But Wait! There's More.

John Smoltz is apparently willing to become this season's Bartolo Colon. After spending twenty years in Atlanta, Smoltz will likely sign with the Sox as early as tomorrow afternoon. It will be strange to see him in anything other than a Braves uniform. The Sox do meet the Braves in Interleague this season--three games at Fenway (June 19-21) and three games at Atlanta (June 26-28)--which would make it even stranger.

After pitching 200+ innings in the previous three seasons, Smoltz had surgery on his right labrum on June 10 of last year. They don't expect him to be ready to play again until next June. He wants to be a starter but he did close for the Braves from 2001-2004. If he can return to form, wow.

And you thought Theo was sulking in his bedroom like a sullen teenager after missing out on Teixeira, Nirvana on the stereo, practicing CMaj-amin-FMaj-GMaj(7)-CMaj and GMaj-emin-CMaj-DMaj(7)-GMaj for Saturday. Didn't you?

Also, Smoltz's son is the spitting image of him--in profile anyway. There's little call for a Maury Show appearance with that nose leading the way.

The Great Gabbo Speaks.

According to Peter Gammons, the Red Sox are thisclose to signing Rocco Baldelli. The announcement is expected tomorrow at the BBWA dinner. No word on what kind of deal it might be, though. If he can be healthy, then this is a really great signing. He offers a good right-handed bat with power and a solid defense. He doesn't walk a ton but he used to have pretty good speed. He will, also, not offer Youkilis any competition in the facial hair department as this:

was a poor decision.

As a local boy he's got that angle going for him (though I seem to recall that during one of the series the Rays played at Fenway last season he said that he was not a Sox fan growing up and that he didn't want to talk about it.) And as a human interest story, his might be right up there with Jon Lester. His presence might take some of the pressure off Lester to be THE KID WHO SURVIVED CANCER AND WENT ON TO BECOME A DOMINANT PITCHER. When they go on the road the two of them could have a little sideshow. Step right up! Come see the pitcher who's lymph nodes went haywire and the outfielder who is easily fatigued! It could be a goldmine.

But salud, Rocco!

The Way We Were.

Admittedly, I wasn't as excited about the MLB network as some people. I'd watched the preview with Haze and a very old looking Harold Reynolds but I kind of tucked it into the back of my mind as something to check out if there was nothing else on. It wasn't going to be appointment television.

Tonight, though, I watched the 2004 World Series highlights show. I hadn't seen those games since 2004 and in that time I must have romanticized them and glossed over their awfulness. I didn't remember them being that bad. Back then I'd driven home the sixty-ish miles from school each day to watch the series with my Dad. We'd watched the first three games together but my Dad bailed on game four in the second or third inning, too nervous to watch. I stuck it out but kept repeating to myself, mantra-like: "They don't have to win this game. The don't have to win this game." And the final out? I guess that was one of the times when time stands still. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor of the den and having the mantra change to: "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God." followed by "He's going to throw the ball into the stands. This whole thing is going to come unraveled." It seemed too quick when I just saw it.

Yet somehow I didn't expect those games to still have the emotional impact that they did. But with the interviews of Curt, Pedro, Millar--I might even be able to hug Johnny Damon right now. Michael came home shortly after the program ended and I was still walking around with a big goofy smile on my face. Excerpt from ensuing conversation:

Michael: Hey! What are you so happy about?

Me: The Red Sox won the 2004 World Series.

Michael [looking confused]: OK?

The point? There is a point to this ramble. The program started with the ALCS which, even knowing the glorious outcome, was still gut-wrenching. If you're up to it (and who wouldn't want to watch a Yankee beat down, especially one that comes at the hands of the reviled Curt Schilling), game 6 of that ALCS will be shown for free at MLB.com/Live tomorrow at 11am.

Moment 2: Back from the Dead.

October 16. Tampa Bay at Boston.

Honestly? I thought it was over. The Red Sox were down by seven runs with seven outs left in the game. I'd turned the sound on the television off long before. I was only half paying attention to the game, while the other half of my brain was composing a eulogy for the season. But one should never lose faith in Dustin Pedroia's desire to not lose.

Through six innings Scott Kazmir had allowed two hits, both of them singles. He also walked three, hit Varitek with a pitch, and threw a wild pitch but that was it. Nothing. Bupkis. It seemed like a perfectly logical time to go to the bullpen, especially given how well they'd pitched last season.

First out of the 'pen? Grant Balfour. The first batter? Jed Lowrie--who hit a double to deep right. Oooh! Extra bases! Exciting! Oh, wait. Never mind. Varitek and Kotsay both harmlessly flew out to center. But then my Covelli (I told you he was great) got a single and Jed moved over to third. But still first and third, two out, bottom of the seventh, up by seven-it's not a really dangerous position to be in. Except for when the next batter is Dustin Pedroia. Pedroia got a single, knocked Jed in and moved Coco to third. And then David Ortiz hit a home run to right. And maybe, maybe I could listen to a little bit of Chip Caray. Maybe.

Balfour was replaced by Dan Wheeler. Wheeler temporarily staunched the bleeding by getting Youkilis to fly out to right. Papelbon (who had allowed two runs-both of them Manny Del's-in the previous inning) got it together and struck out Aybar, got Navarro to fly out to center, and struck out Gross, both of them swinging. Wheeler, however, couldn't keep it together when he came back out. First, he walked Jason Bay. Then he gave up a home run to JD Drew. 7-6. Pressure on. Wheeler responded by getting Lowrie to fly out and having Sean Casey strike out for Varitek. Once again having two outs wasn't particularly helpful for the Rays. Mark Kotsay doubled to center. And then Covelli dug himself in. He wasn't going anywhere but first base and he wasn't going there without a hit. He saw nine pitches in that at bat and he sent off foul ball after foul ball before he got one he could hit to right. A little single, just a little single. It brought Kotsay safely around from second because of some heads up base running by Coco. Tied game.

Justin Masterson was called upon to relieve Jonathan Papelbon. He gave up a single to Bartlett, got Iwamura to fly out to left, but then walked BJ Upton. Heart in throat. One out, two on, and up to the plate sauntered Haverhill. Carlos Pena *tilde implied* does not ground into double plays. He hit into six of them in 490 at bats last season. It may have been through sheer will power that Masterson got Haverhill to hit the ball at Pedroia. Pedroia tossed the ball to Lowrie for one, who passed it on to Kotsay for the second. Crisis averted.

For the bottom of the ninth, Maddon went with J.P. Howell as his pitcher. Howell started off by getting his two outs: Pedroia grounded out to third and Ortiz struck out. Tampa's bullpen struggles continued as Youkilis hit a single to third and moved to second on an error by Longoria. They IBB'd Bay. But then JD Drew hit a the ball over the head of Gabe Gross. Drew roared. Youkilis scored. And the series went back to Tampa Bay.

Ultimately, it wasn't to be. The Sox had one more win in them before the Rays went on to play Philly. But they didn't go down without a fight. And that was easily the most exciting game that I have ever half-paid attention to for the vast majority of it. And so it is moment number two of 2008.

Moment 3: Jon Lester Proves Me Wrong.

May 19. Kansas City at Boston.

I never really saw what was so special about Jon Lester. He was molasses and walked too many people. In fact, I recall thinking on the night of May 19 that I could tune into the House finale and only have missed an inning or so when I went back to the ballgame.

I must not have been paying close attention to the game because I didn't realize what was happening until the sixth inning. When I watch baseball on t.v. I run the sportsline scoreboard on the computer to keep an eye on all of the other scores, in the sixth inning of that ballgame I looked down at the clock to see if it was time to change the channel and it wasn't; it wasn't even close to 9:00. I refreshed the page a couple of times in disbelief and went so far as to open another box score to make sure it was right. And then? Then Jon Lester had my attention. The game actually ended before House was over and I could have watched most of the second half but I didn't.

It was either Remy or Orsillo that, at a later point in the season, said Lester was chameleon-like and the game he had thrown two starts previous to the no-hitter against Halladay had an incredibly positive influence on Lester, as Lester was being Halladay for that game. Perhaps they were right and it was Halladay's influence that set him straight. Regardless, at that point a new Lester seemed to exist. Obviously, people smarter than myself had seen what he could and would be long before I recognized it but my attitude toward Lester changed that night. Lester's starts went from being a chore to being something to look forward to. And I don't think I'm the only one.

So, for Jon Lester and his family, Terry and company, and what it meant to all of them, Jon Lester's no-hitter takes spot three.

Moment 4: With this Ring...

April 8. Boston.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The Tigers (who had gone 0-7 on the season) were glum in the visitor's dugout. The 2007 banner seemed reluctant to flutter down over the 2004 banner. In strolled Bruins, and Celtics, and Patriots, with their respective trophies. And out the Red Sox filed, to thunderous applause and strains of John Williams provided by the Boston Pops.

After the ensemble returned from raising the championship banner in centerfield, out of left field came Bill Buckner. A teary eyed Buckner threw out the first pitch to Dwight Evans and all was forgiven--more so on his end (I've already expounded upon my theory of New England Fatalism and Bill Buckner) than on the other.

And Daisuke Matsuzaka went on to get the win over the Tigers in a 0-5 victory.

Moment 5: Fight!

June 5. Tampa Bay at Boston.

Covelli was a good egg all season. He wanted to play but was being passed over for the younger, hunkier version. Then, David went down and Manny became the DH. For four days, Coco was the starting centerfielder. On the fourth day, Jason Bartlett dropped his knee in front of second base as Coco dove for the bag. This pissed off Coco because a similar incident resulted in him missing quite a lot of playing time and he'd just gotten some for himself. Assuming Bartlett would again be covering second, Covelli stole second the next time around and slide hard--he didn't go in spikes high, he just copped a feel--and took out Akinori Iwamura. Later during a pitching change, Maddon and Coco started yelling at each other.

The next night, Coco was batting eighth and James Shields was pitching. Covelli's at bat came at the start of the second inning. With his first pitch, Shields plunked Coco in the thigh. Coco charged the mound and all hell broke loose. The fight resulted in the suspension of eight players: Coco, Sean Casey, and John Lester from the Red Sox and Carl Crawford, Jonny Gomes, Akinori Iwamura, Edwin Jackson, and James Shields from Tampa Bay.

Was it as momentous as the Tekrod fight? No. But Coco got to call them little girls and so it's my number five moment from 2008.

Moment 5.5: A High Five for the Ages.

A personally relevant joke: There are three kinds of people in the world: Those who can count and those who can't.

May 14. Boston at Baltimore.



It was certainly a fabulous play. Fourth inning. Runners at first and second, one out. A long drive to left field off the bat of Kevin Millar. Seemingly gone or, at least, off the wall. Instead, the ball is intercepted in an over-the-shoulder catch by Manny, relayed to Pedroia, tossed to Youkilis and Aubrey Huff is doubled up.



But the gem of the play was the brief time before Manny returned the ball to the infield. He was carried up the seven foot wall by a force known only to Manny Ramirez, reached out, and high-fived a fan. And then returned to the dugout absolutely delighted with himself.



This was Manny at his Manny-est and deserving of spot 5.5.

Moment 9: Dustin to the Rescue.

July 29. Angels at Red Sox.

John Lackey annoys the crap out of me. It's not just the histrionics on the mound after his teammates let him down. It's not the poor loser speeches after they went home in October. It probably comes down to that stupid under bite and the pointy teeth. So when he took a no-hitter to the ninth at Fenway, I was pissed at him.

The Sox couldn't muster anything against him. They went down like a woman wearing heels on an icy sidewalk: Fly out, fly out, ground out, strike out, fly out, hit by pitch, fly out, fly out, fly out, fly out, strike out, fly out, ground out, fly out, line out, fly out, fly out, ground out, walk, fielder's choice, fly out, ground out, ground out, ground out, strike out, ground out, strike out. Then, Dustin of my heart strode up to the plate and found a way to get a ball to land in left center and a sigh of relief was heard throughout New England (at least amongst those who hadn't turned it off.) Youkilis followed him with a two-run shot and a potentially terrible, terrible game turned into a regular old loss.

It was a painful game. But Dustin Pedroia was not going to be embarrassed like that and for Dustin's heroics, this game gets spot 9 on my list.

Moment 10: Charlie's Game.

It's the time of year that people start with top ten whatever for the past year. So here they are, my top ten Red Sox moments for the year.

August 12. Rangers at Red Sox.

Charlie Zink made his major league debut. David Ortiz hit two three-run homeruns in the first inning (and very nearly got a third homerun in the fifth inning.) Kevin Youkilis hit a two-run homerun in the fifth and a three-run homerun in the eighth. They scored nineteen runs in a long, wild game.

I rewatched this game yesterday and remember it a lot more fondly than I should have. I remember it as being a fun game, very exciting. Knowing the outcome, it was bad. It was really, really bad. Texas pitched at the level you would expect them to pitch at but they were met with a equal level of suckiness from the Boston bullpen. Lopez, Aardsma, Delcarmen, Okajima, and Papelbon each trotted out there and only Okajima managed to keep Texas from scoring. It was sloppy too. Youkilis had an error at first and an error at third.

That said, it was a very memorable game. So it gets spot 10.

There's No Place Like Home.

My Mom's cousin Carol used to send out a Christmas letter every year. If you imagine the archetypal Christmas letter, that would be very nearly what came in the mail--except three times worse. It was always about how wonderful the weather in San Diego was and how fabulous her children Willie and Barbie (Seriously. Those are their names.) were and how Barbie's high school water polo team had once again made it to the state finals (Again, seriously.) They were about how her Naval Officer husband was contemplating retirement, while Barbie had put her budding modeling career on hold so that she could go teach English in rural China and Willie was headed off to West Point (Still not kidding.) Being the good, kind, compassionate souls that we are it became a tradition to gather in my Grandparent's cellar on Christmas Eve for the reading of the letter. My Grandfather would read the letter aloud and led by my Uncle-a classic troublemaker-we would make fun of it and, by extension, them.

It's not that I'm against the concept of a Christmas letter. It's a good exercise for yourself to recall all the good things that have gone down for you during the past year. It helps you be grateful for what you've got. Christmas is about sharing and it's a perfectly logical way to share your life with people you don't see very often at all but still care about. And four years of varsity water polo aside, Barbie doesn't seem like a tough girl and rural China seems like a rough environment, so I am curious to hear how this escapade turned out. I guess it's nearly impossible to write about all the wonderful things going on in your life without seeming like you're bragging. And although we may be Catholic, we're New Englanders to the core and bragging doesn't fly.

Christmas cards are more our style. You buy a box of cards at 75% off at the beginning of the year and tuck it in with the tree ornaments for safe keeping. No extra sentiment besides the one provided by Hallmark, a named scrawled along the bottom, an address, a stamp, and you're good to go. It's sufficient.

Apparently, the Red Sox agree with this method of communication. No long missive extolling the benefits of being them, a simple card that says: Thought of you at Christmas time. Thanks for being there. Enjoy yourself.

Turning Japanese.

The Red Sox have reportedly made an offer of $21 million over three years for the pitching services of Kenshin Kawakami. (Or not as it turns out.) According to his agent, he's a semi-hot commodity with twenty-eight teams having expressed interest in him. He's a little guy with nice strike out numbers but I don't really see the interest in him.

Meanwhile down in the Bronx, Brian Cashman didn't rest on his laurels after convincing C.C.'s wife to allow him to play in New York. Nope. He got right back to work: signing a league-average ex-Marlin (from the crop of chewed-up-and-spit-out pitchers they grew down there in the early 2000s) in the form of AJ Burnett to a five year, $82.5 million contract. Because the last pitcher of that ilk they dumped a bunch of money on worked out so very well for them.

Fenway of the Future.

Yesterday the lack of anything interesting to write about had me contemplating making up news. That's not the case today.





Next season Fenway park will feature 560 new places to sit. And if Lucchino has his way, you'll be able to sit in those seats for the 2012 All-Star game. Even though Fenway did just host the All-Star game in 1999, I think it would be a nice gesture on the part of MLB to let them do it again for their centennial celebration.

The First Changes.

Luis Alicea was given the old heave-ho.

I don't know, other than not tackling Casey as he tried to stretch a wall-ball single into a double twice in the same game, I can't think of any reason to not bring him back. Maybe he wanted to leave.

And Chris Smith has decided to take his straight-brimmed cap and knickers and try his luck on the open market. The best of luck to him.

That Old Familiar Pang.

There seems to be a sense of satiety regarding the outcome of the ALCS. It was alright. I was alright. Almost everybody seemed to be alright. Turns out, I may just be good at lying to myself.

Yesterday the players returned to Fenway to pick up their belongings. Theo gave a press conference and dropped this little nugget:

"Epstein met with reporters for about a half-hour at Fenway on Monday before Blake called the final question.

But with the free agent filing period at least a week away, the GM was in no hurry to leave.

"If they have more, I can answer," Epstein said. "I've got nothing to do today, unfortunately."

Heart in vise.

Although, I'm not entirely sure what he would have had to do if they had continued on.

Silence Fini.

End blog silence, 2o October 0054.

Not even the mojo-iest of positive mojo maneuvers (the self-imposed gag order) could fully bring them back from the dead. Thursday night, I spent almost the entire game coming to terms with the end of the season. But almost as soon as I had finished wishing Gil Velazquez a happy birthday (I sort of felt badly about it because at that point it wasn't likely they would still be playing when it rolled around) Ortiz hit his home run. Then I started in on Cora's birthday and JD hit his home run. At the time, they seemed like lucky posts. They begged for me to shut up and let Cora and Gil do their work. Obviously, it was the wrong tactic. I probably should have started in on the November birthdays tonight.

A disappointing loss? Sure. A soul-crushing, rip-your-heart-out-and-have-Gregory-Hines-perform-a-tap-dance-on-it loss? Not really. It's not 2003. (Although, I suppose that's an unfair analogy-no matter how much they try to push a rivalry, Tampa Bay will never be the Yankees. Intellectually I know they're a good team but losing to Tampa Bay still feels like losing to Kansas City or Seattle.) There wasn't any saline-tainted beer when it was over. The loss wasn't foretold in the stars. They weren't victims of some cosmic, comic destiny. The loss just was.

My boys extended the season as long as they possibly could. They went out with a fight. And without becoming entitled, greedy Yankee fans, that's all that you can ask.

During the past seven months, they've played some very good baseball and they've played some atrociously bad baseball. It's been fun, though. Even when it was terrible to watch, it was fun. So, thanks for the good times. February really is right around the corner (and with the WBC, I think they get to start earlier.)

And in the End.

Baseball is like the boy you meet when you get a job selling ice cream to tourists during a hot, sticky-sweet, teenaged summer. He's cute. He makes you laugh. He keeps you amused through the long, grueling hours and through the boring, dull ones when it's pouring rain out. And that's all that he needs to be and all that he he needs to do.

A summer fling is uncomplicated. It's easy. It's simple. It's about right now and what will make me happy right now. And like baseball, a summer fling is destined to end in September heartache.

But even knowing that there isn't going to be a happy ending, you launch yourself into it because it's fun. You get swept up in the excitement. And, for awhile, nothing else really matters. Because you can see the end before it even gets started, you can go full-bore and throw yourself into it with complete and utter abandon-no inhibitions, no expectations to live up to-with your summer love (and baseball) you can just be. Quirky side exposed, you can be as obsessive, as irresponsible, and as superstitious as you want to be.

No matter how earth-shatteringly monumental and important a summer romance can seem, though, it's really just fluff. If it wasn't fluff, then it wouldn't end the way it does. If the relationship had meaning, there'd by a knock-down-drag-'em-out fight to signal it's demise. Instead, both baseball and the summer fling just sort of peter out. One week you see each other nearly every day and the next *poof* they're gone.

With vague promises to keep in touch, and no real goodbye, you find that you've drifted apart. And all you're left with is memories. They might be memories of romantic endeavors like taking out the trash together or seeing who can stay in the walk-in freezer longest (I might have mentioned before that I had a bit of a problem with being a dare-devil when I was younger) or they might be Lester's no-hitter, Manny's home run, or that ridiculous game against Texas. But they're all that remains of summer and it's sad.

Don't get me wrong, I look forward to the post-season as much as anyone. And, if you're lucky, you get the conclusion. You get the final goodbye before everyone heads off in different directions. But post-season play is bittersweet. It's a prolongation of the inevitable: each new game could be the season's last gasp. The end of summer is nipping at your heels and post-season ball is a few last stolen moments before they shut the ice cream shop down for the winter. It's the birthday card the sweet boy sends to you even though you haven't spoken in six weeks. You're not supposed to have those moments; so, they should be both cherished and greedily hoarded.

To put it in a more adult context: a lot can happen during the course of a summer (summer loosely meaning the baseball season.) People are born. People get married. People die. But there's always baseball. It's constant background buzz forms the soundtrack of summer. It becomes a comfortable place to anchor our lives. Michael's sister's baby was born when the Sox were in Japan. My old college roommate was married when they played St. Louis. My Uncle was diagnosed with cancer when they were in Tampa in April and his funeral was when they played the White Sox at the end of August.

It's fourth of July weekend with the family on Block Island with Lester going nine shut-out innings against the Yankees. It's Sunday afternoon birthday barbecues on the beach accompanied by the dulcet tones of Joe Castiglione. It's going out to dinner on a blind date, noticing that the game is on in the bar, and covertly trying to follow it. It's watching the game with a few friends and a steady supply of cold beer at a bar. It's watching the game on a warm night with a rapidly warming beer and nearly thirty-eight thousand strangers.

Baseball does this to me every year. I'm happily following along when, suddenly, like a kick in the teeth, September is over. MLB or Father Time or some Supreme Being leans over my shoulder and announces: Ok. We're done now. Hope you had fun. C'mon, you didn't notice the chill in the air or the leaves changing? No. I was busy. I'm left with a hollow feeling and a sense of "What do I do now?" I suppose hibernation is an option.

The photos in the slide show are from AP, Getty, and Reuters. The music is Beethoven, Op. 43 'Prometheus Overture' (at least, the first four minutes of it, there's another minute that got cut off.)

Simply Awesome.

Red Sox clinch themselves a spot in the playoffs and, thereby, knock the Yankees out. They do it by beating the best pitcher in baseball. All is right in the world. And the Chili's mojo is still perfect.

September in the Rain.

I would suggest that Tim Wakefield's mother didn't allow him to play in the rain. Maybe she thought that he would get a cold or maybe she was worried that he would trek mud onto her clean floors but any game (let alone a Wakefield start) that begins an hour late and manages to finish at a reasonable time is alright by me. Clearly, the man wasn't messing around: eight innings, no walks, and only three hits on ninety-four pitches. There's nothing like a deeply ingrained fear of one's mother to get you to do the right thing.

Or he's made of sugar.

Silver Lining.

I suppose one thing to take away from that game is that the bullpen, with the exception of Mike Timlin (whom I don't see earning himself a post-season roster spot, anyway), was good tonight. And a good bullpen is vital.

Okajima's first inning was cake. He had trouble in his second but in came Justin Masterson. I just wanted to hug the big lug or buy him a drink or something (though in his goody-two-shoes-ness he probably doesn't drink) after he got out of a bases-loaded-one-out jam with a strike out of the only good batter the Rays have and a ground out. He strutted out there for the ninth inning (and with the help of Kevin Cash) mowed them down.

And then it was Manny Delcarmen's turn. *Gulp* Manny Del did Dennis Eckersley proud. Eck has said repeatedly that Manny Del is too good to be scared of batters and tonight he wasn't. He got a strike out, a ground out-with some heads up fielding by Delcarmen, and a fly out in the tenth. And in the eleventh got a ground out-with some slick fielding by Lowrie, a strike out, gave up a double, but got a ground out to end the inning.

Then came old buddy Javier Lopez. On Javier's birthday I promised to try to be nicer to him but if he continues to pitch like he did tonight, and has been doing recently, I probably won't have to try. Javier got through his first inning with two ground outs and a strike out. He gave up a double and a walk to start off his second inning but then got a double play and ground out to finish it off. He even came out for the first batter of the fourteenth inning and got a strike out.

Granted, the Rays aren't the Angels or even what Chicago was a couple of weeks ago in terms of hitting. But it's all good stuff to see.