In New York and Philadelphia, the respective American and National League frontrunners flamed out a fortnight ago. The new Mr. October was discovered in Texas, Prince Fielder bid adieu to Milwaukee, and the World Series opened last week in the least likely of host cities only a month ago.
Nonetheless, Boston has been the Mecca of baseball conscience throughout the postseason, as off-field hijinks on Yawkey Way have made the Red Sox an October equivalent of the on-field train wreck they were in September. You just can't take your eyes off them, and no one is.
The harvest month began innocuously enough in these parts with the obligatory manager firing that typically accompanies the worst post-Labor Day collapse in MLB history. That was followed by assorted Who's-to-blame? polls all won by GM Theo Epstein in landslide plurality, and a bounty on him that is getting nastier the longer it takes Chicago to ante up and free him of the remaining term of his contract. In return, Red Sox Nation only asks that the Cubs take some of Theo's garbage along with him. Even a child is expected to clean up after himself, so why can't they grab a mop and soak up the $46 million balance on John Lackey's deal?
The second week of October was when things started getting real strange — even in a land where the GM once disguised himself in a gorilla suit, and the star designated hitter recently interrupted a press conference to complain about an official scorer then claimed he wants to play somewhere a little less dramatic.
The usual frivolity surrounding Yankee Elimination Day was overshadowed this year by reports of players drinking beer and romping down fried chicken while playing video games. Yes, in the clubhouse. And yes, during games. Okay, even in the dugout during games. Still, it's curious to us New Englanders that this would be so newsworthy. We all need help from the bottle to get through a Red Sox game, so why should players be any different? Besides, it is called rally beer. When your team wins only two of the 62 games in which they trailed after seven innings — the worst record in baseball, by the way — the rally cause needs all the help it can get. Turns out the beer really couldn't prevent imminent disappointment from happening and you'd wake to one helluva headache each September morn, but eventually you forgot about the losing.
Within another week, fans were once again reminded how the Red Sox organization is a lot like the mob: once you're in, you can't get out alive. A smooth exit didn't happen for Nomar Garciaparra or Pedro Martinez or Johnny Damon, and it wasn't happening for Tito Francona either. "Team sources" gutted the former manager and laid his innards bare for media hyenas across the country to pick at the carcass of his personal life in what became the public relations equivalent of a chemical warfare attack. It went way beyond the boundaries of human decency.
That Boston Globe piece set in motion the most bizarre series of finger-pointing and CYA maneuvers the sports world has ever seen. Fast forward to last Friday. Red Sox principal owner John Henry sheds the Cloak of Invisibility that he'd worn for three weeks and walks into the studio of one of Boston's two all-sports radio stations. He spends an unprecedented 70 minutes of air time distancing ownership from Francona's departure, the leaks about Tito's health and marital problems, and beer and chicken. Although well-received by the Boston media, Henry's visit backfires when he disavows any role in the Carl Crawford signing and his credibility on other matters is questioned both in the course of the interview and in the fact-checking that follows.
In just the past few days, we've had Jon Lester fessing up to the occasional rally beer and, of course, piling on his former manager, too. Almost immediately, "team sources" tweeted that his was not an entirely truthful account. Really, Mr. Henry? Don't worry. Nobody believes Lester had only one beer any more than they believe you had no knowledge of the goings on in either the clubhouse or dugout. Now Red Sox pitchers have started individually refuting the dugout story, but more witnesses have come forward putting beer in the dugout. What will come out next? Back-strapped beer tanks with under-the-collar siphon tubes they can carry to the mound?
Only a week ago, the Red Sox were just another overpaid and underachieving team not unlike the Phillies or Yankees. Today, Yawkey Way is now hosting happy hours in the dugout, holding its GM hostage, bashing a manager who delivered two titles to Boston, filling the airwaves with damage-controlling rhetoric, and dissing their $142 million left fielder, all before one pitch had been thrown in the World Series. They've even managed the near-impossible by disgracing the entire Red Sox Nation.
Baseball fans regard our team much as we do our children. One minute, we're proud of what they've accomplished; the next, we scold them for what they didn't do. Each of us lives by the unwritten rule that we alone can be critical of our kids, and we'll defend them before the outside world. The same goes for our team. I will turn on a Yankees fan who tells me Boston's starting pitching is suspect, just as fast as I'll turn on a neighbor who complains that my son's violin playing is making her dog howl.
But every so often, a baseball team will do the unconscionable. They'll go beyond where our kids would ever venture, beyond where any self-respecting fan can follow. That's how it is with the Boston Red Sox.
For years, we've had to put up with petulant behavior, hypersensitive feelings, questionable injuries, even quitting. Imagine explaining to your kids why Manny Ramirez left the bat on his shoulder for three straight strikes, or why being credited for every last RBI is so important to David Ortiz. To everyone else, we insist that both were instrumental in bringing Boston its only two titles in 91 years. But the antics by players, coaches, and front office — both between and beyond the foul lines — over the past two months demand to be answered with revolt. Our capacity for abuse has been tested daily since Labor Day, and the infrastructure of loyalty that bound the many generations of fans to team has cracked.
Right about now, you may think that God is not too popular within the watershed of the Charles River on account of His master plan this autumn. On the contrary, He is as caring and giving as ever here in Boston. After all, we may have lost a team we can respect and be proud of, but we've gained back our Sunday nights, don't have to listen to David Ortiz bitch about not being penciled in at first base tonight in St. Louis, and, best of all, no one's been hung over in a month.
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