An Ode to the Boston Red Sox

(Note to the reader: My gag reflexes kick in at the thought of Boston Baked Beans, I think the slop they serve at Boston Market is deplorable, the Boston Tea Party is my least favorite moment in American history, and I once went out of my way to break a girl's heart in college just because her name (Bonnie) sounded too much like Boston.)

Anyways, a few weeks ago, I wrote a column for you guys entitled "You May Now Kiss the Centerfielder." Now, I thought the thing was quite the humdinger, but calling the Boston Red Sox "the Village People of the MLB" apparently rubbed one or two of my valued readers the wrong way.

Take, for example, one Mike Romova — a reader of mine who eats, sleeps, breathes, and mates (wait ... scratch that) amongst you.

In this recent column of mine, I merely equated the Red Sox to some diabolical Y-M-C-A dance that I abhor, but — in what I could decipher from the desultory drivel at least — here is what Mr. Romova had to say about the column:

"If only there was a law recalling keyboards," he pouted, "from homophobes who've spent nearly a full year green with envy over the [Curt] Schilling trade ... For crying out loud [Kevin], you're supposed to be a columnist ... Time to get over ... your writer['s] ego. [By the way], how [are] the dance lessons coming? Do you practice with guys?"

Let this be known: I feel deeply for people who, for whatever reason, have to live in or around the Boston area. So, benevolent guy that I am, I felt it was my journalistic duty to make amends.

Here was my response to the poor Bostonian:

"Dearest Mikey Romova ... Dance lessons are coming along great, but the writing is even better ... There's this one guy who likes my writing so much, Mikey, he wakes up each morning to write me a new comment ... Thanks for caring ... Yours Truly ... Kevin Connelly."

You see, amongst a horde of other things, what separates me from Mr. Romova is my general coherency and his lack thereof.

This is not, as you might surmise, though, a crack against Mr. Romova.

I firmly believe that all people are products of their environments, and being from the greater Los Angeles area myself, I spent my youth learning how to communicate with the English language. Coming from the Boston area, Mr. Romova obviously never had that luxury, as he most likely still believes the place Red Sox starting pitcher David Wells gets loaded on Irish Car Bombs before games is called a "baaa."

On a similar note, I actually found out just the other day that the fine university where young Los Angelinos go to get their higher education is what Ben Affleck was attempting to articulate when he kept burbling "Haaavaaad" in that (scoff) award-winning movie a few years back.

How can I really expect Mr. Romova to be able to communicate effectively when he, like Mr. Affleck, cannot speak the native tongue?

So, after this conversation with Mr. Romova, I promised myself that I would never take the simple things in life, like reading, for granted. With this newfound respect for reading, I picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times and read everything I could get my eyes on from the latest on the war in Iraq to that "Meaning of Lila" comic strip (what a babe, that Lila!). In doing so, I came across the latest in sports, where I learned that both Manny Ramirez and Kevin Millar of the Red Sox were begging management for a one-way ticket out of Boston.

Now, at first glance, I found Mr. Ramirez' desire to jump ship to be a bit impetuous as — I'll admit — he's been punishing the ball of late with 32 home runs and an MLB-leading 107 RBIs. I then happened to glance at the photo attached to the story and, before long, things began to click: the city of Boston has brought Mr. Ramirez to such a state of despair over the years that he no longer has the energy and fortitude to get a haircut.

Simple things, I tell you!

Then came Mr. Millar. According to the L.A. Times, the Red Sox first baseman was sulking to manager Terry Francona about losing playing time this year to journeyman first baseman John Olerud. Now this story didn't hit the national scene with as much clout as the Manny Ramirez story because Mr. Millar, well ... stinks, but I gave it due thought regardless.

Mr. Millar plays first base and designated hitter — the positions most synonymous with power hitters. At these positions, Mr. Millar has hit a paltry four home runs in 344 at bats — not exactly numbers Babe Ruth would be proud of — not exactly numbers my late aunt Ruth (god rest her Massachusetts-hating soul) would be proud of.

Don't you find it amusing how delusions of grandeur work? Mr. Millar hits one home run in every 86 at bats and is somehow under the impression that he deserves more playing time than normal. Similarly, the people of Boston win one World Series in 86 years and are somehow under the impression that they deserve to act more idiotic than normal.

At this pace, though, the Red Sox will not win another World Series title until the year 2090.

I, in that case, will try to find solace in this:

At least, by then, I'll be dead.

The final word comes from none other than Boston's finest, Mr. Mike Romova:

"Count me as your biggest fan, [Kevin]. Just don't blow it by writing something in-depth next time. I don't mind telling you how much I like your features. [By the way], Johnny [Damon] and I are doing drinks later. Care to join us?"

No.