Jose Canseco : The Tawdry & Titillating

Jose was built, but not built to last.

JUICY  Confessions of a former Baseball wife.  Jessica Canseco.  Regan Books.  2005.  248 pages.

Jose Canseco’s reputation has rebounded since he was ridiculed for “lying” in his 2005 book titled, “Juiced”.   Not many believed his allegation that 85% of MLB players were juicers.

When the Mitchell Report came out in 2007, Canseco didn’t look unscrupulous anymore.  His next book, “Vindicated” soon was published.

But don’t confuse Jose Canseco with a do-gooder or a whistle blower.

He’s a guy with a lot of bad habits.  He career total of  461 HR’s was wickedly inflated by winstrol and testosterone use.  He was married twice and a father twice, but he patronized a call girl service for years while married.  He was a hound for years while married.  He transmitted bacterial infections to loved ones through intercourse.  He loved to watch himself have sex.  He was pretty much self-obsessed 100% of the time, and constantly in search of sex.

He was good looking.  Large.  Strong.  Handsome.

And he was making $5,000,000 per year as MLB’s highest paid player.

Jessica Sekely found Jose’s looks and lifestyle intoxicating.  She loved his 20,000 square foot home, with pool and waterfall.  When he offered to let her use one of his cars, she took his Bentley.  Soon after meeting, he took her to the mall and bought her $4,000 in designer clothes.

In this book, Jessica, after describing much cheating, abandonment & abuse, says the guy is an asshole, but the perks are good.

Jessica is a middleclass girl from Ohio who was on the high school track team.  Her Mom was a Nurse.  Her Dad was a businessman.  She was the middle child in a brood of 3 girls.

She had A.D.D..  She struggled at the local college.  She was not a terribly deep young person.

In 1993, at age 19, she got a waitress gig at Hooters.  On her third day of training, Canseco walked in.  He finessed his way into her station and got her phone number.

The rest is fast moving history.

After one lunch together, and an invitation for sex that Jessica declined, Canseco has his assistant arrange travel for Jessica to Boston, where Canseco’s Rangers are playing the Sox.

Just like that, the 19 year old blonde consents to running with Jose, and is doing it in Beantown with the Cuban bad boy.

What follows are 200 pages of everything being done Jose’s way.  Stay home when he wants.  Travel when he wants.  Sit by the pool alone when he wants.  Have sex as he wants.  Feed the baby cougar.  Pet the baby leopard.  Save the giant turtle from drowning in the pool.

The nature of the relationship is boring, demeaning and submissive.  The story is punctuated with an unending series of facials, manicures, boob jobs, and collagen injections.

Any chick with half a tailbone would have been out of there in a month.

She stayed seven years.

At 19, Jessica was intoxicated by his looks, money and lifestyle.  He gave her a charge card she could use as she wished.  He paid the bill when it came.

By 1999, she was experienced.  By then she had left Jose three times and come back.  She had married him and divorced him and was back living with him again.  She had one baby with him, a daughter named Josie, who is a 7^th grader today.

Eventually, she finds the path to enlightenment through books and education.  As she grows, Jose opposes her development in every way possible, as if a stupid partner is more controllable and thus preferred.

Eventually, she did marry the right guy.  On June 23, 2007, she married plastic surgeon plastic surgeon Garth Fisher at his Bel Air mansion.

There is not too much baseball in this book.  She was at the game when the Carlos Martinez fly ball bounced off Canseco’s head for a HR in 1993.  She mentions Jose’s free agent signings, trades and releases and the related moves to Boston, New York and California.  She describes how Scott Erickson asked her if she was alright in a Florida parking lot after she and Jose had punched each other.  Kevin Kennedy comes up.  The baseball names are interspersed.  But the author is not a Baseball fan.

She’s more of a devotee to self-improvement.

Despite its tawdry nature, the book is a good and fast read.  A glimpse into the life of a modern, over paid, self-important Baseball hero.

I won’t mention Jessica’s book tomorrow when I meet Jose at the Greater Boston Sports Collectors Convention.

Trashy yet arresting, you cannot put it down.

Pete Rose would have paid for hitting Jerry Moses

This guy was not afraid to get hurt.

Athomeatfenway.com had the opportunity to do a Q & A with Jerry Moses, Red Sox catcher from 1968 to 1970.

Some remember Jerry as the Yazoo City, MS gridiron star who chose Baseball over Football but was sidetracked by injuries.  Others recall Jerry as the 1970 All Star who had a ringside seat on the collision between Pete Rose & Ray Fosse.

When you meet him today, he is a friendly, soft spoken man with a kind countenance that hides his toughness.

He trained with Ted, cheered for Mantle and ran with the Hawk & Frank Howard.

You were a big bonus baby.  How did injuries effect your career ?

Three times I broke my middle finger, I did it even though I put my hand behind the glove.  Anytime the ball went below my glove I flipped it and the hand automatically opened up.  I couldn’t stop it.  I was out 6 to 8 weeks each time I broke it.  The one that really got me was in 1970 when Bert Campaneris was batting in Oakland, and he came around on his swing and hit my glove hand, crushing the network of nerves in my hand.  I tried to play about two weeks with it being that way, but finally the manager said what’s wrong with you ? I said “Nothing’, and he said, ‘Well, you’re not even swinging the bat.”  I said, “I can’t”.  I was bunting for base hits.  I was trying to get walks.  The injury  caught up with me.  I didn’t play the rest of the year.  I got traded the next year. 

The 1970 All Star Game:  Pete Rose & Ray Fosse

I think Ray Fosse and I should have been the only two catchers on the team.  But it didn’t work that way.  Bill Frehan was hitting around .240, but all the fans voting decided Bill should be there, even though Fosse and I were hitting about .310 a piece.  I didn’t get in the game.  When Fosse got in, there was no shot for me because they have to keep somebody as a backup if someone gets hurt.  So, when the collision happened, I was in an open area where the pitchers were getting ready.  We’re in Cinncinati and it’s the 14^th inning, and here comes Rose around 3^rd.   Ray tried to block the plate without having the ball.  Rose came in shoulder first, and Fosse didn’t know Rose was going to hit him like that.  He came in full bore.  That’s the way Rose played.  He played hard.  I don’t think he had to do that.  I don’t think he should have.  And I don’t think Fosse should have tried to do what he did because that game didn’t mean anything at the time like it does now.  But I will say this, and I’ve said it my whole life:  I had a football mentality, not necessarily a baseball one, and I don’t believe he would have ever gotten to the plate and run over me like he ran over Fosse.  If he did, he would have felt it.  I played a lot of football and I didn’t mind getting hurt.

What do you recall about Gibson and Satriano – the late 60’s Sox catchers ?

In 1970, Satriano was the back up.  He got to catch some because Sonny Siebert and I didn’t see eye-to-eye. Siebert nibbled too much and he didn’t want to challenge the batters. Satriano ended up catching Siebert every time.  The other catcher was Russ Gibson.  Gibby had come up in ’67, playing that year with Elston Howard and Mike Ryan.  In ’68, Gibby caught a good bit of the games and Elston was only there a little that year.  Then in ’69, Gibby was the starting catcher and I was his back up.  In 1970, Eddie Kasko named me as his starting catcher, and Gibby ended up going to the Giants.

Did you recall Hawk Harrelson’s famous psychedelic wardrobe, Nehru jackets, racks of designer shoes and boots?

I loved Hawk.  He was a character.  He swung the bat pretty darn good.   He was unique in so many ways.  I loved him.    He may not have had all the tools, but he had enough.  I saw his Nehru clothing and his cowboy hat and boots, and that was just him.  I was with him a few times on the road, we’d go out to dinner and have a few drinks together, if we were in Washington, he and Frank Howard and a bunch of us would get together and go night clubbing.  These were high profile guys and I was just getting to the majors, so I enjoyed it.  Hawk took me along.  He was somewhat older than me, he had his own group, but he was good to me.

What was Frank Howard like to spend time with ?

The best.  Everytime he came up to bat, the first thing he would do was to greet the catcher, “How you doin’ ?”.  I’m doing fine, how you doin’?”  He was the nicest guy.

He was a guy we listened to.  We were playing Washington at Fenway one day, when Siebert, Reggie Smith and a Senator ended up in an exchange with somebody hitting somebody else, and all of a sudden we started fighting.  And Howard ran in from left field and gets in the middle of it, and says, “Boys, cut this out.”.  And we did.  We listened to him. No one could hit a ball as far he did.

Did you spend time with Ted Williams ?

Yes, actually.  7 years with Bobby Doerr and Ted Williams, both as hitting instructors.  Ted worked a lot with me.  I was a bonus kid that came out early.  This was pre-draft.  I guess they babied me through my time coming in.  It was really an awful situation in that you had two great hitters, great players, great HOF’ers, and what they did they did well, but they had two different ideas of how you should hit.  Doerr wanted you to hit on top of the ball, not necessarily swing down on the ball, but swing close to it.  And Williams wanted you to swing up…and I heard that difference of opinion year after year after year.

There was this wonderful video that Bobby did with Ted, and Bobby gave it to me because he knew I loved both of them.

Bobby was so neat…and Ted was John Wayne, you know, that’s what they called him.

It hurt my hitting to work with both of them.  The first year I hit 13 HR’s in 8 weeks in single-A ball.  I had no problem getting the ball out of the park.  Hitting HR’s was one of the reasons that the Red Sox outbid everyone else for me.  And then once I got into the organization, I tried to do what Ted told me and what Bobby told me.  Before you knew it I became a line drive hitter.  Hitting line drives isn’t a bad thing, but I never hit more than 7 HR’s a year.

Did you find Ted the hitting instructor to be overly technical ?  Mantle once said that Ted confused him.

Ted expected everybody to be as good as him.  And nobody was.

Mantle was my idol, as a kid growing up.  Down in Missisippi, the only guys we could see were the Yankees on Saturdays.

Anyway, I apologized for not being as good as Ted Williams wanted me to be.

Favorite guy to catch ?

Oh, I loved Lonborg.  I didn’t get to catch him as much as I wanted to.  Lonborg and Ray Culp were great. I think Ken Brett would have been a HOF’er had he not hurt his shoulder.

I caught Gaylord Perry with the spitball.  He was a master, a pro’s pro, a tough guy, not always gentle with guys he did not think were hustling.

Favorite pitcher to hit ?

I hit Nolan Ryan pretty good…I went 1 for 3…He K’d me once, I popped out once, and in the third at bat I bailed out on a curveball and broke my bat with the ball going over the shortstop’s head for a single.  God, Ryan could throw the ball.  I didn’t have to face him often.  You didn’t have a chance to tell if there was a tail on the ball because it was coming so quick.

I thought Rollie Fingers was one of the toughest guys coming out of the bullpen.  He had a ball that would sink and a slider that would go the other way.  If you didn’t guess right you weren’t going to come close to it.

It seemed like I hit the better pitchers better than I hit the guys who didn’t pitch so good.  I’m not bragging about any of it.  I hit fairly good off Bert Blyleven, and Jim Palmer, but not so well against the two Baltimore lefthanders, Cuellar and McNally.

I didn’t hit Catfish Hunter well, a guy who never let anybody hit a HR when there were men on base.   He’d wear you out inside and then come outside, and then with the slider.  I faced Hunter 30 or 40 times and always wanted to bat against him because I thought I could hit him, but I never got a hit…..

The good pitchers all pitched inside.  I knew a lot of guys who wouldn’t throw inside because they were afraid of giving up a home run.  You have to have the confidence.

The pitcher is going to pitch whatever he wants to pitch.  The catcher just makes the signs.  But if you have that chemistry, they won’t shake you off more than 3 or 4 times a game.  That’s what made guys like Bill Lee so good.  He’d pitch to you inside.   Bill didn’t throw the ball over 90 or 91 mph, but he would throw strikes….he was a little crazy, but he could pitch.

+++++++++++++

Gerry Moses came straight out of Baseball into the Food business where he has stayed for 40 years.  Among other successful ventures, he is the founder of Ann’s Boston Brownie Company.

He is in good health, is still working and having fun.  He works out and makes it a habit to eat healthfully.  He credits his wife of 41 years, Carolyn, for keeping him in line.  “If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know what I’d have done; she’s the strength of our house.

Gerry says the present BoSox owners “have been fabulous.  They embraced us and involve us…they seem to understand marketing better than most…..they get us (retired players) into Fenway despite the sell outs…I am lucky and proud to still be in the Red Sox family.”

Moses also added that the Sox he played with were multi-talented.  “We thought after ’67 we were going to have a good run there, but Lonborg got hurt, Santiago got hurt, Mike Andrews got hurt.

Those are the BoSox I remember so well.  Moses, Yaz, Reggie, Harper, Andrews, Rico, Boomer, both Conigliaro’s, Peters, Nagy, Romo, Lee, Lyle, Culp, Siebert and John Kennedy, the super sub.

That pre-Rice era of BoSox played its heart out and won more than it lost.

Gerry Moses fit right in.

Fosse's shoulder injury may have cancelled his ticket to stardom.

Joe Buck can’t hold tongue. Hamels doesn’t have it.

Hamels mildly imploded after 3.1 Hitless.

Happy Halloween.  The night of costumes came to us with Game 3 of the 105^th World Series wrapped inside it.

Speaking of costumes, there was a day in 1999 that I eschewed my Red Sox garb and went to Yankee Stadium dressed in UConn paraphernalia.  Standing in the line for the tinkle room, New Yorkers extended congrats  for UConn’s recent National Title. They paired knowing nods with arrogant, conceited sentiments like, “There’s nothing like a championship.  We ought to know.  We’ve got 26 of ‘em.”

Screw you, Yankee Fan.  Bleeping bleepers.

It is nothing in particular and everything in general that makes me root against the Yankees.  Thus, I settled into my couch, notepad in lap, on Oct. 31, 2009, to observe game 3, hoping against hope for my Yankee-hating peeps in Philly.

Top of 1^st

With Jeter retired, and a 2-1 count on Damon, the “Yankees Suck !Yankees Suck !” chant breaks out in Citizens Bank Park.  A sign of good things to come, I thought.

Bottom of 1^st

With Rollins perched on 2^nd and Pettitte facing Victorino, a new chant broke out:  “You Use steroids !  You Use Steroids !”.  Nicely done, Philly Fans.

End of 1: Hamels looks locked in.  Pettitte wriggles out of a jam.  0-0.

Top of 2^nd

Fox cheats America, showing a commercial instead of Cole Hamels plunking A-Rod. With Mr. Kate Hudson at first, Fox’s Joe Buck calls a balk on Hamels.  The Umps do not agree.  Shut up, Joe Buck.

Soon, Cano is batting and his batting glove moves take on an OCD-like quality. Pull, pull, pull, snappity, snappity, snap.  Get the hell back in the box, dude.    He strikes out, missing the ball by three feet.

They earn $201 Million, but they were as hapless as the Washington Nationals.

Bottom of 2^nd

Jason Werth’s awkward, reaching half-swing on a 3-2 pitch catches the jet stream and lands 10 rows in front of Harry the K’s restaurant, about 20 rows past the left center wall.  A 394 footer.  Liberty 1, Evil 0.

Feliz then shows he too can reach awkwardly across the plate and make contact, doubling to right. And Ruiz walks.  Then Cole Hamels, who batted .148 this season, drops a perfect BUNT in an impossible place for a single to load the bases.  Joy spreads across New England as Jimmy Rollins strides to the plate.  It’s looking bad for Big Andy.  He walks Rollins, gifting him an RBI.  Then, after getting ahead 0-2 to Victorino, Pettitte forgets how to keep it out of the strike zone and the Flyin’ Hawaiian strokes a sac fly to center.

End of 2: Hamel looks solid.  Pettitte melts down.  Phillies 3, NYY 0.

Top of 3rd:

It just can’t be more efficient.  Jeter makes Hamel throw him 6 pitches to get a line out, but Cabrera and Pettitte only require 3 total pitches combined to be retired.

Bottom of 3^rd

Ryan Howard K’s for the 8^th time in 11 WS at bats.  Werth and Ibanez give it a ride, but Andrew Eugene Pettitte has a 1-2-3 inning.

Somewhere Susan Waldman is saying Andy looks just like Sandy Koufax.

End of 3: Crisp, exciting pitching. Keep it going and we’ll all be in bed at 10:30, dreaming happy Phillie dreams.   Good guys lead, 3-0.

Top of 4^th

Damon, batting .125 and looking every bit of 36 now, lifts a weak fly to RF.  They are going down like lambs.  Then, after Tex waves at a 1-1 pitch, Joe Buck announces that Hamel hasn’t allowed a hit.  It’s Top of the Fourth and the Fox play-by-play man strikes the first drum beat for a nationally televised no-hitter, breaking all the rules of Baseball mojo  !!!!  The Baseball Gods react quickly to the Buck boondoggle.  Teixeira walks on a pitch that looks like a strike out on replay.  A-Rod doubles.  No, wait, the ball hit a TV camera on the Right Field wall.  The play is under review as  “Yankees Suck !” begins anew.  Whoops.  The Umps reverse their original call; it’s a 2 run HR.

Screw you, Joe Buck.  Keep your mouth shut next time.

Bottom of 4^th

Pettitte comes out sharp, getting ahead of Feliz 1-2, inducing a grounder to 3rd.  But A-Rod then shows why his zone rating is below average, throwing wildly.  E-5.  Runner at first.  Was the Curse of A Rod setting the stage for a Phil’s rally ?  Nope.  A grounder, a sac bunt, and a soft fly to RF later, and no damage is done.

End of 4: Bad things happen to good people.  (Non-Yankees.)   Phils 3, Yankees 2.

Top of 5^th

When Hamels can’t get Swisher to swing at two crap pitches on 0-2, the Son of Steve lined a double to left.  Hamels then gets 0-2 on Cabrera, and K’s him on a change in the dirt.  With one out and a man at second, Pettitte steps into the box for an easy out via the Cole Hamel express.  But wait, Hamels declines the heater and tosses a curve that Andy times for a solid single to CF.  Swisher then beats Victorino’s throw to the plate.  On the very next pitch, the first pitch to Jeter, the Yankee captain flairs a safety to almost the exact same spot in CF that Pettitte reached.  Two on, one out, and Damon, now batting .111, neatly lines an 0-1 pitch to the gap in RF for a 2 RBI double.

Suddenly, the Phillies’ clear advantage in pitching evaporates.

Tex walks.  Hamels yields to Happ.  Arod lines out.  Posada pops out.  The damage is done.

Bottom of 5^th

As Pettitte gets Victorino to line out to  CF, I realize that with two consecutive World Series appearances Shane Victorino has become as recognizable to me as the mailman.

October is now a Philadelphia thing.

Pettitte retires Utley, 3-1, busting his bulk up the line to nip the fleet Phillie.  Howard pops weakly to Jeter to end it.

End of 5: How quickly things change.  Yankees 5-3.

Top of 6^th

After registering one out, Happ allows a moonshot to Swisher.  Yankees, 6 – 3.

I cheerily recalled how in April I had seen the Phils win 13-11 in the only game I ever attended in Philly.  The Phils came from behind four times, over coming 5 homers by the Nats.  No lead is safe in Citizens Bank Park.

Middle of the 6th

And on that happy note, I retired for the evening after 36 outs, in the middle of the 6^th, with New York ahead by 3 runs.

I had a lot planned for Sunday morning.

It was 11:24 pm, EST.

I would arise to the bad news.  Yankees win.  Y-A-N-K-E-E-S win.

But I won’t let one win bother me.  They won have 112 games in 2009.

I’m OK if they win one more.

But only one more.

My ultimate prize this year is to see the stuffed shirts in the boroughs denied the right to crow about a 28^th Championship like it was their birthright.

Screw ‘em.

Joe Falls: 50 Years of DiMaggio, Kaline & Jordan

There is much to like about Joe Falls book, “50 YEARS OF SPORTS WRITING, And I still can’t tell the difference between a slider and a curve.”  (Sports Publishing, 1997.)

This 187 page tome navigates Falls’ personal experiences with DiMaggio, Williams, Mantle, Jordan, Nicklaus, Schembechler, Hayes, and on and on and so forth.

Joseph Falls, son of a New York City cop, at the age of 17 in 1945 took a job as a copyboy for the Associated Press. After an apprenticeship of eight years, Falls moved to the Detroit bureau of the AP, where he flourished. He was hired by the Detroit Times in 1956 to cover the Detroit Tigers, and continued that beat with the Detroit Free Press from 1960 to 1978.  Later, he moved to the Detroit News, where he was a columnist and Sports Editor.

Those of us living outside of Greater Detroit in the 60’s and 70’s knew of Falls because he wrote a weekly column in The Sporting News.

What a writing cast the TSN had !

Furman Bisher.  CC Spink.  Jerome Holtzman.  Dick Young.  Jim Hawkins.  Joe Falls.  That stable of Sporting News columnists doled out exotic, intoxicating Baseball intelligence, covering the turf from the Oakland Alameda County Coliseum to Shea Stadium.  The Baseball Universe in 48 tabloid pages, a 4-color photo of Reggie Jackson on the cover.

In 2001, Falls won the J. G. Taylor Spink Award from the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Falls may have started as a humble copyboy, but he ascended to a prominence that unlocked doors that other writers could only dream about opening.

In 1965, not long after making the transition from reporter to columnist, a colleague suggested that Joe interview Walter Hagen, who was 73 and lived within a day’s drive of Detroit.  Hagen, who won 11 Majors, picked up the phone but was silent as Falls said hello.  After an uncomfortable silence, Hagen’s housekeeper came on the line and explained that the Golf HOFer was unable to speak because he had throat cancer.  But Hagen knew how respected Falls was, and granted him a meeting.

When Falls arrived for the interview, Hagen was smoking a cigarette and wearing a white bib.  Hagen is  a prime example of why Falls says that Golfers are the nicest athletes to interview.  He was welcomed into the lakeside Hagen home.  He spent two delightful hours “chatting like mad”, Falls talking, Hagen signing to the housekeeper, and the housekeeper speaking for Hagen.  After Falls knew it was time to leave, Hagen offered a demonstration of his golf swing.  He took his stance, drew back his club, and swung through an invisible ball.  Hagen then let out a loud whoop.  “Oh”, said the housekeeper, Mr. Hagen made a perfect shot, right into the middle of the lake.”

Falls was transfixed.  He had met a sporting legend, sick and failing, and felt his robust love of life.

Falls was, above all, a fan of Sport.

As a reporter, he set aside his childhood allegiances, like the one he had with the Yankees.

He found joy watching athletes push themselves to excellence.

He felt their pain as well.

As in the case of Mickey Mantle…….immediately after the conclusion of the 1960 World Series…

“Mazeroski’s home run against the Yankees in 1960…I  can still see Yogi Berra going back for the (homerun) ball…”

“It was a difficult moment for me.  I was old enough to know better, but I was still a Yankee fan.  I felt suffocated.  But I knew I had my work to do.  My feelings for the Yankees had fallen away when I became a baseball writer and saw them up close.  They were very arrogant, even nasty.  Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin and Clete Boyer always seemed to be laughing at those around them, mostly the newspaper men, making them look stupid whenever they could.  These players had been my heroes; now they were distasteful people.”

“Mantle was a little different from the others.  When he was around Martin, Ford and Boyer, he could be a smart aleck, very cutting, trying to get laughs from them.  When you got him alone, he was much different.  He was pleasant and cooperative, and this is the Mickey Mantle I chose to remember when he died.”

“Anyway, when I walked into the Yankee dressing room that day, Mantle was sitting in front of his locker with his head down.  He was crying, and the tears were spotting the floor.  I knew, in that moment, the measure of a man.  He was a big star – a celebrated figure – but he was also an athlete – and now he was crushed.”

“At that moment, Elroy Face, Pittsburgh’s great relief pitcher, appeared in the doorway.  I thought he had come over to offer his congratulations or condolences to the Yankees.”

“He had an awful expression on his face.  He looked around the room and said, “F—  you guys.”

“Some memory.”

This poignant, hardcover collection of memories was  gathered by a man that few players hated,  most  respected.

Falls takes you places you cannot go on your own.  His decency and fairness gained him entry into insulated clubhouses and homes.

It is a great read.

Dustin to Dylan Pedroia: It’s not the size of the dog in the fight.

Dustin and Kelli have something better than a Championship.

You delivered a Championship and the ROY Award in your first year.

You won the A.L. MVP Award in your second.

What do you do for an encore  ?

If you are Dustin Pedroia and your wife, Kelli, you top it all and have a little baby on August 18.

You go immediately on a tear, batting .476 with 5 runs, 4 RBI and 2 stolen bases in the next 5 games.  You prove the continuum of life itself will drive you.

Maybe Dustin’s streak foreshadows good things for Dylan’s own baseball career.

No doubt, Dustin is even now thinking about what he will teach Dylan, what words he will use to inspire him, push him.

There are many reasons for optimism here.

Little Dylan Pedroia has the same birthday as  Roberto Clemente.

Forgetting for a moment that Denis Leary, Fat Lever and Masta Killa also were born on August 18, I would say that Dylan’s birthday definitely improves his chances of going pro.

And Dylan’s gene pool is up to the challenge.  Grandpa was a fine ballplayer.

Grandma, who was an amateur tennis champion in her teens, is the genetic map to Dustin’s tremendous eye-hand coordination and competitiveness.

Dylan may have a shot.

The precedents of multi-generation MLB’ers are multiple.

There have been over 100 Father-Son combinations, including, but not limited to:  Max and Hal Lanier, Todd & Randy Hundley, Jim & Queenie O’Rourke, Connie & Earle Mack, Tito & Terry Francona, Jim and Mike Hegan, The Bagbys, The Armas men, The Stottlemyres, The Alomars, The Alous, The Barfields, and The Bannisters, The Sislers and The Gwynns.

Then there are the ones you know by their first names.

Barry and Bobby. They combined for 1,094 HR’s, 4,891 hits, 975 stolen bases and 10,000 tons of ego.  Not counting  Barry’s cousin, Reggie Jackson.

Cecil & Prince. Will they challenge the Bonds family ?  They sit at 466 HR’s and are in no way related to Fielder Jones of the 1906 White Sox.

Yogi & Dale.  One’s a chortler.  The other’s a snortler.  One’s got MVP’s, the other has  DUI’s.  One snaps off the quick lines, the other snarfs up the white ones.

Sorry, Yogi.  You’re 84.   You don’t need to hear this.

Junior and his Dad. They combined (to date) with 776 HR’s, 4,892 Hits, and 2,664 RBI.  They are friends with Stan Musial.  Ken, Sr.  all but invented the infield hit.    They’ve never offended anyone.  And they have one more hit than the Bonds family.  I love these guys.

Whatever the future holds, a few things are certain.

Barry Bonds will not hear from his Dad again.  Bobby passed in 2003.

Prince and Cecil no longer speak, either.  Prince cut off Dad when he took $200,000 of his $1.4 Million signing bonus in 2002.

Whatever Yogi might say to Dale, you can trust that it will be said with  humor and honesty.

It’s impossible to know what Dustin may say to Dylan one day.  But one thing is certain.

Dylan will never hear his father say, “Sorry, son, but you’re too small to do that.”

Kheli Dube REVS it up @ Gillette

Dube's hat trick was a work of art.

I was on a mission to become soccer savvy.

My day job required that I study the New England Revolution, question being how to bring more Soccer Fans from their homes in Connecticut to see the Rev, a mere 60 to 90 minute drive away.

I wanted, as Jimi might say in this August of Woodstock reprised, to become experienced.

The drive from Hartford was easy.  I-84 to Rt. 90 to Rt. 495.  Check.

The ambiance was immediately festive.  500 were tailgating in the West parking lot with shade, grills and chilled drinks.  Check.

The crowd was small but enthusiastic.  12,000 fans.  Still better than a Pittsburgh Pirates or a KC Royals home game.    Check.

Crowd demos as expected.  30% manic young soccer dudes.  70% families with kids under 12.  Check.

 

Here we were at beautiful, shiny Gillette Stadium, which is literally adjacent to a giant Bass Pro Shop, el grande Christmas Tree Shop, a new Renaissance hotel, a hospital, a multi-screen movie theater, and the bars, shops and restaurants of Patriot Place.

 

Settling into my seat in row 3, sec. 108, behind the REV bench, I felt the optimistic mood of eternal youth that summer brings.  Scented sun block wafted everywhere.  The sun melted the well-tanned Mom seated in front of me.  Everyone grooved to an unknown techo rapper.  We watched warm ups, and faded blissfully into one mass of soccer-loving humanity.

The 22 oz. Sam Adams didn’t hurt, either.

The REVS did crazy footwork warm ups that looked exhausting before the game, a game in which the players would run unabatedly for two 45 minute periods with only 3 TOTAL substitutions.

The fellow seated next to me, a soccer veteran named Jason, explained that without the intense warm ups, the players would tank 15 minutes into the game.  The warm ups crank  the release of endorphins that would tide them until they could slip into a freezing halftime ice-bath.

What does Jason like about Soccer ? 

“It’s AWESOME”, said the 26-year-old Dad from Somerville.  “Other Sports have athletes that are specialized.  Kickers in the NFL.  Relief pitchers and Designated Hitters in Baseball. Soccer Players are much better athletes.  They play the entire 90 minutes.   And after you watch Soccer for a while, you start to appreciate how they play together, you see the entire field and understand how a play is supposed to evolve, where the passes should go.  When the play works, it is fantastic.  When it fails, it’s like seeing a flower stepped on.”

Nine minutes into the game, the Rev scored.  Lightening fast, a defensive midfielder stole, passed to a striker who almost goaled, and then REV #11, Kheli Dube, stole and goaled in a heart-racing split second.

The crowd exploded.  Fireworks erupted.  New England militia men in 3-cornered hats fired their black powder muskets.  It was T-H-U-N-D-E-R-O-U-S.

Kheli Dube, formerly of Zimbabwe, gave the crowd a remarkable treat this day.  He scored at 9 minutes, 29 minutes, and 66 minutes, pulling off a rare soccer hat trick.

Jason said we were getting our money’s worth.

********

Kheli Dube is a star on the rise.  Quick and skillful, he was a scoring leader scorer at Coastal Carolina.  He’s a diaper dandy, in just his second professional season.  In 2008, he led all MLS rookies in goals and assists.   After all five of his goals in 2008, he conducted a traditional Zulu dance toward the closest corner flag.  After performing the dance for the first time, he noted that it was an homage to his mother’s South African roots, the Zulu tribe’s homeland.  Dube was one of three finalists for 2008 MLS Gatorade Rookie of the Year

********

I learned a few things this day.  “A breakaway is the equivalent of a haymaker.”

I heard some new expressions.  “You’re a traffic cone, a traffic cone !!!”

I puzzled over the eccentricities.  “The officials have determined that 4 minutes will be added to the first period.”

And, at one point, my eyes popped over the unthinkable, when I saw that the game clock runs backwards.

Near the end of the game, I walked to the top of the lower bowl, a coveted seating section in Gillette that most of us will never access during a Patriots game, and headed to the Sam Adams stand where I bought my beer.  The stand was manned by the same two attractive ladies who had told me 30 minutes before the game that I was their “first  and best” beer customer of the day.  Before I could reach their kiosk, one of these gals sprinted up to me and apologized for putting too much of a head on the beer they sold me earlier.   She asked me if I still had my cup, because she would make up for the bad pour with a freebie.

Pinch me.

********

Great customer service.  $20, $30 & $40 tickets.  Wonderful sporting experience.  Home team on a streak.  A rare hat trick.  Fireworks.  Black powder musket fire.

What more could you want ?

********

Jason recommends that you watch international Soccer action on www.eplmatches.com

The REVS next home game is Saturday, August 29 vs. the San Jose Earthquakes.

For tickets or more information, go to  www.revolutionsoccer.net

REVs and kids take the field pre-game.

Don’t blame Selig for Manny & David. It’s the Money, honey.

We don't need a scape goat. We need disinfectant.

This is an up and down week for loyal Red Sox fans.

 

Tears of joy fell over the enshrinement of Jim Rice 4 days ago.

 

Anguish and anxiety struck today. Big Papi and Manny Ramirez tested positive in 2003.

 

There is a stark contrast about which to be spoken.

 

Rice averaged one HR every 21.5 AB’s.  He never touched PED’s.

 

Papi & Ramirez combined to average a HR every 15.2 AB’s.

 

It’s no surprise, really.  If you saw Rice play you know he was just as terrifying to face (if not more) than David or Manny.

 

The differences between the Dominican Dandies and the Boston Strong Man are about cheating and honesty, shortcuts and work ethic, popular culture, the relativity of talent, and M-O-N-E-Y, baby.

 

Can’t help but think of my friend who once ended up at a Florida cocktail party with Wakefield, Varitek and Mirabelli.  The talk was all about money.  Real Estate.  Business.  Opportunity. 

 

The MLB is a Money Machine.   It is a pathway to the riches of a lifetime.

 

What would you do to stay on that pathway ?

 

How many of us would do whatever is legal to stay there ?

 

How many of us would stop taking steroids after 2002, when they became illegal ?

 

These are hard questions. 

 

90% of us would cheat if they had company and the protection of the MLBPA.

 

The money is just too hard to resist.

 

So, Papi and Manny should now pay the price.

 

The BBWA and Old Timers should forever keep Manny out of the HOF, along with A-Rod, McGwire, Clemens, and every other “immortal” who would otherwise be enshrined.

 

The Red Sox should forever keep David out of the Red Sox HOF, and never retire his number.  (His heroics, tarnished or not, would not have made him a Cooperstowner anyway.)

 

We may all look at David’s 2009 struggles and 2008 decline a little differently knowing he was PED-fueled.

 

It’s a sad day.  And we must face the music.  The MLB must be cleaned up.

 

Let’s get off our asses and stop blaming Bud Selig.  Let’s insist on the release of all 103 names that tested positive in 2003.  Let’s agree to ban every one of them from the HOF.

 

Let’s get clean and stay that way.

Hall of Fame greets Rickey Henderson, Jim Rice, Joe Gordon…and Dorkus White

It was a paradise for Fans

Long after we sat down in our folding chairs facing the induction stage and jumbotron, Dorkus White of Bennington, Vermont bared his spooky grin.  “Mind if we pull up next to you ?”

 

I nodded affirmatively.  A light aroma of body odor wafted in the air.  He plunked into his seat.  “You don’t mind since I’m not wearing any of that YANKEE SHIT !”, he snarled.

Then…he spat.

Wow.

I am no Yankee fan for sure, but my hackles were up. 

I am too old to fight.  I am too smart to fight.  But I cannot tolerate those who begin a conversation by disrespecting the traditions of other fans.  I was pissed.

My anxiety level was up from spending 4 hours in a car with nothing but prunes, coffee and peanuts in my belly.

I was ornery.

I clenched my left hand into a fist and drew it back, positioned to thwock this boob and lead with my wedding ring.

 Then  I thought about the resultant civil suit and relaxed, so as to preserve my home, my 401K and all other small assets so that they may be picked over by my children, and their future generations to come. 

XXXXXXXX

 

We met all kinds this day, Sun., Sept. 26, 2009 in Cooperstown.  Without even trying, we spoke with 30-odd fans who flew in from the Oakland area, others from St. Louis, Kansas, Virginia, Staten Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Maryland.  As expected, Baltimoreans made their presence felt during the national anthem by Shouting “O !”  instead of “Oh, say can you see?”

 

These were baseball loving people from all over the States.  They treated each other well, and showed their loyalty is expected and curious ways.

 

The streets of Cooperstown were populated with young and old, trim and fat, Black, White, Hispanic and Asian.

 

They were decked out in mustard green, baby blue, Redbird red, road greys, home whites and the multi-colored Houston horizon.

 

We were at The United Nations of Baseball.  20,000 of us sat comfortably in our lawn chairs on a great field. 

 

A delegate from Alexandria testified on the greatness of Stan Musial, he with 3,630 hits – exactly half of them on the road.  A delegate from St. Louis railed against the unbearably high cost of All Star Game tickets.  A delegate from Mississippi invoked State birth rights and claimed ownership of one Jonathan Papelbon, who currently resides in Boston.

 

Secret languages were being spoken.  Everyone understood every word of it.  Those who confessed to ignorance became learned.

On this field and in the village, 20,000 hard-wired Baseball fans, age 2 to 92 walked, sprinted, sat and leisurely strolled through Cooperstown, engaged in conversation.

 

The talk was unrelenting. 

 

20,000 pilgrims expressed a baseball thought every 15 seconds for 10 hours, resulting in 480,000,000 baseball opinions.

 

Not one positive thing was said about Bud Selig.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Dorkus was a sinner.  This runt of a man was given to excess.  Excess eating, and by his smell, excessive sweating.  5 ft., 5 inches tall and 260 lbs., he wore non-matching green cargo shorts and a yellow-and-white checkered shirt from the mark down table at Ocean State Job Lot.  His gnarly toe nails stared up at me from a pair of open toed flip flops.

 

As he skootched his chair so close to me that our armrests interlocked, I swear I heard him fart.

 

He pushed back his oily hair with one hand, then followed it with the other, snugging a Red Sox cap, a 1946 Cooperstown Collectible repro, above his greasy brow.

 

This pig of a man……like me…..was a Red Sox fan.

 

Dorkus White, on a one-day parole from his trailer park, scanned the crowd of 20,000, observing the stage and Baseball circus before us. 

 

He smiled broadly.

 

XXXXXXXXXX.

 

Judy Gordon is a lean, lion-maned, energetic woman who conjures the intellect and grace of a PBS historian.  She stood up for her family and accepted the HOF plaque for her Father, Joe Gordon.

 

Gordon, a second bagger, clouted 253 HR’s, a remarkable total for a keystoner.  He batted .278, beat Ted Williams for the 1942 MVP, played the field acrobatically.  He won FIVE World Championships with the Yankees and Indians in an 11-year war-interrupted career.

 

Judy was the first speaker to draw emotions.  Although the day was marked by lusty cheering and standing ovations from fans of Rickey & Jim, it was Joe Gordon’s girl who compelled thousands to choke up.

 

As Judy Gordon closed her summary of Joe Gordon’s life and career, she explained how personal humility stopped him from allowing a funeral to be conducted.

 

There had been no service for Joe Gordon upon his death in 1978, Judy said.

 

Her voice shut down with emotion.  She breathed silently, trying to gather herself.

 

In that instant, all realized that Gordon had passed from this Earth without a celebration of  his life.  No gathering.  No chit chat about his exploits and loves.  No public recognition of the impact he had on others.

 

Until today.

 

Judy explained that on this day, July 26, 2009, the family considered this induction ceremony to be Joe Gordon’s funeral celebration, and his eternal resting place to be the Baseball Hall of Fame.

 

Tears flowed.

 

XXXXXX.

 

Jim Ed Rice is many things.  Put your arm around the “Boston Strong Man” and feel the shoulder muscles that writhe like a barrel of snakes.  Stick a microphone in front of him and hear him elaborate like an Emerson graduate.  Take him off camera and hear him talk about the importance of family, love, and teamwork.

 

Rice’s speech dragged a finger across the arc of human life.  Youthful days enjoyed.  Finding the love of your life.  Earning what you own.  Bringing children into the world.  Experiencing many, many pleasures, and then knowing the confounding joy of grandchildren.

 

The man who once allegedly deposited a reporter upside down in a locker room garbage can made his induction speech about family, love, marriage, teammates.

 

He honored Johnny Pesky, his personal batting coach and BP pitcher in Jim’s rookie season.  He honored Celcil Cooper, his roommate.

 

He did not back away from his denial that war with the media had hurt him.  Instead, he pointed out the irony that he had become one of them.

 

Jim Rice.  Ed Rice.  Poppa.  Uncle Jim.  Jim the Friend Who Never Calls You Back.

 

Jim Ed said that he is all of the above.

 

He said he is also Jim the Grateful.

 

Though massive talents and achievements prevented Jim’s words from resonating with humility this day, the cocky confidence that marbled his words was not unbecoming.

 

He knows what is important.  And he knows he belongs in Cooperstown.

 

XXXXXXXXXX.

 

The High School Baseball Coach brought ice cream to Rickey’s home to recruit him.

 

His Mom told him to stop with the Football, and concentrate on the diamond.

 

A teacher offered him 25 cents for every hit, run and stolen base he made.  He made cash money.

 

Rickey’s life has turned on small things.

 

As the entire baseball world waited for Rickey to float into a eubonic-plagued “Rickey-says-this and Rickey-says-that” soliloquy, Rickey Henderson instead carefully enunciated a well constructed speech of gratitude.

 

He recognized Billy Martin as a great manager.  He pointed to his best friend, Dave Stewart.  He allowed that his wife of 30 years, Pamela, has supported him in all that he has done.

 

Rickey hit every consonant.  (And a few that do not normally get hit.)

 

He spoke carefully, making every syllable heard.

 

He had prepared his ass off.

 

What else would you expect from the man who scored more runs than anyone (2,295), stole more bases than anyone (1,406), and led off more games with a HR than anyone (81)?

 

As Bill James once said, he’s so good you could split him in half and get two HOF’ers.

 

Rickey was not going to be embarrassed at his celebration.

 

And, oh the numerous A’s fans did rejoice.  They played banjo, danced, shouted and screamed.  They let out their Rickey Love, their A’s Ardor.  They represented the Bay Area impressively.

 

They may have outshined Red Sox Nation, which interrupted Rice with a loud “Let’s Go Red Sox” chant just as he started, and earlier gave Yaz a long and loving ovation.

 

You just had to tip your hat to the many from Oakland who traveled 3,000 miles.  Decked in splendor, elephants on their sleeves, mustard on their jerseys, they soared on the achievements of a player the likes of which we will never see again.

 

XXXXXXX

 

Dorkus White of Bennington, Vt. had impressed me. 

 

There were his loathsome characteristics, sure.  But his heart seemed to be in the right place.

 

Dorkus had jumped to his feet and cheered 92-year-old patriot, Bob Feller.  He had hollered for Yaz, Yogi, Koufax and Reggie.  He had applauded Rickey when the speedy one paid respect to Roberto Clemente.

 

I had observed that a small, yet warm, heart was radiating from his unwashed and ill-clad breast.

 

Still, I didn’t want to get too close to Dorkus as the wife and I pulled up stakes.  I moved silently and avoided eye contact.

 

Then the filfthy, decent little Dorkus reached out to me with a friendly shake and a warm goodbye.

 

I realized that Dorkus White, Red Sox fan of Bennington, Vt., had had a pretty good day.

 

He is overall, it seems, a pretty damn good baseball fan.

Like Rickey, A's fans were untoppable this day.

Francona & Varitek have Golden Spikes

 

 

 

 

 

1980 Golden Spikes Winner in his '78 Goldpanners uni.

One of the best Red Sox trivia stumpers I know goes like this:  Who are the five current Red Sox that won the Golden Spikes Award in college ?  

 

The Golden Spikes is like the Naismith Award, going to the best college player in the nation.

 

Answer:  J.D. Drew, Mark Kotsay, Jason Varitek, Dave Magadan and Terry Francona.

 

Surprised about Francona ?  The injury prone manager batted .401 in 1980, was College World Series MVP, lead his team to the National Title, and left the University of Arizona in the Top 8 all time in RBI, Hits, Extra Base Hits, and Total Bases among all Wildcat players.

 

His bench coach, Brad Mills, wasn’t half bad either, with a .515 career OBP, third on the Cats’ all time list.

 

Francona batted .274 with just 10 HR’s in 16 gimpy MLB seasons, but his 900 – 525 WL record as Sox Manager burnishes his image.

 

J.D.  Drew starred at Florida State University (1997), and .now sports a career .282 BA w 202 HR’s in 12 (part time) MLB seasons —  very respectable.

 

Mark Kotsay won when at Cal State Fulleron (1995).  His career MLB .282 BA and 1542 Hits in 13 campaigns is a workmanlike line.

 

Sox Batting Coach, Dave Magadan, University of Alabama (1983), had an MLB career .288 BA and squeezed out 1197 hits over 16 seasons.  Certainly qualifies him to teach.

 

Jason Varitek won when at Georgia Tech (1994).  Considered altogether, the two World Championships, .261 BA and 174 HR’s over 13 years are very respectable.  Add in the 4 no-hitters he has called with 4 different pitchers, and you understand why he has earned a special place in the hearts of baseball fans, and baseball history.

 

These five Sox pretty well represent all GS winner when it comes to position players.  Plenty of long MLB careers among the winners, but no MVP’s or Batting Champs. And, of course, no Hall of Famers.

The Sox Golden Spikers beat out some fine competitors in college, including  Nomar Garciaparra, Todd Walker, Todd Helton, Troy Glaus and Lance Berkman, to name a few.

 

Since the award’s inception in 1978, a lot of matriculated MLB superstars were not selected — Barry Bonds (Az. State), Roger Clemens (Texas), Ryan Howard (Mo. St.), Jeff Bagwell (Hartford), Frank Thomas (Auburn), Jason Giambi (Cal-Longbeach), Dustin Pedroia (Az. State), Tony Gwynn (San Diego St.), Kirby Puckett (Bradley), and Randy Johnson (USC).

The award has produced a steady supply of starting pitchers like Ben McDonald, Alex Fernandez, Jim Abbott, Darren Dreifort, Jason Jennings, Mark Prior, Jered Weaver…..and Tim Lincecum.

 

++++++++++++++++

 

32 winners.  20 position players.  12 pitchers.

 All but 4 of the 32 players reached the majors.

 Nice players, yes. 

 It’s a roster of talent, but the big guns signs out of high school. 

College has not been, since the Class of 1978 at least, a path to the Hall Of Fame.

But that could change.

Mark Prior and Tim Lincecum are the only Golden Spikes winners who pitched themselves to the MLB All Star game.   The similarity should end there. Young Lincecum projects to have a long and fruitful career, unlike the injury prone Cub, who hung it up after just 5 seasons.

++++++++++

 At the All Star Break, USA Baseball’s Executive Director Paul Seiler announced that the 2009 Golden Spikes Award winner is Stephen Strasberg of San Diego State.  He had a 13-1 WL record this year, with a 1.32 ERA, and 195 K’s in 109 IP. 

To learn more about the award and its history, go to www.goldenspikesaward.com

+++++++

A herd of future pro’s go for the sheepskin at Arizona State, which alone has sent 91 players to the major leagues since 1961, including the player-of-the-century (in his own mind) Reggie Jackson (’66), the durable Gary Gentry & Larry Gura (’67), ’86 BoSox keystoner Marty Barrett, the loveable ’69 Met Duffy Dyer, and the first Golden Spikes winner ever, Bob Horner.  Just part of what makes Arizona a FANTASTIC Baseball state.

 

Young Tek won The Spikes at Tech in '94.

Tim Wakefield set to pass Catfish

 

 

 

Wake will be 43 on August 2

Tim Wakefield passed Whitey Ford on the All Time Strikeout List this month.  He is 19 K’s behind Red Ruffing, 31 K’s behind Billy Pierce, and 44 K’s below Catfish Hunter. 

 

He is #70 on the list.

 

Wake will pass Catfish later this season.  Of course, Hunter was 33 when he pitched his last, and Wakefield is almost 43.  Saying Hunter and Wake are highly accomplished is a bit like saying that Kate Beckinsale and  Madonna are good looking.  It’s true, though with polarizing differences.

 

Still, climbing the list into the company of HOF’ers garners respect. 

 

Imagine baby-faced Justin Masterson or Daniel Bard sharing the same clubhouse with the old goat.   These are two 24-year-olds who, if they eat their veggies, may someday each record half as many K’s as Wakefield.  They are shaving and tossing spades near the lumpy, middle aged guy with a small beer belly – a man who may ultimately climb high on the all time K list.

 

Watching Wake defeat Oakland to go 11-3, my wife remarked how Tim just doesn’t look like the other Sox.  He has a belly.  He has poor posture.  “Why doesn’t he work out like the other players ?”, she puzzled.

 

His physique adds as much to his mystique as his 68 MPH knuckler.

 

He is everyman.  He is the love object of the middle aged fan.  He is…..old and has a tummy.

 

But picture this:  On August 2, 2013, old man Wakefield climbs the mound on his 47th birthday and records career strikeout 2,396. In doing so, he moved past Sandy Koufax.  In the rear view mirror will be Lefty Grove (2,266), Tommy John (2,245), Jim Palmer (2,212), Juan Marichal (2,303), Robin Roberts (2,357), Luis Tiant (2,416), Dennis Eckersley (2,401), Charlie Hough (2,362) & many others.

 

He’ll be  #38 on the list.

 

It may just happen.  He’s a knuckler.  Hoyt Wilhelm pitched until he was 49, Phil Niekro until he was 48 and Charlie Hough until he was 46.

 

Who’d have thought a guy that typically blows up 5 times a year with a 15.00 GAME ERA could climb so high ?

 

And don’t rule out Wakefield eventually passing Drysdale (2,488), Christy Mathewson (2,562), Bob Feller (2,581) and Warren Spahn (2,583). 

 

It is all within his reach.

 

If Wake passes the immortal Mathewson, the Sox might bid out a statue to place on Van Ness Street, down the block from Ted’s.

 

Not bad for a guy who walked 28 batters in three starts for the Bucs in 1993.

 (To review the all time K list, see the link on our home page under the ”Historical Ball” category.)

 

+++++++++++.

 

I hope someone has told Dennis Eckersley not to speak aloud about a no-no in progress while on the air.  It is it jarring to the ear and disruptive to the soul.  He has no right to break tradition while 10 Million Sox fans are squeezing their sphincters, silently frozen in their lazy boys trying not to jinx the pitcher.   It’s an egregious mistake.  Otherwise, Eck is a breath of fresh air substituting on NESN for Remy, bringing the gas, the cheese, and kudo’s for his yakker.

 

+++++++++++.

 

Is anyone serious about the Sox acquiring Roy Halladay ?  He’ll command premium young talent.  We’re not going to ship off Lars Anderson and Clay Buchholz to get him.  Shoot, we could have gotten Johan Santana for those guys and we passed.  Theo is committed to maintaining our depth.

 

+++++++++++.

 

Youk looks tired.  Dustin looks tired.  These guys are making me tired.

 

+++++++++++.

 

The BoSox lack of timely hitting again reared its head as we lost 3 of 4 at home to begin the current home stand.  The offense comes and goes.  And yet, they string together winning months.  They are on pace to win 98 games, their most since 2004, when they went 98 – 64.  You have to score runs, but it really is 80% about the pitching — isn’t it ?

 

Wake & friend, 1984, Eau Claire H.S.