawking do stand up (his talking machine is really creepy, not very sensitive of me... but honest). As for Santa, if the virtuous were rewarded, there is no way that the Red Sox would have won it all. I can not say whether Diet Dr. Pepper tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper. I hate them both. Jason Varitek's case is worth examining more closely.

If you look closely at the footage of Jason Varitek's confrontation with A Rod, you'll see some interesting things. When our so-called tough guy confronts A Rod, he is wearing a chest protector, a mask and shin guards. For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been wearing a suit of armor. A Rod had already gotten rid of his bat, leaving him unarmed and unarmored. And people expect me to believe that Varitek is a tough guy?

Carlton Fisk was a tough guy. He has to be considered the gold standard of toughness at that position, especially for the Red Sox. This fact has been amply proven, without my citing examples like the time beat down Thurman Munson and another Yankee who came to Thurman's aid in a play at the plate. I wonder, though, whether anybody could point to an instance where Fisk got in someone's eye and threw the first punch while he still had a mask on (I think we can say that Varitek's two handed shove to the chest/face of A Rod counts as a punch)?

In analyzing this fracas, it is just possible that I am overlooking one factor might mitigate Tek's behavior. I mentioned the mask, the shin guards and the chest protector, but what of the junk? Could it be that Jason entered a fray with a heroic disregard for the welfare of his family jewels? I must confess that I do not know if Mr. Varitek chooses to gird up his loins with a cup before he takes the field (and I am not in any hurry to find out).

It seems like it would make sense, since a stray bounce on a pitch in the dirt could render him a eunuch. However, I have watched his career somewhat closely since he came to the Sox, and I am not sure that this is something Jason need fear. I think the part of the body colloquially referred to in the last generation as the male anatomy is Mr. Varitek's least vulnerable spot. I think any man that starts a fight when he's virtually invulnerable has no need for a cup.

Jason Varitek is a bully, and a fraud. In short (and simply put for Red Sox fans) Jason Varitek has no balls. The events of 7/28/04 prove my point.

P.S. It has finally happened, Wily Mo Pena has caught Bronson Arroyo in their home run race on April 26. Imagine how wide that gap might have been if Arroyo played more than once every five days. Nice trade by America's prom date. Even better sentence fragment by the Cincinnati Kid.

GREAT MOMENTS IN RED SOX HISTORY INSTALLMENT 1

As promised, here is the first of my great moments in Red Sox history series.

Dateline: 09/28/1960 - Boston, MA.

For those of you who don't know, Ted Williams played his last game on the 28th of September in the year of our Lord 1960. As I suspect most people who would describe themselves as Red Sox fans at this point might not know, Ted Williams was a man of many accomplishments. In addition to being a Marine pilot in two wars, Ted Williams was the last man to bat .400 for an entire season. He also holds the career home run mark for the Boston Red Sox (somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 more than Daivd Ortiz, although I have on reliable rumor that no one has dreamed of hitting more clutch home runs than Big Papi).

Many people might wonder why I should bother to remind Red Sox fans of the greatness of Ted Williams. Rest assured, I have my reasons. I sat and suffered through the "championship" season of 2004 in silence (In this space much more will be devoted to the fact that Dave Roberts was out at 2nd base, and the 2004 Cardinals played the worst World Series since 1968, but more pressing matters intrude). In the wake of their victory, I noticed that every Red Sox fan felt compelled to share the intimate details of his/her Red Sox fandom back into the heady days when William McKinley walked the Earth.

In the very short period of time that this site has been in operation, those who read it cannot have helped noticing that hyperbole is mother's milk to me. However, the degree to which I exaggerate is nothing next to what I witnessed from Red Sox fans in the wake of their startling reversal of the curse. Fans all across New England deluged media outlets with their stories. Everybody's grandfathers, great-grandfathers and various and sundry ancestors to the nth degree worshipped the ground upon which the local nine walked, and grieved a great grief each time the boys of summer fell short of baseball's ultimate prize.

Their is a curious blend of revisionist history that lingers in New England. It pervades our regional culture. If you don't believe me, pick up a bottle of Sam Adams. I don't recommened that you drink it, especially if your under 21. I do not enjoy Sam Adams. I treat my beer like my economics. In both cases, I prefer the macro variety for my own indulgence, but I digress. The point, such as it is in this instance, is that every image that appears on every bottle of Sam Adams beer is not Samuel Adams. I have heard a few different reasons for this. Whether it was the fact that the few surviving wood cuts or other images of Sam Adams were discarded because of his aesthetic shortcomings or because there were no surviving images, you must make your own decision. The simple fact of the matter is that the image on the Sam Adams logo is actually Paul Revere.

While it may seem to the untrained observer that I wandered off on an insane digression (an event all to common), there is (or should be) method to my madness. The stories which poured forth from Red Sox Nation in the wake of the triumph struck me as revisionist history. I went forth to Google, and I searched. I came across a piece that I first read as a child when the city named a street after Ted Williams. The Globe then reprinted it when the Splendid Splinter passed. It is by John Updike, but to read it you must go to Google, as I am not feeling charitable enough to post the link.

John Updike seems, on the surface, to have little in common with the typical citizen of Red Sox Nation. He was not born a Red Sox fan. He grew up in Pennsylvania. I imagine his interest in baseball might have withered if he had the misfortune to grow up in the world of Peter Gammons and Buster Olney. Nevertheless, he knew the game and he knew people. And somehow this writer from PA drove his car out to the lyrical bandbox of a park (his words -and a phrase, I believe he coined-, not mine) in which the Red Sox play to write the best piece on baseball in Boston and maybe of all time.

After all of that sound and fury, we get to what must masquerade as the point of this post. In Updike's brilliant piece, the author touches on the point that Ted Williams for all his talent, his unfailing work ethic, his patriotism and his success was somewhat underappreciated for his greatness. One could only imagine the horrors that would have been in store for him had he failed to run out the occasional ground out or harbored fundamentalist Chrsitian beleifs (Like Manny or Carl Everett, look at their run-ins with the CHB).

Although you might not realize it at first, I bring up Ted and his final game and John Updike to bring this point to your attention. For every email, voice mail, fax and letter that claimed this victory in 2004 redeemed multiple generations and their affections for the Red Sox, there is a fact that gives hope to people like me. It seems abundantly clear (if you believe Updike) that Red Sox Nation had ample warning that September 28, 1960 would be the one last final last time Ted Williams donned a Red Sox uniform in Fenway Park.

While every single man, woman and child who lived in Boston a generation or two ago loved the Red Sox and would have died a ghastly death in their defense, a mere 10,454 deemed it worthy to show up and watch the greatest Red Sox player of all time hit a home run in his final at bat. I don't know, nor do I particularly care to Google the capacity of Fenway Park as the 1960 season drew to a close. Somehow, I'm willing to bet everything I own that the stadium wasn't more than 1/3 full.

In the next few days, or weeks, lull yourselves to sleep, O Red Sox Nation, with the fact that in the twilight hours of the team's greatest player, your lovely little stadium was 1/3 full. Tell me that the town didn't become a baseball town until the Impossible Dream of 1967 (I might even buy it, if you can come up with a compelling reason for associating your team with possibly the worst film of Robert Goulet's career). Tell me that it was a day game, and you all had to work. Tell me that the stars weren't properly aligned for loyalty. Tell me whatever you want. Tell em that Ted never answered curtain calls, that he didn;t court the fan's affection.

None of these things will change the fact that Red Sox Nation failed to give Ted Williams the support he deserved. When you marshall your thoughts to criticize me, just think to yourselves, vassals of Red Sox Nation, that many times more people came out to watch the last game that Nomar played in a Red Sox uni. And when Trot Nixon departs from the Nation as it seems likely he will come October, he will pass on from our sphere with much more fanfare than Teddy Ballgame did 46 years ago.