Bambino's Curse

News Reports Say World to End Soon

Well, after reading the Boston sports pages this morning, the first thing that pops into my head is the famous Ronald Reagan quote: "There you go again."

And, no, I'm not talking about the Red Sox taking the loss, but the media's reaction to it, so much sound and fury signifying nothing. If it wasn't so pathetic and predictable, it'd be funny.

As the accusations go, the Red Sox are "still struggling," are at a "Lowe point," and got off to a "poor beginning" to the second half. Of course, it is all Pedro's fault.

But the broad brush painting the Red Sox suck portrait missed a spot: Roy Halladay.

Halladay was particularly rigorous in attacking the middle of the Red Sox lineup, limiting Nomar Garciaparra and Manny Ramirez to one hit between them — Garciaparra's fourth-inning, infield single. Ramirez hit into a double play to end the inning, however, as Halladay used mostly fastballs against the powerful pair, a change, he later admitted, from the normal diet of off-speed pitches he usually feeds them.

Beating the Red Sox at home is no easy task. Their 28-12 record entering last night's game was the best in the major leagues, as was their .332 batting average, .403 on-base percentage and .538 slugging percentage. But they were no match for Halladay (Blair, Toronto Globe and Mail).

So the Red Sox were beat by one of the hottest pitchers in all of MLB? The way the Boston media spins it, it's like the Sox lost to a 1-10 over the hill journeyman pitcher. Boo hoo. All is lost. Wait 'til next year.

Before I started blogging and closely following the day in and day out the stories coming out of the Boston beat, I had know idea how redundant and repeatable is the "news" cycle.

Equally predictable, is that at least once during the season, but more likely two or three times, a reporter will take time out to write something like,

Enough, already.'

It's time to put a moratorium on this Curse of the Bambino nonsense. Time to put it in the baseball graveyard it deserves, right there with all the quirky superstitions that have nothing to do with trying to hit a 95 mph fastball, nothing to do with having to get someone out in the bottom of the ninth, nothing to do with the actual game itself (Reynolds, ProJo).

Heh heh. The funniest thing about these pleas to "just stop talking about a curse" is that it just feeds the cycle. It's like the dadaist painting of the cigar that says "this is not a cigar." Moreover, in Reynolds case, his argument is hopeless. That is, if one truly believes in the Curse, then arguments that "the Red Sox were simply not good enough" will fall on deaf ears and beg the question, "Why weren't they good enough? Huh? Huh?"

It's like if someone believes that a tornado striking a trailer park in Oklahoma is really the wrath of God, then no amount of scientific explanation about meteorology is going to convince them otherwise. It'll still be the hand of a wrathful Yahweh sending a message to the sinners, center of circulation be damned!

Meanwhile, regarding this humble blog, the ProJo's Art Martone confesses,

"I'm ashamed to admit -- I've been avoiding [Bambino's Curse] strictly because of the name."

Such is life. I wonder if Steve Silva has would be PETA members who refuse to go to his DirtDogs site on the assumption that he is being pejorative towards the beloved canines of the world?

Across the River Acheron

In Dante's Inferno, inscribed over the gates of hell are the words:

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here!

And for Red Sox fans, those words may as well be writ large over the entrance to the second half of the season.

According to both legend and lore, they do it every year. The Red Sox keep themselves in contention during the first half of the season, cultivating trust and inspiring optimism. And then they chop off your legs and rip out your heart, all before the onset of Labor Day (Massarotti, Herald).

That's the way it feels, anyway, especially the past couple years.

But abandon hope? Not a chance.Well at least not until Labor Day, also known as the Day or Judgment for followers of the cult of Red Sox each season.

But here's something cheery to get you through the day:

Some of baseball's ''problems'' aren't even problems. Take competitive imbalance, for example. It's a complete myth, a lie. Since 1980, baseball has had more than twice as many different champions as basketball, where the same cities hog all the trophies. Think about that. Twice as many different champions (Le Betard, Miami Herald).

Row on, Charon, I can't wait for the games to resume tonight!

Long Time Gone

It's a bizarro world in Boston sports media today, as the normally sanguine Gordon Edes of the Globe is the one leading the scribes in the charge against Manny; meanwhile, the Herald's Buckley, who is best known for metaphorically yelling "Fire!" in the crowded movie house of fan passion, is playing it cool on Manny.

Edes:

Your teammates haven't hung you out to dry publicly, but considering how hard most of them play, and how much they like you, you've got to think there will be an undercurrent of resentment. Maybe you didn't notice that neither of your All-Star teammates, Jason Varitek or Nomar Garciaparra, rushed to your defense this week. They begged off on the issue, claiming they didn't know what was going on. Neither one responded that of course, you were tending to your mom.

And Buckley (pay column):

As for Manny Ramirez, the man says his mother is ill, and, well, that's that. Case closed. No further comment here.

Three days from now, this story is going to be about as relevant as The Great Trot Nixon Spring Training Weight Gain Controversy.

Of course, Buckley's column could be meant sarcastically, I'm not sure. Though this bit on Pedro seems forthright enough:

I'm no sports psychologist, but I can't get over my belief that Martinez' attitude is part of what makes him the great pitcher he is. Maybe just a small part, sure, but the Hall of Fame has its share of players who demanded, and received, special treatment. Take the diva out of Pedro Martinez and perhaps you end up with Tippy Martinez. Who knows?

I tend to agree. It's my experience that those who are the very best at what they do tend to be very self-centered.

Hey, I'm just thankful that the AL won the All Star game. While Maureen Mullen concludes the "absent Ramirez [was] not missed much," I couldn't shake this crazy scenario in which the Nationals won the All Star game and got home field advantage in World Series. Meanwhile, the Red Sox miraculously make it to the Fall Classic only to lose in the 7th game to the NL club. Then, the next morning, at least one Boston reporter pins the loss on Ramirez for not playing and thereby dooming the AL team to lose the All Star game because of his "alleged" hamstring injury.

Overly facetious? I wish.

One more day of tedium and then it's back to baseball.

In the rumor mill, the Yankees are getting Benitez, and the Red Sox are eyeing Suppan. Discuss amongst yourselves.

Fashion Police

For your All Star break pleasure, the Hall of Fame has a wonderful online exhibit called "A History of the Baseball Uniform" (hat tip to Coudal Partners for the link).

The exhibit is full of interesting minutia. Who knew, for instance, that McCarthyism played a role in baseball uniforms?

The anti-Communist fervor of the 1950s resulted in numerous social conformist reactions. … In 1954, the Cincinnati Reds changed their club nickname to “Redlegs,” and by 1956 the word “Reds” was completely absent from the team’s uniform. That season marked the first time since 1912 that Cincinnati’s home uniform failed to feature the team’s nickname.

No mention of whether the Red Sox faced any pressure during this reactionary period in US history. Can't you just see Senator McCarthy hauling Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey before the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations?

Sen. McCarthy: Isn't it true Mr. Yawkey that your baseball club wears red stockings and goes by the name the Red Sox?

Tom Yawkey: Yes, Senator.

Sen McCarthy: And isn't it true that your ballpark is located just across the river from Cambridge, Massachusetts, a hot bed for communism where pinko Marxist students freely associate to discuss the overthrow of the government of the United States of America? How do you explain yourself, sir?

I knew that red scare stuff was finally behind us for good once I saw the US National Soccer team in red uniforms.

As a kid, putting on that team uniform for the first time is such a big deal. The Hall understands this.

There is a different kind of excitement about this game, because this time you are a player, not merely a fan. You proudly put on your jersey, your pants, your stockings, shoes and cap … As you walk onto the field you look around. The other players on your team are all wearing the same uniform as you and you feel a sense of belonging and camaraderie. You are a member of a baseball team and these are your teammates.

That's exactly the feeling I had when I put on my first team uniform. Except for me it wasn't a baseball uniform but a hockey uniform. I remember the day the coach handed out the sweaters and stockings. They were in the colors of the Montreal Canadians home uniform and across the front writ large over the chest was the single word ROCHESTER.

Man, oh, man, I wasn't just representing myself and my team but the entire city. That's quite a feeling for a seven year old. Consequently, when I got my first baseball uniform at age nine, it was anticlimactic. I wasn't representing the city but Brock's Plywood. And I wasn't playing against the hated rivals of Somersworth or Berlin, but my classmates wearing the uni's of Dick Poulin Chevrolet and Le Club Victoire.

And get this: My first Brock's Plywood little league uniform was old school. This thing was made of wool. And it was a little big for me. So there I was out in right field, swatting clouds of ferocious black flies, wearing an itchy scratchy uniform that had to have weighed about 60 pounds. The thing had an odor, too. No matter how often you cleaned that woolen hair suit, it always stunk like musty wool.

I didn't find out until years later, in my late 20s, that I'm actually allergic to wool (or rather to some fungus that grows on wool). No wonder my first year of Little League was so awful!

The following year, Brock's Plywood stepped into the modern age (and we were the last team in Rochester to do so) when we received brand spanking new double-knit gray uniforms. They were just as hot as the wool ones they replaced, but they didn't itch, were much lighter, and had no lingering mustiness about them.

I always attributed my rapid improvement during my second season of Little League to my dad giving me Ted Williams' book on hitting, but now I wonder if the uniform change didn't have a lot to do with it as well. After all, it's difficult to see and hit the ball when your eyes are burning and your noses is running while having a nine inning histamine attack.

All Work and No Play …

No pouting. Out of 162, there are going to be games like this:

[Starting pitcher Wilfredo] Ledezma … plucked from the Boston system by the Tigers in the December's Rule 5 draft.
… returned to haunt the organization yesterday by throwing seven shutout innings in his second major league start, leading the Tigers to a 3-0 win over the Red Sox at Comerica Park (Parker, Herald).

But before we all pick up on the DirtDog chant, "Why Can't We Get Players Like Ledezma?," let's put things in perspective. Here's what John Sickels of ESPN was saying regarding Ledezma back in December when the Tigers drafted him under Rule 5:

Has no experience above the South Atlantic League, and looks like a serious long shot at this point.
Chance to stick: Remote. Chance to do something interesting: Remote.

So he shuts down the Red Sox yesterday. As Parker observes, "the Tigers, who own baseball's worst record, the club can afford to experiment." Well, you know how it goes with experiments. Remember when those dudes said they'd achieved cold fusion in the lab? Or how about those Raelians who claimed to have cloned a human?

Time will tell if Ledezma is for real. Goodness knows Detroit could use a good break or two.

Well, it's been a while since anyone in the media dumped on Manny, so you knew we were due.

Here's the situation:

Manager Grady Little said he was awakened in his hotel room at 5:45 a.m. yesterday by a call from Ramirez.

''He told me his mother was really sick,'' Little said. ''At that time of the morning, we didn't get into a long conversation. All I know is, I told him, `Around here, whatever you've got to do for your family always comes first.' After that I didn't hear from him anymore'' (Hohler, Globe).

And here comes the pile on, though it's Little rather than Martinez who bears the weight:

A manager, like a parent, often is in a position to say yes or no. And when some of the kids get to go to Disney World while the others are required to do their homework, there inevitably is going to be resentment (Massarotti, Herald).

So let me get this Management 101 lesson from Massarotti straight. If an employee calls up and says his mother is sick and he won't be able to attend work that day, the manager should immediately assume the employee is lying and should tell the employee to get his ass into work like everybody else? Wow. That's brilliant. That'll surely boost team morale.

Glad Massarotti is not my boss. He'd never have believed me when my dog was crippled from Lyme disease and I couldn't go to work. I'll have to remember to ask my colleagues at work if they felt I was getting "star treatment" that day.

Of course, Pedro departed early, too, and our Curly Haired Boy, friend of all ye of badde humours, can't resist the one liner:

"No columns from me for a while. I'll be too exhausted from my All-Star break trip to the Dominican."

If only we could be so lucky. Heh heh.

Speaking of breaks, young stud pitcher wannabees take heed:

Playing year-round baseball dooms pitchers to arm trouble, said Frank Jobe, the doctor who pioneered and subsequently trademarked Tommy John surgery…

"We see a lot of problems in warmer climates with year-round baseball," Jobe said. "Kids never get a chance to rest and a time to recover… I would recommend that we do away with year-round baseball and educate that there is a physiological limit to what kids can do" (Goldenbach, WaPo).

All Star Home Run Derby tonight. Time to see who has the better steroid concoction. As the Beatles sang, "If you're down he'll pick you up,
Doctor Robert. Take a drink from his special cup."

One, Uno, Un

I get a real kick in the pants looking at lonely "1" in the games behind column. Just one game behind the Yankees? Fantastic.

Yeah, who isn't disappointed that Pedro didn't get the win?

"It's very disappointing that happened and blew Petey's game," Embree said of [allowing] Pena's double [in the bottom of the eighth inning, erasing a 2-1 Sox lead].

"The guy's 6-2 with great numbers. He could be 12-2 right now. It just seems like there's one guy every year, and unfortunately it's the best pitcher in the league this year. He didn't deserve that tonight" (Hohler, Globe).

But who isn't salivating over this possibility?

The victory put the Red Sox in the driver's seat for one very big game this afternoon. For the second series in a row, the Red Sox are in position to sweep, and a victory today would give them six wins in a row as they head for the All-Star break. Their record this road trip now stands at 8-4 (Silverman, Herald).

And if Toronto can beat the Yankees? OK. Don't even go there. Not only am I often plagued by

"that eerie certainty that hitting, pitching and defense be damned, the only thing that has any bearing on the outcome of a game is whether or not you watch it. Watch and they lose" (Hench, DirtDogs),

I also live in fear of wishful thinking. But it's a great afternoon for baseball. Enjoy.