Feeding the Frenzy in Red Sox Nation

The stretch sedan plodded along the bumpy dirt road leading down to the South Boston waterfront, then came to rest in a wide clearing that doubled as a parking lot. The three occupants looked out smoked windows onto the urban wilderness and the harbor beyond, each eerily still in these hours past midnight. The driver walked around and let the front passenger out.

"Heya, boss, you want I should drop him in the harbor when he gets out?"

The object of discussion was the narrow-shouldered man with long but graying blond hair in the rear seat who at present was frantically fingering one last e-mail into his Blackberry.

"No, not yet," answered Boss, as he adjusted the knot of his tie.

"I'll cut him into little squares I will, so's we can feed him to the fishes."

"Just call back to the restaurant and make sure they burned our tablecloth, then wait here at the car."

"Boss?"

"Let me explain to you how these things work. First, he signs over the controlling interest to me. Then, we chop him up. If we chop him up first, he can't very well sign anything, now can he?"

The underling saw Boss's point. He opened the rear door and waited nearby as the narrow-shouldered man got out.

"Come on, Mr. Henry," Boss instructed. "Let's take a walk over here."

There were plenty of things John Henry, the current high bidder for the Boston Red Sox, would rather be doing at one o'clock in the morning, but Joe O'Donnell was a man you obeyed. After all, he controlled everything in The Hub — the Mayor's Office; the sports media; hell, even cystic fibrosis research. Now he wanted to control the Red Sox.

The two men walked into the clearing where a mound of freshly disturbed soil marked by a stake soon occupied Henry's attention. He drew his overcoat tighter and could feel the Blackberry press against his breast. It was perhaps his last remaining lifeline. Boss O'Donnell took a moment to savor his guest's apparent discomfort before explaining, "You're standing on home plate." Mr. Henry exhaled with some relief.

For as far as Henry's eye could see, this surrounding desolation was titled to the evening's host. And one day soon, fifty thousand spectators singing Sweet Caroline in unison would surround the site on which they now stood. It was to be their imminent partnership's first major acquisition.

"You're a good friggin' guy," O'Donnell continued. "Let's make this work. I want to do this deal. I want to be the control guy and I want to be your partner."

"Gee, Joe, I'm just not sure. We're already giving you 50%. Mr. Werner and I want the tie-breaking vote. I really need to talk to my partner." He reached for the Blackberry in his breast pocket, but the Boss's powerful right arm intercepted.

"Mr. Henry, I think maybe you should make me Managing General Partner. You know, in case something should happen to you." O'Donnell reached into his pocket. The eager underling by the car drew a step closer.

Henry closed his eyes. The next sound he heard was the clicking ... of Joe O'Donnell's ballpoint pen.

Abandoned waterfront lots, late-night e-mails, graves delineated by home plate tombstones: the stuff of wise guy movies. Or the surreal visual of how a Big League ownership syndicate gets formed — at least the visual conjured in Seth Mnookin's newest creation, Feeding the Monster: How Money, Smarts, and Nerve Took a Team to the Top (Simon & Schuster), which went on sale this past Tuesday.

For Mnookin, it is a writer's dream: unfettered access to one of sport's most treasured franchises. Somewhere between left fielders that step behind the Green Monster during games and general managers who don gorilla suits to escape the media lies a team that branded itself a band of idiots and fulfilled their 86-year quest for the most coveted trophy in all of New England.

Yet, Mnookin disregards all the folklore and pageantry at his disposal, preferring sensationalism to turn a quick sale, this according to some supporting actors in his story, most notably Joe O'Donnell.

O'Donnell, a food service contractor and co-owner of the land abutting Boston Harbor widely regarded as the primary site for a successor to Fenway Park, is best known in this community for his fight against cystic fibrosis, the disease that claimed his son. In 1986, O'Donnell established the Joey Fund in memory of his son, an organization that has raised more than $25 million to fund research and assist victims of the disease. Not exactly the type of guy that slips severed horse heads under an adversary's sheets.

Although O'Donnell acknowledges the Joey Fund as the most important of his life's missions, he also admits a desire to own the Red Sox that dates back to his youth in a Boston suburb. And late one night in 2001 as two men gathered at the prospective site of a new home plate for Fenway Park, that dream nearly came to fruition — albeit without the dramatics portrayed in Feeding the Monster.

In an interview on Boston's WEEI-AM this past Monday, O'Donnell refuted much — but not all — of Mnookin's account of the 2001 failed negotiations for controlling interest within the syndicate that had just tendered the highest bid for the Boston Red Sox, calling many of the author's suggestions "farcical."

Mnookin was quick to his own defense, posting a rebuttal on his website the same day, then participating in an online chat and appearing on WEEI Wednesday. His efforts may not have earned him an acquittal from Yawkey Way, but early returns suggest he has captured the imagination of New Englanders whose appetite for all things Red Sox remains insatiable.

It also helps that the rank-and-file voice no sympathies for John Henry and his decision to allow a Vanity Fair editor full access to Fenway Park and all its personnel. Reportedly, Mnookin was given his own office, door card, and a daily agenda of events from which he could search out his next chapter of material. And what editorial ground rules did Henry exact of Mnookin for his privileges? Absolutely none.

For Mnookin, it was simply an offer he couldn't refuse.

Yet, with so much demand for a straight glimpse into the locker rooms and front offices of a professional sports franchise, it is quizzical that Mnookin opts for a Desperate Housewives flavor. Interpersonal relationships — such as those between Pedro Martinez and Curt Schilling, Manny Ramirez and Manager Terry Francona, and GM Theo Epstein and CEO Larry Lucchino — are exploited with every turn of the page. Regarding one innocuous exchange between Schilling and Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy, Francona claimed Mnookin "hasn't done the best job conveying the hard-core truth" in his embellished account.

Sometime in the weeks ahead, I see myself succumbing to Seth Mnookin's story-telling abilities. And unlike most reads, I probably won't sit out until my name hits the top of the waiting list at the local library. This is simply a summer must for any self-respecting sports fan who wants to keep up with conversation in this land where baseball never sleeps. For me, Mnookin's is an offer I can't refuse.

Besides, Desperate Housewives is in reruns.

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