SlushyBOB
12-06-2003, 02:10 PM
http://espn.go.com/page2/s/simmons/031205.html
Winter of our Sox content
By Bill Simmons
Page 2 columnist
"A long December
And there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last."
-- Counting Crows
And so it begins. Again.
One day after Thanksgiving, the Red Sox officially acquired Curt Schilling. The trade happened six weeks after the defining Sox collapse for this generation: Game 7, Yankee Stadium, the night of Grady's Boner.
(Please note: I'm calling it "Grady's Boner" because it sounds more dramatic than "Game 7," less pretentious than "The Night Grady Blew The Biggest Non-World Series Game In 52 Years," less wordy than "The Night Grady Hung Pedro Out To Dry," and less offensive than "The Night Grady F***ed Up." Besides, it's always enjoyable to hear the word "boner" used for baseball purposes, isn't it? I thought so. Back to the column.)
Unlike winters past, this offseason Red Sox Nation has been busy livin'.
At the time, I went through the same grieving process as everyone else. You know how it goes. The first few days are miserable. Your friends can't maintain eye contact without helplessly shaking their head. You go days and days without shaving. You wear the same pair of jeans for a solid week. You can't stop thinking about the game, so you watch it again ... and that only makes it worse. You end up with that glazed, weathered look of Andy Dufresne after the Warden lets him out of the hole. Finally, you glimpse yourself in the mirror and think, "My God, it's only a game, this can't possibly be worth it."
And you feel better after that. I took solace in minor diversions -- the Yanks losing the Series at home, an improbable Patriots winning streak, frequent trips to the Neverland Ranch -- but the Sox hovered over everything. Only in a positive way. Because here's the thing: We were damn close.
This wasn't like '86, when an aging, flawed team came within one strike of the title, then self-imploded and left everyone with the Glen Campbell Mug Shot Face for months and months. This time around, there was a clear scapegoat, a proven nucleus and hope for the immediate future. And yes, I repeat this to myself in the mirror every morning.
But seriously ...
This time, we could have beaten them.
(No, seriously ... we could have beaten them.)
A curious sense of hope emerged from the abyss: It's a good team; we have the right people in charge ... s**t, we can TAKE these guys. I can't remember another winter like it: Depression and optimism battling for the upper hand. Even as certain media nitwits eagerly rehashed Grady's Boner -- unable and unwilling to write about anything else, feeling vindicated by this latest setback, their status as the collective Scrooge of baseball safe again -- the organization and its fans were moving forward. Say what you want, we never stop believing that this is The Year.
Better yet, the owners and front office feel the same way. Sox fans are accustomed to monosyllabic GMs with crewcuts and a God complex, or jolly storytellers who openly discuss potential trades with reporters, radio hosts, cameramen, waitresses and anyone else with a pulse. These new guys (GM Theo Epstein, owner John Henry, consigliere Larry Lucchino) are different. They don't tip their hands. They aren't afraid to take chances. They do their homework. They act instead of react. Even last year's clunkier moves were defensible, like the hideous Sanchez-Suppan trade, which nearly caused me to drive into a telephone pole upon hearing the news. At least they weren't afraid to take a chance.
This offseason was no different. First, they canned Grady Little in swift, succinct, "Tony taking care of Big Pussy in the boat" fashion. Let the record show that Grady was a nice enough guy ... he just happened to be playing checkers when everyone else was playing chess. We'll remember him for his congenial personality; his Forrest Gump accent; his unparalled ability to substitute for his hottest hitters in late-game situations (only to have their spot in the lineup come up again two innings later); and his uncanny knack for keeping pitchers in three and four batters too long.
Thanks to Grady, instead of "Take care of my wife," my Dad's final words on his death bed will now be "Why didn't he take out Pedro?" Excellent. Anyway, Grady will be missed ... by the 29 other teams. No, I'm not still bitter.
And speaking of those 29 teams, nobody nibbled on Manny Ramirez when Team Henry placed him on irrevocable waivers. You want to play at home in New York? Really? Well, check this out. We just stuck you on irrevocable waivers and NOBODY wants you. You have $100 million coming over the next five years, you're the best right-handed hitter in baseball ... and nobody wants you. Stop complaining, stop acting like a lunatic, and start working pitchers again.
Well, I'm not sure that's exactly what they said, but it's in the ballpark. More importantly, what happened to Manny? For his typically gaudy numbers last season, he just wasn't the same hitter. When he worked pitchers in his prime, he had an uncanny way of manipulating the pitcher to throw him the perfect pitch. I can't even really explain it. He fouled one off, took a borderline strike, fouled another off, took a ball, lulled the guy to sleep, then BOOM! He found his pitch. He was like that buddy in a strip joint who doesn't stop circling the place until he finds the right stripper, the guy who won't settle for anyone less than the brunette with the 36D's. That was Manny. Last year, he was going for blondes, redheads ... he just didn't care. And it showed.
"I'm sorry Manny, no -- you can't go home with the Yankees, you still play for Boston."
Maybe the waiver move will wake him up. Then again, Manny could show up for spring training with ice-blue hair, a "Free Lee Boyd Malvo" tattoo and a batting helmet made out of chorizo and I wouldn't be surprised. Hey, it's just Manny being Manny. We knew this going into the ridiculous contract, remember? It's not like this stuff is a surprise.
But Nomar ... he's a different story. With free agency looming next season, Mr. Hamm has been quietly mentioned in trade rumors, especially a three-way deal that centers around Manny to Texas, A-Rod to the Red Sox and Nomar heading out West for prospects. Whether something happens remains to be seen.
But here's the weird thing: Few Sox fans seem to mind.
There's a nagging sense that, like Julia Roberts, Nomar's best days are behind him. It's not like he's washed up -- he just isn't someone who gets mentioned in those "Who's the next guy to hit .400?" articles anymore. At his absolute apex, he strode to the plate, did his "Rain Man" routine with his gloves, swung at the first pitch -- whether it was at his head, his feet, rolling to the plate, or whatever -- and belted the living hell out of it. He sprayed line drives like a machine gun. It was almost freakish. And then he broke his wrist ... and three years have passed, and he's settled into that ".301 BA, .340 OBP, 25 HR, 115 RBI" stage of his career. Yeah, it's good enough to make the All-Star team. But it's not the same Nomar.
The bottom line: You can pitch to this guy. Good teams get him out, as we discovered during the playoffs. There's a difference between A) somebody slumping because they're in a funk; and B) somebody slumping because they don't study pitchers, they swing at bad pitches, and their reflexes have slipped just enough -- maybe just 5 percent,but enough -- that they can't get away with the "I'm going up there and swinging away!" approach once they hit their 30s. Barring a dramatic turn, Nomar seems destined to follow Jim Rice's lead, another physical marvel who peaked early in his career, then became a solid All-Star -- but not a superstar, and certainly not your ideal choice when you needed a hit -- for the remainder of his career.
(Can you win a World Series with him? Absolutely. Will I tell my grandkids that I watched him play some day? Not this current version. He couldn't hold a candle to the guy from the '99 and '00 seasons. It's not even a fair comparison -- it's like comparing Jessica Biel to Jessica Alba. Hey, you're fine with Jessica Biel. She may even appear in a few All-Star Games. But Jessica Alba ... good Lord.)
And then there's Pedro. You know what you're getting at this point: 30 starts, 180 to 200 innings, 17 to 20 wins, three or four gems, at least one trip to the disabled list ... and an entire group of Sox fans praying he makes it through October with his right arm still attached to his body. Remember the guy who struck out 17 and allowed one baserunner in Yankee Stadium, against a team that won the World Series about seven weeks later? Well, that guy's gone. Truth be told, he's been gone for awhile. I wrote about this 20 months ago -- nobody believed me. This isn't the same guy. Nobody can perform at that high of a level for more than three or four years. It's impossible.
So why would they pick up his $17 million contract extension last April? Partly out of respect, partly to avoid any distractions during the season, and partly because they didn't want to be known as "The New Guys Who Drove Pedro Out Of Town." Unfortunately, the way this current playoff system is set up, a champion's ace makes six quality starts in a month, plus two or three emergency bullpen appearances. Does Pedro have that in him anymore? Possibly ... but probably not. And could he do what Josh Beckett did in Game 6 of the Series on three days' rest? Again, probably not. You wouldn't bet your life on it, that's for sure. For $17 million, I want a sure thing. Maybe I'm crazy.
Anyway, that's the foundation of the team: Manny, Nomar, and Pedro. By the 2004 season, all three of them could be gone without ever having played in a World Series together. Yet because the current braintrust seems to know what they're doing, and because there's a definitive plan in place, and because they're always acting instead of reacting ... nobody seems to be too worried.
We're in good hands. Finally.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That brings us to Schilling. Team Henry (especially Theo, the key to everything) simply would not be denied. Schilling didn't want to pitch for a team without a manager ... they convinced him. He didn't want to pitch in Fenway ... they convinced him. He didn't want to give up his no-trade clause ... they convinced him. Yesterday, they even stole his old buddy Paul Shaffer away from Letterman and made him manager, just to make Schilling happy. And now he's coming to Boston, ready to play Drysdale to Pedro's Koufax (at least that's the plan).
Winter of our Sox content
By Bill Simmons
Page 2 columnist
"A long December
And there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last."
-- Counting Crows
And so it begins. Again.
One day after Thanksgiving, the Red Sox officially acquired Curt Schilling. The trade happened six weeks after the defining Sox collapse for this generation: Game 7, Yankee Stadium, the night of Grady's Boner.
(Please note: I'm calling it "Grady's Boner" because it sounds more dramatic than "Game 7," less pretentious than "The Night Grady Blew The Biggest Non-World Series Game In 52 Years," less wordy than "The Night Grady Hung Pedro Out To Dry," and less offensive than "The Night Grady F***ed Up." Besides, it's always enjoyable to hear the word "boner" used for baseball purposes, isn't it? I thought so. Back to the column.)
Unlike winters past, this offseason Red Sox Nation has been busy livin'.
At the time, I went through the same grieving process as everyone else. You know how it goes. The first few days are miserable. Your friends can't maintain eye contact without helplessly shaking their head. You go days and days without shaving. You wear the same pair of jeans for a solid week. You can't stop thinking about the game, so you watch it again ... and that only makes it worse. You end up with that glazed, weathered look of Andy Dufresne after the Warden lets him out of the hole. Finally, you glimpse yourself in the mirror and think, "My God, it's only a game, this can't possibly be worth it."
And you feel better after that. I took solace in minor diversions -- the Yanks losing the Series at home, an improbable Patriots winning streak, frequent trips to the Neverland Ranch -- but the Sox hovered over everything. Only in a positive way. Because here's the thing: We were damn close.
This wasn't like '86, when an aging, flawed team came within one strike of the title, then self-imploded and left everyone with the Glen Campbell Mug Shot Face for months and months. This time around, there was a clear scapegoat, a proven nucleus and hope for the immediate future. And yes, I repeat this to myself in the mirror every morning.
But seriously ...
This time, we could have beaten them.
(No, seriously ... we could have beaten them.)
A curious sense of hope emerged from the abyss: It's a good team; we have the right people in charge ... s**t, we can TAKE these guys. I can't remember another winter like it: Depression and optimism battling for the upper hand. Even as certain media nitwits eagerly rehashed Grady's Boner -- unable and unwilling to write about anything else, feeling vindicated by this latest setback, their status as the collective Scrooge of baseball safe again -- the organization and its fans were moving forward. Say what you want, we never stop believing that this is The Year.
Better yet, the owners and front office feel the same way. Sox fans are accustomed to monosyllabic GMs with crewcuts and a God complex, or jolly storytellers who openly discuss potential trades with reporters, radio hosts, cameramen, waitresses and anyone else with a pulse. These new guys (GM Theo Epstein, owner John Henry, consigliere Larry Lucchino) are different. They don't tip their hands. They aren't afraid to take chances. They do their homework. They act instead of react. Even last year's clunkier moves were defensible, like the hideous Sanchez-Suppan trade, which nearly caused me to drive into a telephone pole upon hearing the news. At least they weren't afraid to take a chance.
This offseason was no different. First, they canned Grady Little in swift, succinct, "Tony taking care of Big Pussy in the boat" fashion. Let the record show that Grady was a nice enough guy ... he just happened to be playing checkers when everyone else was playing chess. We'll remember him for his congenial personality; his Forrest Gump accent; his unparalled ability to substitute for his hottest hitters in late-game situations (only to have their spot in the lineup come up again two innings later); and his uncanny knack for keeping pitchers in three and four batters too long.
Thanks to Grady, instead of "Take care of my wife," my Dad's final words on his death bed will now be "Why didn't he take out Pedro?" Excellent. Anyway, Grady will be missed ... by the 29 other teams. No, I'm not still bitter.
And speaking of those 29 teams, nobody nibbled on Manny Ramirez when Team Henry placed him on irrevocable waivers. You want to play at home in New York? Really? Well, check this out. We just stuck you on irrevocable waivers and NOBODY wants you. You have $100 million coming over the next five years, you're the best right-handed hitter in baseball ... and nobody wants you. Stop complaining, stop acting like a lunatic, and start working pitchers again.
Well, I'm not sure that's exactly what they said, but it's in the ballpark. More importantly, what happened to Manny? For his typically gaudy numbers last season, he just wasn't the same hitter. When he worked pitchers in his prime, he had an uncanny way of manipulating the pitcher to throw him the perfect pitch. I can't even really explain it. He fouled one off, took a borderline strike, fouled another off, took a ball, lulled the guy to sleep, then BOOM! He found his pitch. He was like that buddy in a strip joint who doesn't stop circling the place until he finds the right stripper, the guy who won't settle for anyone less than the brunette with the 36D's. That was Manny. Last year, he was going for blondes, redheads ... he just didn't care. And it showed.
"I'm sorry Manny, no -- you can't go home with the Yankees, you still play for Boston."
Maybe the waiver move will wake him up. Then again, Manny could show up for spring training with ice-blue hair, a "Free Lee Boyd Malvo" tattoo and a batting helmet made out of chorizo and I wouldn't be surprised. Hey, it's just Manny being Manny. We knew this going into the ridiculous contract, remember? It's not like this stuff is a surprise.
But Nomar ... he's a different story. With free agency looming next season, Mr. Hamm has been quietly mentioned in trade rumors, especially a three-way deal that centers around Manny to Texas, A-Rod to the Red Sox and Nomar heading out West for prospects. Whether something happens remains to be seen.
But here's the weird thing: Few Sox fans seem to mind.
There's a nagging sense that, like Julia Roberts, Nomar's best days are behind him. It's not like he's washed up -- he just isn't someone who gets mentioned in those "Who's the next guy to hit .400?" articles anymore. At his absolute apex, he strode to the plate, did his "Rain Man" routine with his gloves, swung at the first pitch -- whether it was at his head, his feet, rolling to the plate, or whatever -- and belted the living hell out of it. He sprayed line drives like a machine gun. It was almost freakish. And then he broke his wrist ... and three years have passed, and he's settled into that ".301 BA, .340 OBP, 25 HR, 115 RBI" stage of his career. Yeah, it's good enough to make the All-Star team. But it's not the same Nomar.
The bottom line: You can pitch to this guy. Good teams get him out, as we discovered during the playoffs. There's a difference between A) somebody slumping because they're in a funk; and B) somebody slumping because they don't study pitchers, they swing at bad pitches, and their reflexes have slipped just enough -- maybe just 5 percent,but enough -- that they can't get away with the "I'm going up there and swinging away!" approach once they hit their 30s. Barring a dramatic turn, Nomar seems destined to follow Jim Rice's lead, another physical marvel who peaked early in his career, then became a solid All-Star -- but not a superstar, and certainly not your ideal choice when you needed a hit -- for the remainder of his career.
(Can you win a World Series with him? Absolutely. Will I tell my grandkids that I watched him play some day? Not this current version. He couldn't hold a candle to the guy from the '99 and '00 seasons. It's not even a fair comparison -- it's like comparing Jessica Biel to Jessica Alba. Hey, you're fine with Jessica Biel. She may even appear in a few All-Star Games. But Jessica Alba ... good Lord.)
And then there's Pedro. You know what you're getting at this point: 30 starts, 180 to 200 innings, 17 to 20 wins, three or four gems, at least one trip to the disabled list ... and an entire group of Sox fans praying he makes it through October with his right arm still attached to his body. Remember the guy who struck out 17 and allowed one baserunner in Yankee Stadium, against a team that won the World Series about seven weeks later? Well, that guy's gone. Truth be told, he's been gone for awhile. I wrote about this 20 months ago -- nobody believed me. This isn't the same guy. Nobody can perform at that high of a level for more than three or four years. It's impossible.
So why would they pick up his $17 million contract extension last April? Partly out of respect, partly to avoid any distractions during the season, and partly because they didn't want to be known as "The New Guys Who Drove Pedro Out Of Town." Unfortunately, the way this current playoff system is set up, a champion's ace makes six quality starts in a month, plus two or three emergency bullpen appearances. Does Pedro have that in him anymore? Possibly ... but probably not. And could he do what Josh Beckett did in Game 6 of the Series on three days' rest? Again, probably not. You wouldn't bet your life on it, that's for sure. For $17 million, I want a sure thing. Maybe I'm crazy.
Anyway, that's the foundation of the team: Manny, Nomar, and Pedro. By the 2004 season, all three of them could be gone without ever having played in a World Series together. Yet because the current braintrust seems to know what they're doing, and because there's a definitive plan in place, and because they're always acting instead of reacting ... nobody seems to be too worried.
We're in good hands. Finally.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That brings us to Schilling. Team Henry (especially Theo, the key to everything) simply would not be denied. Schilling didn't want to pitch for a team without a manager ... they convinced him. He didn't want to pitch in Fenway ... they convinced him. He didn't want to give up his no-trade clause ... they convinced him. Yesterday, they even stole his old buddy Paul Shaffer away from Letterman and made him manager, just to make Schilling happy. And now he's coming to Boston, ready to play Drysdale to Pedro's Koufax (at least that's the plan).