Easier Done Than Said

In Moneyball, a big deal is made of the ineffectiveness of traditional small ball strategies, and the hypothesis is floated that managers bunt, hit and run and steal because the familiarity of these strategies will save the manager from public humiliation.

Well, Terry Francona is a post-Moneyball manager, and so I suspect he has a different fear. Private humiliation. Tito seems too embarrassed to tell his players that they can't do what the player thinks they can do. Apparently, for Francona, underperforming is like performing in underwear. Decline is awkward.

This is obvious with Varitek, whose nonexistent bat baited the boobirds in Game 3. Supposedly, the Sox are carrying three catchers on the playoff roster so that Varitek can be pinch hit for early enough in the game so that Kevin Cash can be pinch hit for too. Yet Tek has continually hit in crucial spots during the 7th innings of this series. So I can only imagine that the 3 catchers idea was Theo's, and the keeping Tek in there was Francona's. Keeping Tek in is not the safe move for Francona publicly- fans are fickle and feel no loyalty at the expense of postseason results (color me that kind of fickle as well), given that a Tek AB is bound to fail, but it avoids the private confrontation. Loyalty, and dignity for Tek, rather than a confrontation with the inevitable, even in the apparent safety of the clubhouse.

Game 2 was not a highlight for Francona. He left Beckett over and over again, to see the former ace squander three separate leads, embarrassing himself and his postseason record with a 9 hit, 8 run, 3 HR performance in just 4 and a third. This wasn't a matter of simply missing spots- Beckett induced only 4 swings and misses all night. The stuff wasn't there. In a tie game threatening extras, he removed former starter Masterson after only 2/3 of an inning, depleting the bullpen. Javier Lopez threw as many pitches as he made appearances. Francona brought in Timlin, rather than Byrd, to pitch the 11th. This on a day when Maddon had burned his two best relievers- Balfour and Howell- by the 6th inning, and was vulnerable. And Ellsbury continues to bat leadoff.

All these moves simply reinforce the preestablished roles for these players. Beckett is the ace, he should stay in. Varitek is the captain, he should stay in. Papelbon is the closer, he should pitch the 9th. Lopez is the lefty specialist, he should throw one pitch. Timlin is the veteran reliever, he should pitch before a starting is thrust into the unfamiliar role of reliever. Ellsbury is fast, he should hit leadoff.

Confronting the players would create the dissonance of casted role and performance, of expectation and fact. It would require distinguishing the pre-programmed from the pragmatic, what should be from what is. Facing reality can be uncomfortable, and downright embarrassing. But its Francona's job to not be complacent, to do whatever it takes to win. Even something unconventional, risky, or even humbling or humiliating to his favorite players. Tito can't hide out in the open, he can't lose himself in the crowd to avoid that intimate conversation. A players' manager yes, but a team's manager too. A team that's down 2 games to win and needs to win.

For Those Of You Scoring At Home

So it turns out the game is less pixely sitting 5 rows behind the first base dugout than at a desktop computer via windows media player. Who knew? The shock was only slightly less, I imagine, than when my Dad went to his first game, and saw what had hitherto been a black and white field look green.

But on an grad student's salary, this was 5 rows behind the dugout of the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Mets' single A farm team. On Saturday, the Cyclones, who play with the eponymous roller coaster at Coney Island visible over the left field fence, were taking on your very own Lowell Spinners.

The bush leagues do not rely on baseball to fill the seats, and the Cyclones absorb the amusement park atmosphere; no moment between innings is not imbued with a carnival attraction- a ketchup and mustard race, multiple mascots dancing, t-shirt guns, a "wacky" mc introducing costumed weirdos, video clips and blaring obnoxious music, and even a cracker jack vendor who donned a sequined tuxedo and rode a unicycle on the dugout while juggling bowling pins.

And in between they manage to squeeze in a baseball game.

My girlfriend Rebecca has been a fantastic sport for learning about The Game from me. When I met her, she wasn't sure what direction the batter ran; these days, it's 'Ellsbury hasn't been hitting well lately'. (I count my stars, as they say.) But she's been going to the Cyclones for years, as her parents are avid fans. Rebecca's favorite thing about the Cyclones? The ketchup and mustard race. Of course.

But not this day; I was determined to further wisdomize her by teaching her to score the game. As someone who studies the boundaries of knowledge in his not-spare time, I think I know about limits, so I didn't try to get her started on keeping score until the 6th inning. But first, naturally, I explained the virtues of scoring- "what you have is a semi-graphic and symbolic representation of the ballgame, which allows for it's reconstruction after the fact. See, each plate appearance is a discrete event, an individual, but also an inseparable part of the larger whole that is the baseball game. The numerical symbolism allows for the tracking of individual plays, and the graphic layout of the lineup by inning and the diamond within each square allows the gestalt qualities to be read off at a glance. Basically, the synthesis of distinct part and seamless whole in one cognized perception yields the pleasing aesthetic of keeping score." Yup, I make things fun.

So out came the pen, and I got the ball rolling, but Rebecca quickly insisted that she get to do it, and from there the scorecard is legible. Which is nice.

She immediately took to it, but that there wasn't a baserunner for the first 2 2/3 innings she scored helped out. Brooklyn even took a 1-0 lead into the 9th inning, only allowing Lowell 2 hits thus far. But the Brooklyn pitcher walked the first Lowell hitter in the top of the 9th, and the next batter bunted him over to second. After a ground out to third, Lowell was down to its last out, with the tying run remaining at second. The next hitter, Mitch Dening, Lowell's whisker thin number 3 hitter, grounded to the left side. The Brooklyn third baseman dove to his left, and deflected the now trickling ball to shortstop. With no chance to the make the play, it should have been first and third, two down. But the shortstop forced the throw, and the ball got a lot closer to us in our 1st base dugout-adjacent seats than perhaps he would have liked; infield hit, E6, tie ball game, go-ahead run on second. The crowd, up to this point sated by t shirts and jugglers, groaned in collective scorn for the headstrong actions of the young shortstop.

Meanwhile, Rebecca has gone from enjoying the placid, pastoral pursuit of keeping score at a ballgame to frantically trying to render the transpirings semi-graphically and symbolically. Meanwhile, the cleanup hitter Luis Sumoza was intentionally walked- that's 'I' BB, Rebecca, 'I' BB!

So here we are, tied 1-1 on an unearned run, first and second for Lowell, two outs. The 5th place hitter then bounces to third, and the third baseman, opting for the force out at second, flips an easy chest high toss in plenty of time for the out. But the second baseman missed the ball!, and it rolls into shallow right field. One run scores, it's 2-1 Lowell, Sumoza rounds third, the second baseman recovers the ball, Sumoza is trying to score all the way from first, here's the throw to the plate, he's out! The inning's over, but Lowell scores 2 on 1 infield hit and 2 errors, two walks, one intentional, and a sacrifice. What an exciting inning! "I hate scoring!" wails Rebecca, "I don't want to do it anymore!" But it's just an FC 5-4, E4, with the previous batter out at the plate 5-4-2, and the one before him scoring on the E4, no RBI. What's so complicated about that?

Brooklyn went quietly in the 9th, yielding a clean and simple scorecard on their side of the program. That was a relief. It was such an easy inning I figured Rebecca was ready to relive her anxiety, so I reconstructed the wacky events of that bush league 9th inning, according to her scorecard. It's the only way to learn.

P.S. I now owe Rebecca many dinners. And flowers. And whatever else men have to buy on sitcoms when they've been too stereotypically male at their ladies.

Oniontalogical Argument

In philosophy land, beliefs have to be earned- beliefs have to survive criticism and meet challenges before you get to have them. That's how I look at it, anyway.

I don't think sports fandom should be any different. (I often tell people that even had I grown up in New York, I would have seen the light and been a Sox fan anyway.) The test for deserving to stay a sports fan? This Onion satire from January. If your dignity survives intact, you've earned the right to keep rooting.

And in honor of Friday's starting pitcher, another old Onion piece.

Ah, off-days.

Hitting From the Bottom of the Deck

When the skills decline, what's a player to do? Cheat, of course. Varitek continues to get beat on fastballs fair and square, so what other recourse does he have?

Tek, in the 2nd inning of Monday night's 6-3 Sox victory over Baltimore, pulled a 94 mph fastball for a homer to right field, just his third in 64 games. And then in the 7th, he pulled a grounder down the first base line on a 92 mph fastball.

How does such a slow bat get around so early on fastballs? What's the ace up his sleeve? Simple. A 2-0 count in both cases. A hitter's count. A fastball count. A count where Varitek can cheat.

I've noticed this for a few weeks now; Varitek is cheating in fastball counts, looking fastball, and starting his swing early, so he can get around on the predictable pitch. This is a last ditch effort to survive, using brains over that other quality, the one that fades earlier than brains.

Of course, cheating risks getting pinched; it's the price for living dangerously. And if Tek gets an offspeed or breaking pitch in a fastball count, he's apt to get caught redhanded. In the 8th, against stupidly named Rocky Cherry, Tek was ahead in the count 2-1. A count where one is to be selective, waiting for that perfect pitch, and only then making a move. But Tek tipped his hand; gearing up for a fastball, Tek starting his swing early, and had no choice but to chase a slider down and out of the zone. And then guessing fastball again on 2-2, he chased another slider down and out of the zone, for the whiff. In the 9th, Tek had another 2-1 count, and this time was well ahead of a changeup, fouling it off, only to then take a belt high fastball for a called third strike.

Tek was caught cheating on the basepaths last week, too. On Thursday, he tried to get an early start on a stolen base, and left before the pitcher delivered. The pitcher stepped off the rubber, and caught Tek in a rundown, the result of which was not in doubt.

Of course, I can't help concluding that all this cheating business relates to mortality; wishing to stave off infirmity, Tek is looking to cheat death any way he can, to get whatever edge he can muster before old age catches him in a run down. But of course death catches everyone in a pickle of inevitability; it's just a question of staying in it long enough for the other runners to advance.

Anywho, in cheerier news, Bay slammed two dongs, and Lester continued to be the my-subjective-ace, defined as the guy who prompts me to say to myself 'phew, he's pitching tonight.'

Yeah, I say 'phew'. Even to myself. And in private moments, no less.

Manny Existing Manny

Time doesn't flow the same way for all parties concerned. Fans are fans for life. Businessmen have careers that span generations. But ballplayers can only be ballplayers for a very short period of time.

After the age of 32, every second of every day sees a ballplayer dwindle and decay, and become less and less himself. Not so for the other parties. Businessmen perhaps become more savvy in middle age. Fans become more experienced, have longer memories. They grow into their skins, develop their identities over the years.

Not ballplayers. They just get shittier and shittier until they can't be ballplayers anymore, at an age where other professions are just getting started. And then there's a whole lot of life left.

They can't all go into broadcasting; too many already do.

Some ballplayers are lucky and develop other careers, and form new identities for themselves. Others live off their name, selling white wall tires or family friendly restaurants.

But every player knows their window is short, their skills are ephemeral, and what and who they are will die long before they do.

Manny may or may not know, believe, or agree with any of this. But it's in the back of my mind anytime I feel the urge to blame a player for wanting to be paid whatever he can get for the superhero talents he knows aren't long for this world, before he turns into Clark Kent forever. And it's in the back of my mind when I try to figure out who to side with in a dispute- the rare baseball talent who we pay to see, and whose life expectancy is just about up, or the front office business men, who I don't pay to see, and who can go on being front office business men for 50 more years (in Theo's case, at least), or me, who will keep on watching the games and going about my business.

That's not to say that Manny is absolved; by all accounts, Manny was a Grade A asshole. I'm not denying that. But I don't doubt that there's at least a half-truth in one of Manny's statements, because the Front Office probably did make Nomar and Pedro and Manny all feel one particular way, and whether it was intentional or not is immaterial. I suspect they were all made to feel that they no longer were who they had always thought they were.

Nobody wants to feel replaceable. Interchangeable. Everybody wants to feel unique. I bet guys like Pedro, Nomar and Manny have spent a good part of their lives feeling unique, and deservedly so, because they have been blessed with talent that millions of people would do unspeakable things for. Who they were, why they were loved, why they were the gods of Yawkey Way, was to be found in the arm, the legs, the hands, and the subtle harmonies only they could play.

Of course, superstars age, their skills wither. But to them, from their own point of view, they're still the same unique divinity they've always been, ever since that first scout raved about their tools or wheels or gun at their 13th birthday. But that age of 32 or so rolls around, and that OPS or ERA starts to regress to the mean, and suddenly, these guys are one thing they've never been. Replaceable. They can be substituted; after their prime, the front office can find someone else to put up those same numbers they will. The person goes, the numbers stay the same. Oh right. And the salary shrinks. Profits go up.

That's fine, that's business. But I don't blame the players for wanting "respect", or "mental peace", as Manny put it, which they always say they want instead of money, though of course they want the money. But they don't even need to be shrewd in their investments with the money they already have in order to stay rich for life. No, the money is a symbol. A symbol of being desired. A symbol of being that guy that everyone wants, and pays, to see. That's respect to them- respecting them as The Man they are. The money says that they're wanted, to a quantifiable degree that much more than everyone else. What they want is to still be treated like the stars they were, not thrown out and replaced for an cheaper model. Manny will have mental peace when he's desired the way Manny Ramirez should be desired. And Manny's now getting that. The Dodgers are raving about the Hall of Fame slugger they acquired. Manny can strut into Joe Torre's locker room and Be what he's always Been: Manny.

You can call it 'ego', and it probably is. But the sense of 'self' applies as much as 'conceit'. This is all they've been, this is all they know. All that lies ahead is decay and death. Yes, for all of us too, unfortunately- you heard it here first- but the rest of us still have a narrative, and not just the epilogue that a former ballplayer has. Sure, people will always want their autograph, and they'll always eat for free in the local joints, but any player will tell you, it's not the same. They're never really themselves ever again.

Do you know what the moral of Field of Dreams is? Heaven is where you get to be yourself. (spoiler alert.) Shoeless Joe gets to be a ballplayer again. Doc Graham gets his the one major league plate appearance, the one he should have had. And then, because he really was a doctor, not a ballplayer ('Son, if I'd never gotten to be a doctor, that would have been a tragedy'), he gets to be that again too. Terrence Mann, after years of public silence, gets to be a writer again- he promises to give a full account of what it's like out in the corn field. Ray Kinsella and his estranged father get to be an American Boy and his Dad, by having a game of catch.

But that's Hollywood. Ballplayers can never again be themselves. When Manny learned that he wasn't going to get the 4 year $100 million dollar contract extension that the great Manny Ramirez deserved, he shut down. Undoubtedly, Manny's response was immature and hurtful to those that knew him, and he let his teammates down, and he disappointed fans who cheered for him and paid to see him be himself.

But nonetheless, I find it hard to be mad at Manny. I love baseball, and I know The Game and The Team are bigger than Manny, and Manny didn't do right by The Game, or The Team. I don't condone his actions, but The Game and The Team are idealizations, not real people. They don't have to stare death in the face before they reach middle age. They go on. Ideals are forever, Plato taught us.

Yes, Manny needs to 'grow up.' He should learn to leave an identity behind, and learn to face one reality that he agreed to- his contract to finish out this year- and one he didn't- that who we are must change. He's blameworthy for the first, but not the second, of course. And I can't help suspect that behind the inflammatory statements and the knees and the jogging to first and the wanting his option to be picked up when the team has no reason to do so because he's a Hall of Famer worth $20 million which everyone should recognize NOW, dammit, is the idea that the only self Manny has ever known is dissolving, and that Manny won't be being Manny for very much longer.

On Our Rug, In Our Universe; Yanks Win 10-3

Some people use the word 'philosophical' to mean 'stoic', and 'stoic' to mean 'able to withstand an asskicking'.

And though transitivity implies that I'm getting a degree in being able to withstand an asskicking, which I surely am not (since I can't), I'll temporarily accept the appellation 'philosophical' in regards to how to take today's 10-3 drubbing at the hands of the resurgent M F-ing Yankees (who since the break have won 8 straight, and have posted an .858 team OPS and a team ERA of 1.56.)

Today's game was a real gutshot. Shots like these do have to be suffered. And if you can make it through with your dignity intact, and without vomiting, you earn the glory you achieve later. Champions- teams and their fans- have to be able to take a punch too. (But we know that.)

The long view cosmic scheme of things stoicism is justifiable; The Sox are the defending champs, Ortiz is back, we (yes, we) have the best run differential in the American League at +88, 46 ahead of Tampa and 30 better than the Yanks. This is something to bite down on, you know, to be philosophical.

But this was also the kind of game that makes me check the movie listings and resort to posting homoawkward pictures that have probably circulated the interweb twice over by now.

(photo by Stuart Cahill)

You heard it here third. Lester's the stopper tomorrow.

Look But Don't Touch

In the bottom of the 5th inning of today's series finale against the Twins, Manny missed a home run by inches, and a fan's too too grabby hands by even less.

Keeping your hands to yourself is something we learn early in life. And generally speaking, people are pretty good at it. But not for not wanting to touch; there are, after all, many smooth and soft and bumpy things out there, just begging to be touched.

But, typically, there are penalties for touching what's not yours to touch. Upon seeing an attractive woman on the street, you can't grab her just because you feel like it, and you can't walk into a museum and run your hands over the art just because you feel like it.

If you did, the penalty would be severe, and rightfully so. As adults, we have to control what we want (or better yet, we should learn not to want certain things; you may want to poop in your pants when you're two, but hopefully not anymore.) And who do you think you are, anyway, diminishing that woman's dignity, or ruining that painting so that countless others cannot enjoy it?

And yes, grabbing a ball in play is definitely the same kind of thing. You shouldn't want to do it at all, and it drives me nuts when it does happen, to the point of advocating draconian (if not Franconian) punishment.

Consider the following. When a fan reaches into the playing field, he's implicitly saying a number of things, each entirely indefensible.

First, he's saying 'I hereby claim ownership of this ball, this ball which I didn't make, buy, or even ever see before two seconds ago, and which nobody offered to give me.'

(A rejection of the Lockean principle that ownership derives from "mixing one's labor" with an object.)

Second, he's saying 'even though the fate of this ball is the intense emotional concern of millions of people, I am going to take it so that only I can enjoy it.'

(A rejection of the utilitarian principle of the greatest good for the greatest number.)

Third, he is saying 'I am claiming this ball as mine at the only moment of its existence that's ever mattered, at that very moment at which all its previous existing moments were aimed.'

(A rejection of natural law ethics, which holds the interruption of teleology to be immoral.)

I think saying these things makes you an asshole.

And there's no stealing a loaf of bread to feed the starving family mitigating factor here. Unless it's a milestone homer, when removed from its context as a ball in play, all it is is a dirty ball. And clean balls aren't expensive. By taking it from the field, just like smudging a painting in a museum, you're making it worth even less.

And for what? So you can look like a jerk on TV, publicly declaring your selfishness? So you can regale your grandkids about the day you interrupted what millions of people were doing for no good reason other than that you felt grabby?

In short, you reach into the field of play to grab a ball, you're saying that having that particular small round leathery thing is more important than the happiness of millions of people.

I think it's pretty obvious what we should do with people like that.

Clemens is sorry for everything he did, except for the everything

From the Archive: May 5, 2007

[Barry said:]
What the hell is Roger Clemens apologizing for? He claims he didn't use steroids or bang the 15 year old. So what did he admit to doing? As far as I can tell, he hasn't admitted to anything specific. So he's just sort of issuing a catch-all apology? Why?

[My response]

Barry, what sort of callous person are you? Don’t you care that Roger is sorry? Don’t you feel how sincere he is, how full of regret and shame and rue roger is? How can you not forgive a man after the deep and profound process of redemption the man has gone through?

It’s like when I got into a fight with Rebecca and hurt her feelings. I needed her to know how badly I felt, so I said, "look, honey, I’m sorry for what I did. Now, I’m not going to say what those things were that I’m apologizing for, and I completely deny having done the very things you are asking me to apologize for, and in fact I’ll sue you for defamation for alleging that I did those things, but can't you see how sorry I am? Good, we're made up. Lets have sex."

Apparently, she's the same sort of jerk as you are.

Jerk.

2007 World Series: A matter of course

From the Archive: 10/27/07

[2007 World Series Game 2: Sox vs. Rockies]

Ok, some baseball trivia.

Question: Who aren't Okajima and Papelbon?

Answer: Bob Stanley and Calvin Schiraldi.

Oki came on with a one run lead, two men on, one out. It didn't even occur to me that he'd let those runners in. Aside from that hiccup in September, when he was as tired as a Conan monologue (what has he done for me lately?), Oki has just been astoundingly good. He stranded both inherited runners, and went 2 1/3 hitless scoreless, with 4 K's.

What’s happened to the Red Sox? Or me, for that matter? I’ve watched the playoffs with a sort of calm assurance that the superiority of the Red Sox would manifest itself. No panic. No fear. What an odd phenomenon. I mean, very little in this world of ours suggests that justice is an organizing principle. Yet I seem to assume that a Sox victory is inevitable, and that this is Good and Right. I feel this in a visceral sort of way, as a natural state, like how I feel comfortable in pajamas.

The following isn't off topic- you know why I don't like Kenneth Branaugh's version of Shakespeare’s Henry V? Because he's yelling the whole time. I guess this is supposed to show us that he means it, but really it makes it seem like Branaugh's Henry V is trying to convince himself of the truth of his own words, as if its not simply self-evident that he should be there, in France, staking his claim to the various dukedoms owed him though his royal lineage. Yelling and making a scene suggests he doesn't really deserve it. He is definitely not acting like he's been there before. In a word, what he's not is he's not regal. Henry V is supposed to be regal. Being regal is knowing that one deserves one's crown; a true king doesn't need to prove it all the time with yelling and beheadings. (I liked the BBC version of Henry v. and if you haven't seen the HBO/BBC 'Rome' series, the actor who plays Julius Caesar (the pagan J.C.)- That’s regal.)

The Red Sox act like they've been there before. There’s a calm, equanimity, a knowledge that they deserve to be there, and that they will triumph, without bluster and strain. Yes, there's sweat. But its Kevin Youkilis sweat of determination, not Calvin Schiraldi sweat of fear. There’s a Papelbon O-face, not a Derek Lowe face.

In this series, the patient sox hitters are positively regal, and do not deign to condescend. Pitches out of the strike zone are beneath them. (Yes, I went there.) Such meager offerings are an insult to our person; they offer, we refuse. We wait for what is pleasing to our royal person, and then deliver (posthaste) a crushing blow.

That sort of thing rubs off on the fan, or at least on me. I just don’t' feel nervous. Yes, I felt indignant a number of times during the Cleveland series, when physics and luck went against us; that's the thing about luck- its always out of character (as in the difference between essence and accident). and I’ll admit to losing my cool and screaming real real loud (and completely freaking out Rebecca) when, after the Lugo error on the pop up in game 7, with Lofton at third as the tying run, and Blake hit the grounder to Lowell, and I jumped off the couch, yelling, with ascending volume, 'turn it, turn it, turn it', and then thundered FUCK YEAH! Upon their so doing.

But other than that, we've been here before. We’re in our element. I can calmly watch the game, knowing that victory, not collapse, and not randomness, is inevitable. There’s no panic. There’s no 1918 bullshit that calls our character into question. We ascended to the throne through trying circumstances in '04, yes with the help of the wild card, but by now, our legitimacy is unquestioned (I’m tempted to pun on our closer and say its granted by papal bull, but I won't.) so with 9 wins down, we can look forward to games three and four, and say (with apologies) 'twice more unto the breach, dear friends, twice more'... then the day is ours.

Also, on the Boston dirt dogs sight, re: the Ellsbury stolen base which won everybody a free taco, it said 'tacoby bellsbury.' that's funny.

Also also, Josh Fogg sucks.

pretending not to know julio down by the schoolyard

From the Archive: June 30, 2007

You know how bad a season Julio Lugo is having? I felt sorry for him when he got thrown out at third. not angry, or disappointed. sorry.

For me to pity a ballplayer, they have to stink so badly that the decrease in dignity is greater than the increase in money, fame, and overall greatness of playing ball for a living.

that's pretty stinky.

role model

From the Archive: June 2, 2007

[a yankee fan asked:]

Is there anyway to defend Manny's public questioning of the third base coach's decision not to send Youklis (maybe Ortiz) last night? it seems relatively classless and certainly not the actions of a person anyone wants as there kids' role model.

[my response:]

Are we living in Victorian England? Who cares about class?

I don't care if Manny farts every time he hits a homerun or uses the wrong fork for the salad. 'Class' and other notions that are derivative from a scheme of noble virtue ethics are irrelevant.

like any public figure, a third base coach's decisions are open to public scrutiny, but hurting the third base coach's feelings is a private matter, and is not my concern, and only matters to me to the extent that play on the field is affected.

Kids don't need role models, they need to learn how to think about things. It's imitation and conformity for its own sake that is problematic; imitating a good person is barely better than imitating a bad person. reliance on public figures for models of ideal behavior is a just step away from a cult of personality. children should be taught to respect the notion of a democracy in which citizens are free to decide things for themselves through rational deliberation, and not instructed which people to ape.

I won't remember that unwritten rule; I should write that down.

From the Archive: May 31, 2007
[Re: A-Rod's yell disrupts catching a popup]

I don't know how many of you, if any, watch the games on mlb dot com. but in lieu of commercials, they play a single promo for 'dick's sporting goods' at every inning break. the commercial consists of various fans in different team merchandise saying what its all about. a group of Sox fans, in their defective accents, say 'its about nevah giving up', to which a single Sox fan, a hip looking twenty something, adds 'nevah evah.'

while that is obnoxious, and is making me want to pull out my remaining hairs, the yankee fan in the promo is equally annoying. he's your friendly neighborhood wiseguy, who stares menacingly at the camera, and says, slowly, letting each word, and the latent threat they contain, sink in- 'its about doing.. what it takes.. to win."

this suggests, of course, that nothing, and certainly no code of ethics, will stand in the way of achieving the ultimate goal- the victory.

I do not mean to suggest that this is characteristic of the yankee fan, or of anyone, for that matter, except the marketers at dick's. frankly, I don't care if even that's true.

but I think my brother makes a good point, (even though my dad would call him a 'monist' for it- don't' worry about what that means), and I think it amounts to agreeing with the dicks wiseguy.

an important question to answer is whether there should be such a thing as unwritten rules at all. In response, I would ask: what's the harm in writing them? To say they should (and by 'should' I mean 'should') remain unwritten is, as far as I can tell, to desire some transcendent notion of ethics and honor in place of the rule of law.

why would one wish this? In a scenario where ethics, virtue, duty, and honor are norms rather than rules, there is no external check on one acting honorably or virtuously; there is just one's internal sense of it, and one owns subjective wish to act this way. but precisely for this reason, it can be skirted by those who do not have that wish, and what is worse, as a consequence, it is not enforced equitably, but instead is something that happens only whenever someone feels like it.

some may yell 'hah', or 'mine', if the desire arises, and some may not. steroids may be dishonorable, but not illegal (or treated as illegal by the relevant powers), and so some people do it, and some don't, in which case there arises inequality of opportunity for achievement- that is to say, unfairness.

it is cultures that define honor and other such values and virtues. but even in a 'clubhouse culture' that may act as a unifying force, human ballplayers come from different cultures, some were taught right from wrong, others weren't. but this shouldn't matter, precisely because when they are all playing baseball they play by the same rules.

one might say that an unwritten code is self-legislating, and does carry consequence's, and that a clubhouse culture provides all the enforcement one needs; a-rod, for example, will be beaned, and a player who slides dirty into second will see his teammate receive the same treatment. But this is just eye-for-an-eye vengeance, and not a legal penalty. why leave the enforcement of unwritten rules- and vengeance- to chance, or to culture, or to a teammate who may or may not like you and care about sticking up for you? (sometimes mike mussina forgets to throw inside, for example.) why leave up to culture and chance what can be codified, and then enforced equitably? if an act is considered something worthy of punishment, as my brother micah suggests, then what does it hurt to make it a rule which guarantees a penalty ? I dont know what soccer flopping is, but if its anything like soccer, i'm sure its bad (sorry. I had to go there.)

look. in iraq right now, what one has, among other things, are a bunch of cultures each trying to impose their values and their dubious and dangerously destructive notions of honor on each other, in lieu in living in a society ruled by law. I think a little law, and respect for fair and equal treatment, would go a long way.

is the goal of the sport to act honorably, or to win? i'm concerned that in much of the ahem, developing, ahem, pre-civilized world, the point of living is for one's culture to enjoy some cockamamie notion of honor and pride, (and so everything that any other country or culture does in its own interest becomes some sort of humiliation)

but the point of playing baseball games is not to bring honor to your team or your family or your ancestors, but to win. if honor happen as a result of winning, that's fine. but that's a consequence of the ends, not the end itself. if a ballplayer shouldn't do something, then make a law against it, and have it count against winning.

also, because its getting late in the day, I won't write my Nietzschean/ Spenglerian counterpoint to this dilly. suffice it to say that those teuton philosophers wouldn't agree. they like supermen who are above the law, who are thereby able to craft a new ethics and culture as they go, and who consider an abundance of legislation as stultifying and antithetical to the vital spirit that distinguishes the worthy and strong from the weak herd.

for them, law is the death of culture. I guess I just put a positive spin on that.

Youkilis, Eucharist, Data, Stigmata. Close enough.

From the Archive: May 15, 2006

I awoke this morning, okay, this afternoon, to find a somewhat disturbing article in yesterday's Globe sports section. Yeah, my days and times are all messed up. Whatever.

The article is another anti-intellectual 'I liked things better when I didn't understand them' piece by longtime Red Sox columnist Bob Ryan. You may know him as a talking head on ESPN.

I wrote him a letter in response to his article. You might be surprised to learn that I talked about baseball as a way of understanding science and religion (and vice versa.) Even if you're not on top of the latest anti-intellectual trends in the wide world of sports, I hope you're able to follow along and enjoy his article and my response. I’ll let you know if he writes back.

"
Dear Mr. Ryan-

I am a longtime reader of your column, and I read your May 14 article “A feast of data, with a slight glaze” with considerable interest, but also with slight concern. There is much debate in our society today over how to understand our world, as both scientific knowledge and religious sentiment wax and wane in different quarters. I am writing to you as both a lifelong diehard Red Sox fan, and as a professor of Philosophy, to let you know I felt that your article represented, albeit implicitly, that very debate. Though I hope the length of this letter does not deter you, as I know you are a busy man, I hope you will indulge me as I try to suggest an interesting perspective on this very live issue concerning how to enjoy this great game of ours.

One of the greatest differences between the ‘old-school’ statistics like BA and RBI, and the ‘new school’ stats like VORP, is that the Old School stats are something anyone can count themselves from their own box score. At the end of a game, you can count up the hits and errors and know, from that one box score of that one game, just what went on that day, and without knowing anything else that happened across the league. But by contrast, in order to know the ‘New School’ stats like VORP even for the players in the game you just watched, you can’t just rely on your own box score. In order to know VORP, one has to know virtually everything about everything- New School stats include what every other player did that day, and on every other day, and in what ball park they did it- as you point out, the New School is “in love with equivalency”- and so it is impossible by definition for a fan to be able to track New School stats just from his own box score.

The box score, and the anecdotal evidence of which you are fond, are both stories about a particular time and particular place. Such stories are ‘local’; one can understand something local just by being there- by keeping a box store or hearing an anecdote. But on the other hand, New School stories of equivalency, for instance, are ‘global’; one can only understand what’s going on after one has related the event in question to virtually every other event on the globe.

But this is much more than just a problem of how many box scores one might have to read to know what is going on, and I hope you will continue with my letter.

Perhaps you’ve heard of the so-called ‘butterfly effect,’ where the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Africa, through an ever-increasing cascade of tiny events, may result in a hurricane here at home. If this sort of thing is happening all the time, such that any nearby or ‘local’ event is shaped and perhaps even brought about by innumerable events far distant, then it would be misleading to think a box score of your local hurricane told the whole story, and it would be misleading to think one could predict the weather very accurately on the basis of that local box score. And if one could only know the flapping of every butterfly, one could predict the weather better than by just watching the local weather report. The New School’s emphasis on including league averages and ballpark effects is their way of tracking butterflies in Africa. The New School thinks its global statistics are better at predicting the future than such local or box score statistics like ERA and RBI.

Prediction and science go hand in hand. Part of taking a scientific approach to something is trying to understand precisely how all things interact with all things, for the purpose of isolating variables and trying to predict the future. But there is another essential element to the art of prediction, which is that the scientific approach attempts to understand each event as being of a certain type. If the hitter about to step up the plate today against Jorge Julio is a red-head, and if we know that red-headed hitters hit .370 off Jorge Julio in day games, classifying this single event – this at bat- as of this kind allows one to say there’s a 37% chance of a hit in this at-bat. Classifying in this way is the basis of prediction. And because the New School records and charts everything, it can classify everything, and so any new event you please can be found to be just like a million others, and given how frequently it happened in the past, one can then say what the odds are of that event happening again in the present or future.

This scientific way of doing things may not be for everyone, and it might be less fun than other ways of looking at things, and it does seem like a lot of time to put in for often trivial results. But what’s wrong with it? What’s the big deal, one might ask? Why do so many people dislike the New School approach so strongly? I’ve suggested that science seems to view all events as interrelated, and so as interdependent, in some or many ways, and also that all events are of a certain kind or another. Now why should this be bothersome? Well, this scientific way of looking at things contradicts two important ideas that many people hold- that the event we see before us is localized and distinct from all others, but more importantly, that the event we see before us is unique. And here’s what this all might have to do with religion, as promised earlier. The reason science does not accept the religious notion of miracles is that science does not accept the notion of unique events at all. A miracle is a unique event, something entirely unlike, and independent of, all others. Miracles don’t rely on something like a ‘butterfly effect’ to happen, and miracles, in being unique, cannot be classified.

And what does this have to do with baseball, you are probably asking. The enjoyment of baseball is very often the enjoyment of what appears to be a unique event; one hopes for the thrill of seeing a miracle. Fisk in ’75 or Roberts in ’04 are unique events, and felt like miracles. They even played the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ as Fisk rounded the bases! Now, neither of those players are the greatest players of all time. But who cares? Is it not an anathema to ask whether given 100 such pitches, how many more times could Fisk or Roberts have duplicated their results, as opposed to a ‘better’ player? You point out that the New School has provided us with the information to find out the odds of the Sox winning Game 4 once Roberts stole the base. But why would we need such information- they did in fact win, didn’t they? It happened. We saw it. And it was great. The meaning of such events is not how frequently similar things could happen, but that they did happen, once, end of story. It is their uniqueness that makes them special, and the idea of reducing them to others of a type or dragging in what appear to be outside factors to explain them seems to ruin what is most special for many people about such moments in the great game of baseball.

But can one make any predictions based just on single events like Fisk or Roberts, for instance, about how those players will perform the following year? Clearly not. And so whether or not there really are such things as miracles, they don’t do a General Manager any good, because miracles are useless for the purposes of making predictions. A baseball miracle is a single square in a single box score for a single time and place. And although such box scores or miracles may have meaning for other times and places, as memories of history always do, they don’t have statistical or scientific relevance on their own. The New Statistics are not fans’ statistics, if by ‘fan’ one means someone who enjoys the game most when unexpected and seemingly miraculous events occur. The New School stats are really for general managers, (or fantasy general managers), who do need to watch the waiver wire and know how much a player is really worth over the long haul so he can know how much and whether to risk.

So insofar as he takes the GM’s and not the fan’s approach, you might not want to watch a game with a New School stat guy. But it’s funny. People in this country often times vote for their President on the basis of whether he’s the kind of guy you’d like to have a beer with, even though you probably never will have that beer, and more importantly, even though being the kind of guy you’d want to have a beer with isn’t the Presidents’ job. And being the kind of guy you want to watch the game with is not the General Managers job- his job is to try to predict the future of each player and use that as a basis to decide whether that player should or shouldn’t be on the team. So even if your GM or your President is the kind of guy who prefers the unique to the pattern, or who prefers the miracle to the law, or who prefers the religious to the scientific, to do his job he should use every resource and trust every fact available to him, even if that means losing the meaning of the present moment for the sake of a winning future.

Thank you for your time,

etc.

2004 ALCS Finale: Everything Was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt

From the Archive:

October 22, 2004: Accounts and Experiences of the ALCS; Sox win Series 4-3, advance to World Series for first time since 1986 (“Everything was Beautiful, and Nothing Hurt”)

It was an absolute joy to read the New York papers this morning. Saturated with phrases such as 'most humiliating loss ever,' 'colossal collapse,' 'choke artists,' permanent stain on the Yankee record', 'curse reversed with reverse sweep,' boy, was that ever satisfying.

There’s so much to talk about I don't even know where to begin. So I think I’ll just talk about the whole thing.

I stayed up all night last night. I had to teach at 8 this morning, and there was no way I was sleeping. I took the subway home from Brooklyn, and talked smack about the Yankees with the various sox fans I met on the train. Loud.

I got home and devoured every article online I could, I watched the highlights over and over. I want this shit burned into my memory, I want every sight and stat and fact and feeling indelibly marked in my mind.

So on no sleep, I wander on down to jimbo's hamburger palace at 6 this morning, and spent a wonderfully pleasant hour, casually eating french fries and bacon, drinking coffee, with my hands on a fresh new copy of the day's New York post. As usual, I’m the only white guy in the place, and along with my bacon, french fries and sadistic pleasure in the humiliation of the Yankees, I get to listen in to some great stories about Negro league baseball and owing money to bookies, the hot topics with the senior citizen crowd at jimbos.

I caught the subway to queens, giddy with grease and greatness. New York is beautifully quiet in the morning, all the more so when you like where you're going and everyone else is miserable, and the Yankees just lost and you can even see a frown on the buildings, collapsing on the weight of their shackled, impotent pride.

I got to class early, because I hadn't done the reading that I was supposed to lecture on. Thursdays class goes for 2 hours and 15 minutes, and I spent that whole time talking about James and Sartre on freedom. I think I did a good job, considering I don't really know about them and I hadn't really done the reading.

At one point, I asked something of the class, and got a response 'because the Yankees lost.' a couple of students with whom I’ve talked about baseball (in the context, initially, of metaphysical continuity- what makes something the same over time is interestingly illustrated by turnover on baseball teams), and they didn't know I was a sox fan. I couldn't contain my grin, laughing at these teenage Hispanic kids from the Bronx and queens. So I stop talking about Sartre and existential despair, because, frankly, I think that's one thing I don't have to worry about on this morning, and I told them they don't want to know where I grew up, because that might sidetrack the lecture. 'You’re not from Boston, are you professor?' they asked aghast, the first glimmer that perhaps I was indoctrinating and not teaching, planting evil seeds in their malleable little heads. 'Oh yes,' I responded, grinning like a Cheshire cat on nitrous. 'You’re not just a bandwagon fan?' a student named Carlos Gonzalez asked, still hoping that it just couldn't be, and that a weak moral character in regards to allegiance would be better than a strong devotion to evil, to which I responded, while a Ms. Lopez waited patiently to ask a question about Sartre, 'you name the year, I’ll give you the starting lineup... so when Sartre says 'existence precedes essence, the view that he is attacking is...'

What fun. What fun.

But let's go back a bit in our journey, for as we know, it wasn't all kibbles n bits.

I attended game 1. About the 6th inning, I remarked, 'y'know, I think the highlight of this game was when Damon struck out leading off.' this was my first day back to the stadium since Grady’s choice, and I couldn't make a peep. Mussina’s throwing a fucking perfect game, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, schilling's fucking toasting Christopher reeve out on the mound.
But as the sox got their first hit, and then their first run, and then varitek hit the dong to make it 8-5, I started to stand, then yell, then represent. That’s when the peanuts came a'flyin. To indicate my disregard to such an onslaught, I turned around and made sarcastic boo hoo motions, rubbing my eyes and acting as if they hurt. Then I’d turn back towards the field and give everyone behind me the finger. Well, two of them.

So, of course, more peanuts.

A peanut got caught in my collar, so I picked up it up and did my best Damon-throwing impression back at them, effeminately throwing the peanut about 2 feet, and then giving them the finger.

Ire was raised.

And so about this time, Ortiz hits a triple to make it 8-7. I scream as loud as I can, 'MVP, MVP!!', to which the carefully worded and logically impeccable response, 'shut the fuck up you Boston faggot' was delivered. More peanuts. etc. I, of course, turned around, (and remember, this is in the tier of Yankee stadium, where people are towering above you) and screamed up at everyone "MVP, MVP!", even louder than before.

So, of course, Rivera comes in, and Millar pops out. And that's when smack, right in the back of the head, a full beer. I’m drenched. Some of the falloff gets a Yankee fan in front of me, who had requested earlier that they stop throwing peanuts. He, unbeknownst to me at the moment, leaves his seat to go get the cops. Knownst to me was that I turned around, and in a rage, yelled 'who the fuck threw that?' and when no one answered, I screamed, at maximal ire, 'you fucking pussies! You throw beer at me when my back is turned, and now you're not man enough to admit who threw it?! You’re a bunch of fucking pussies, all of you, a bunch of pussies!' Not knowing the culprit, I made eye contact with as many suspects as I could, all of whom were bigger than me, and I called them pussies, and gestured for them to come down and fight.

You know why they didn't? Because they're pussies. And that's a good thing. You know why I smelled worse than usual? I was covered in beer.

And I had so many zingers lined up. Earlier, before operation peanut turned into a genuine beer conflict, someone had yelled at me, when I turned around, 'nice hair.' so I retorted 'nice job'. I had so many directions I wanted to go if they took the bait. 'I can tell by looking at you that you hate your job.' or, if they had asked me what I did I was going to say 'it doesn’t matter, we're not hiring janitors.' And after launching the 7 dollar beer, I wanted to say, 'I hope your food stamps pay for that,' or, 'you've wasted all that money, now I’ll have to pay your mom extra to clean my toilets.'

Going to Yankee stadium is no fun. I’ve now been there 3 times, 3 alcs games vs. the sox. Games 2 and 7 last year, game 1 this year. You know, it's no fun.

God, I wish I was there last night.

Game 2 simply sucked. I don't know if I can ever forgive Pedro for that daddy comment. Whatever infinitesimal leverage we have when arguing with Yankees fans was completely ripped away when he said that. And to hear them ridicule our hall of famer like that was a stab in the heart. The fact that I paraded around the streets of Brooklyn chanting 'who's your daddy' last night, at the top of my voice, did do something to assuage that. At the time, however, that was a mere daydream.

Game 3 sure seemed like a must win at the time. All day long, I was doing great work. In my spare time, I’ve been working on this paper that's not for class, but I’m hoping is my first published paper. Its up to about 50 pages, and I think its good. I was having great insights, making great progress, feeling really good about myself, and then 8 o’clock rolls around. Time to get my heart stepped on and kicked in the balls. Fantastic. I’m supposed to stop my brain in the middle of its actualization and revert to primitive tribal emotions, only to be destroyed and humiliated? 19-8? Are you fucking kidding me?

As a result, I guess I kind of bailed. I admit it. It just didn't seem fair that I should stop all this great progress I was making, work that was uniquely my own, and emotionally submit to a situation over which I had no control. I had to block it out, I just had to.

So I watched game 4 under my blanket with the sound off. Not hearing the silence of fenway, not hearing Joe Buck call another Yankee hit, somehow made it less real. I don't know if this is because of the auditory associations I have with Yankee stadium, or because with the sound off it just looks like another game, without the postseason roar of communal lust. I wasn't going to let them steal another night of brain from me, so I tried to comfort myself by reading a treatise on the unreality of matter during the game, naturally, in order to convince myself that this wasn't real, and it didn't matter. Although I picked up a few more expository moves, the self-delusion proved stronger yet again. It was real, and it mattered. Oh, it mattered.

The contingencies were felt. In game 1, I believe, we had the tying runs on base, with Bill Mueller up. He hit a ball sharply up the middle, and Rivera made the stab and started the 1-6-3 DP, game over. This time, game 4, Roberts steals, and Mueller again hits it up the middle, this time just by the frantic grab of Rivera. Tie game. And we won that one.

Game 5 I actually had to miss some of. I had a class presentation to do. So I watched the beginning of the game at a bar by school, ducked out with the score 2-1 us, gave my presentation, spontaneously snapped off a remarkably witty and biting zinger at the expense of the most influential philosopher of this generation, who is a prof at my school, and bolted out of class, and back to the bar.

We’re down 4-2, now in the 7th. A bunch of asshole corporos are being idiots and talking shit, not knowing who's pitching or what positions various players play, yet feeling superior and deserving nonetheless. After a sox strikeout, they yell 'sit down', and pump their fists. So finally, when senor October comes through yet again, in the 14th, we start screaming and I yell 'sit down' in the direction of those stupid motherfuckers. One of them, dressed in his corporo gear, starts towards me, screaming drunkenly that they were going to kick our asses, that we're a bunch of losers, that the red sox suck, that Boston sucks. So I cut in and say 'yeah, I know, and I suck too, I really suck. Your job is better than mine, you have a nicer shirt than I do.' he's taken off guard, and noticing that I’m wearing a turtleneck and a (not-baseball) cap, says 'well, you have a cap, and. you're a beatnik!' I laugh, and yell, 'you're a suit!' so he yells that the Yankees are better, and so I say, 'c'mon, suit, market it at me. Hey, it's human resources calling... you suck!' I wanted to say 'don't fight, you'll lose your 401K', but he's busy being restrained by his friends, and I’m trying to figure out whether I should dodge or punch first. I remained content to chant "MVP" for senor October.

What is there to say about game 6? Words cannot express how amazing schilling was. Although I will note that before they reversed the a-rod cheated call, I thought I was going to vomit. It would have been tying run on second, 1 out, with Sheffield and Matsui coming up. Not that those fuckers actually could hit when it counted.

A-rod is a cheater and a choker, a 25 million dollar player whose teams get better when he leaves, and worse when he arrives. Fuck that motherfucker.

Which of course brings us to last night.

The Sox had runners on 1st and second, and the hitter chopped one foul up the third base line. A-rod made the play, and in case it was fair, went to tag third- but rather than stepping on the bag, he hit it with his glove. I yelled "why don't you knock the bag away, you fucking cheater!"

The sox actually did it. I’m still looking for the Yankees, because they didn't even show up to game 7. They didn't even make a game of it. It was over in the second inning.

We spilled out onto the streets, chanting 'Yankees suck', because now it’s true, and 'who's your daddy'. Dismayed and lost Yankee fans looked at us pathetically, although a couple thought to yell. 'Go back to Boston', which was met with the gleeful rejoinder 'oh, we'll go back to Boston... for the world series!'

As we're parading down the street, chanting 'who's your daddy?', and 'go play golf!', and getting cheers from apartment windows and honks from motorists, a girl comes running up to us, flailing violently, kicked drew in the balls and punched me in the face. She’s a spoiled bitch like the rest of them. I laughed at her. It was funny, after all.

Will someone make a t-shirt: 'I went to Yankee stadium and all I got was this a.l. pennant'?

And to cap it off, as I was stepping out the door of the bar to go home, I turned back in and screamed 'Yankees suck, Yankees suck!' everyone joined in, naturally, and I walked out of the bar, with that brand new truth ringing in my ears.

I’m not going to try and describe the feelings. I think we all experienced joy and vindication and pride and, well, everything good. We suffered, we earned, we accomplished, we didn't choke, and we humiliated the Yankees. We showed them what its like. The rivalry is forever changed. We’ve wiped away all those 26 rings, because something happened that's never happened in baseball history, a choke that even the red sox never managed, and it was the Yankees, collapsing in unprecedented and remarkable fashion, at the hands of the red sox. They can 1918 us all they want, but they can never, never undo what happened this year.

Who’s your fucking daddy now, you stupid motherfuckers! We went into your house and pissed on your rug, and their ain't nothin you can do about it. Who’s the red sox now? How do you like it?

Ahh, sweet, sweet victory. Unexpected, impossible, miraculous, gritty, amazing victory.

All the insults, the yelling, the abuse, the fights, the having to risk my neck with all these drunk idiots to stick up for my team, the constant looking out of the corner of my eye for projectiles and fists, I don't like this stuff. I try to glam it up in my storytelling, but I wish they would all fuck off. And now they will. We win. They lose.

I want to buy t-shirts. T-shirts commemorate. And now Yankee fans can go commiserate.

Oh yeah, and fuck themselves.

2004 ALCS Preview: Pray-Per-View

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004: On the Upcoming ALCS vs. the Yankees

[Please ignore the Messianic imagery. It was a very exciting time, if you recall. also, I really had a lousy time at Yankee Stadium a year earlier, during a certain game 7. see http://soxlosophy.blogspot.com/2008/06/2003-alcs-game-7-non-je-ne-regrette.html ]

Well, it's happening. And frankly, I don't think I can take it. It’s hard to imagine anything more exhilarating and trying than last year. From Pedro tossing Zimmer, to nelson and Garcia fighting landscapers, to Grady little and broken bat doubles, the gamut was run. But that was just a prelude. And I simply do not think I can take it.

Over the next week and a half, my screams will be heard, guttural howls emanating from places my soul doesn't even know about, in response to every pitch, ever sign shook off, every step shaded up the middle, every last little contingency that will forever change the face of the earth, and life as we know it.

I fully expect to be struck down by a Yankee fan at some point this week, when the angry mob hears me speak one too many truths, and out of hatred and fear of self- realization, must destroy me before I force them to look inside themselves, to see the evil burning within.

This week will be a true test of faith and devotion, one that'll make Job's treatment look like a manicure. A sox loss would be absolutely devastating. If they lose, I just don't know if I could bounce back. I will be suffering heart attack after heart attack, nervous breakdown after nervous breakdown, all week. Any and all ties to the outside world will be severed, I will be completely at the mercy of the epic battle god has seen fit to subject me to, for purposes of deeming me worthy.

I truly believe that we have the better team, and that we should, and deserve to, win. But then, Job didn't deserve what he got. And that was kind of the point. But his suffering was supposed to be rewarded, not merely a sadistic punishment. We are now at the point of judgment, at the point where for all time, suffering and loss are rewarded with eternal righteousness, and the sweet sweet reward. If we lose, I might very well be crushed, my suffering will have been in vain.

This has to be the year- we've never been in a better position. I simply cannot take more Yankee smugness, more favoritism from the proactive Satan against a complacent and negligent god, more evil in the world.

We humbly await your judgment.

I’m reminded of the 'problem of evil.' the problem runs, quite simply, as follows. Assume there is evil in the world. Is god willing to prevent evil, but unable? Then god is impotent. Is god able to prevent evil, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.

But the problem will be eradicated if we win. Because evil will be vanquished, and the long-suffering Israelites, awaiting their messiah, will be vindicated. We will not have suffered in vain.

We humbly await.

In my philosophy, I do not believe in substance, or objects. But now there is one object which concerns me greatly. And that is curt schilling's right ankle. We disposed of the literal and figurative Achilles heel of the red sox, Nomar "thanks beautiful" Garciaparra. But this problem has resurfaced, has been instantiated in another bit of human, all too human, too too sullied flesh. Curt’s ankle, the very fulcrum from which all his power and leverage is derived, is weak. He must muster superhuman strength, to spontaneously generate energy from within, to transcend the physical limitations of his mortality.

We humbly await.

Pedro must continue to find within the great temple a source of oil, though appearing to have run out, that will last for 8 wins, that will combust at 95 miles per hour.

Baruch atah Adonai, elohaynu melech ha-olum, biray piree ha-fastball

We humbly await.

Bronson cornroyo must continue his David cone impression, throwing backdoor sliders and curves with impunity against the evil minions. He must stand bravely, he cannot waver.

The red sox are our army, protecting our fragile Nation's gates against the onslaught of cold oppressive Yankee fascism. Our freedom and fun loving protectors must persevere against the bitter robotic efficiency of the Yankee death machine. They wish to impose their anti-individualist and plutocratic dogma on our democratic, creative and expressive team. They are Sparta, we are Athens. We must defeat their martial empire. The Yankees represent brutal tyranny. The red sox humanistic democracy. The future of the world is at stake.

It had to come down to this. That much was destiny. But for destiny to mean anything, it must guarantee the just future, one in which suffering is eliminated, and faith rewarded. We know that time is near; otherwise, the end is nigh.

We humbly await.

2003 ALCS Game 7- Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

From the Archive: October 17, 2003:

[After Game 7 ALCS v. Yankees; Sox lose series 4-3, after blowing a 5-2 lead in the 8th inning, and eventually losing in the 11th on an Aaron Boone home run.]

Well, things don't always go as planned. Or in some cases, things are planned to go the way you don't want.

But you know, I'm lucky. Because for 7 1/3 innings, I owned that fucking place. Yankee stadium. Or at least the vicinity around the top tier, section B, row N, seat number 9. For 7 1/3, I got to see the look on those stupid fucking Yankees' fans faces. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I abused them. And they couldn't do anything.

Sure, I was hit in the head and drenched with a few beers. Yes, I was pegged with a bunch of peanuts. But none of those assholes could even own up. After Pedro breezed through another inning, and having grown tired of the mocking "we want Pedro" chant, I switched it up to "throw more beer!, throw more beer!". Did anyone do so? No. Of course not. Because the Yankee fans are cowards. I don't know who threw those beers. But they knew who I was. I was the guy who for 7 1/3 innings owned that fucking place. I was the one with the balls to put myself on the line, because I've suffered, and I was earning that victory.

Every time Soriano waved at another pitch, I hollered "overrated" over and over again. Jeter whiffs "hey, nice cut, Mr. November." Giambi pops out; "you need the deodorant ads, because you stink!" After starting another "lets go red sox" chant, an infuriated Sopranos looking Yankee fan offered for me to come down and fight him. I've never so casually nodded no and given the finger at the same time. His buddy did a nice job of restraining him. I don't know what stopped the other bunch of guys who offered to fight me. Probably being pussies, I guess.

My throat is sore, and my head hurts, and there is beer in my hair and clothes. But for 7 1/3, it was euphoric. There was nothing better. I was in their house pissing on their rug and they just had to shut the fuck up.

And yes, I did notice that we lost. But if we had won, it wouldn't have lasted forever. Maybe the Yankees would have won next year. This way it didn't last a year, but for those 7 1/3 innings, I was the winner. They were the losers. I stood up at Yankee stadium and yelled at the top of my lungs for 2 hours. I told Roger to get his fat ass in a rocking chair, and for Bernie to join him. I told Bernie that it was odd that he could be both washed up, and stink (although few got that one.) I got to call the Yankee fans sore losers, and the fucking pussies wouldn't even admit who threw beer and peanuts. (I guess when you drop out of school in 9th grade you miss out on the spitball phase.)

The damn Yankees fans don't suffer. They don't earn what they get, and they don't deserve it. So I made goddam fucking sure that they suffered as much as possible. In the end, we didn't win, but I'm used to that. We never win. But I knew that for those 7 1/3 innings, all those suckers who paid all that money to be at the game, well, I was making their lives a living fucking hell. I made damn sure that every Yankee fan within earshot, and boy do I have a loud voice, was regretting that they got off their fat asses in the first place to come to that game.

I'm sure by now they've forgotten all about me. But I won't forget the look on their faces. The anger. The rage, all directed at me, the guy who was getting what he earned, but what those assholes thought was theirs for no fucking reason at all. So fuck them. I know that I ruined their fucking night, at least for a couple of hours. And sure, I can get a kick out of responding to "Pedro sucks" chants with "he makes 17 million dollars. So what does that make you?", but it doesn't normally affect anyone. But tonight, for those 7 1/3, those fucking Yankee fans, well, they truly sucked.

So for those of you who weren't there, I'm sorry that you couldn't experience at least the fleeting sensation of triumph in the midst of all those stupid fuckers. But frankly, I don't want to tell you about what it was like leaving the stadium, or pushing through a crowd to find the subway, and all that. This I could have done without.

But that's all a bad dream. The reality, well, were those 7 1/3 innings, when the Red Sox were champions, and I was there.

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.