By Russ Smith
mug1988@aol.com

The deadline for this column had passed before the Yanks’ brutal five-game sweep of the Bosox, and so, hoping Boston could salvage a win and a shred of dignity, that afternoon, when they played against Cory Lidle, I made no mention of the drubbing. Or massacre, if that’s your preference. That led to a dozen or so e-mailers wondering if this outspoken Sox partisan had purposely ignored the baseball carnage, which effectively ended Boston’s season out of pique. Not guilty is my plea to readers, even those who believe that the results of a sporting spectacle ought to be subordinate to politics and bashing The New York Times.

Before the season began, I predicted a Mets/A’s World Series, not implausible perhaps, but there’s no getting around the plain fact that the Yanks are the best team in the Majors right now—despite a bad West Coast swing—and will be favorites to get a ring for Mussina, A-Rod, Matsui, Giambi, Abreu and Wright. I’m not part of Jeter’s cult, but will repeat that he ought to be a runaway MVP choice this year. Jeter, by the way, remains as cautious as ever regarding a victory parade in early November. After the Yanks hung on to defeat the Angels 11-8 (necessitating Joe Torre to bring on Mariano Rivera for two innings to spell the shaky Kyle Farnsworth), Jeter told Times reporter Tyler Kepner, “It’s been good enough, I guess [the Yanks are 11-10 in the past 20 days], so far. You’d always like to play better, but this is over with. We came through it, gained ground and now we get a chance to go back home.” 

One wonders if Sidney Ponson will be voted a partial share of the purse. A joke, of course, emanating from my own baseball boulevard of broken dreams. Good Lord, you can tell things are bad with Tito Francona’s sickly and ineffective crew when I start alluding to now-ancient Green Day songs. The season has imploded so quickly for the Sox that washed-up reliever, Mike Timlin (an integral part of the team’s bullpen in ’04), was reduced to these comments after blowing a Sox lead (and the game), last Saturday in Seattle.

Timlin, to the relief of gimpy David Wells, one of the very few Sox stalwarts of late, gave up an immediate homer to Adrian Beltre, tying the score, and then let in the winning run. The pitcher told a Boston Globe reporter, who, like his colleagues, must be begging the paper’s editor to reassign him to the chess club beat, “I threw the ball exceptionally well. I can look at myself in the mirror and know I did exactly what I wanted and I got beat.” It’s swell that Timlin scored a moral victory—maybe he’ll record many more of those next year when he’s released by the Sox and takes up duties with the Royals or Orioles.

Back to those predictions in the April 4th issue. The bad: I said A-Rod would repeat as MVP, Posada was due for an awful season and that Giambi was all but washed up. (It now appears that the sweating slugger is ahead of the curve, sampling the new—and not yet illegal—performance-enhancing drugs, but it’s hardly like he’s alone in that category.) The accidental, but prescient: the view here was that Sheff of da Past and Matsui wouldn’t match their 2005 numbers, but injuries obviously played into my hand. I had the Mets, Cards and Dodgers winning their divisions in the N.L., not looking so shabby now; but called the White Sox, A’s and Bosox as winners in the A.L.

Before the fateful trading deadline, when Sox GM Theo Epstein—who still hasn’t signed a contract, leading many to think he’ll get the hell out of Boston and go save the world—decided to imitate the indecisiveness of his buddy, John Kerry, and keep the roster intact while counterpart Brian Cashman came up aces, I was able to coax four tickets to the September 3 game against the Blue Jays at Fenway.

I figured there was a chance the Sox would fall out of contention, more long-ingrained pessimism than real conviction, but didn’t count on the magnitude of the team’s collapse. The trip to Boston is a birthday present for my 12-year-old son, Booker, a Coco Crisp fanatic (too bad Sox management will probably ditch the weak-armed center fielder before Christmas) and fortunately, with the resilience and naiveté of youth he can’t wait to sit again in Fenway’s stands, keeping hope alive of some kind of baseball miracle. Me, I’m looking forward to a big plate of fried clams, seeing a few friends and giving the finger to the worst drivers in the country.

Globe columnist Bob Ryan, the paper’s veteran sportswriter who’s far preferable to the duplicitous Dan Shaughnessy—a Sox nemesis who’s currently blaming most of the team’s woes on Manny Ramirez and is probably on his second draft of a book detailing the calamitous regime of owner John Henry and Epstein—wrote a piece on August 22 that was typical of his style when events don’t go the way of Sox fans. He did, unfairly I think, point to the Yanks’ ability to spend cash, a point that’s moot since the vast majority of MLB owners aren’t paupers, but conceded New York has had the right, if not Wright, stuff all season.

Then, the lecture: “The truth is that in this perverted sports climate, the other team is never just allowed to be better, even for a day, let alone a series or a season. No. No. Blame must be affixed. Heads must be severed. Once upon a time, losing brought a brief period of sorrow. Now it brings rage… The truth is that we need to sit down and figure out what sports are all about. We’ve lost our way.”

Speak for yourself, Bob. As a fan, I did want to know why Francona, with his team leading during one of the Yanks games, didn’t allow Sox closer, Jonathan Papelbon, pitch for two clean innings, rather than fetch him in a bases-loaded mess created by Craig Hansen and Timlin. I wouldn’t call my reaction to that monumental blunder rage, but rather pure disgust. We haven’t “lost our way.” When the season is completed (and the Sox will be lucky to compile a winning record), most sane Boston fans will go about their lives, work, maybe vote in elections, prepare for the holidays, spend time with their kids or mates, and gearing up for another season come February.

Sure, the prospect of the Yanks celebration after a World Series win is nauseating, with A-Rod no doubt riding on a white horse, but that five-day celebration will also pass. Besides, there’s always the battle of words between Sheffield and Cashman that’ll dominate the NYC tabs after the Yanks don’t pick up his option to look forward to.