DATELINE: Pardon Us!
Boston sports media always protect their own. If you have questions, you may not always receive answers. Not even the get well wishes of a former President of the United States can hide bigger puzzlements.
Dark questions haunt the situation surrounding the hit on David Ortiz. Oh, yes, make no mistake: it was a hit that fortunately did not end Big Papi’s game. As he told doctors entering surgery, “I am a good man.” He did not want to die.
So, we wonder why the Red Sox organization decided to fly Ortiz out of the Dominican Republic as soon as possible, even before he stabilized (despite the medical opinion to the contrary).
If you think he was stable, he arrived in Boston to face immediate second surgery. Did someone botch the job in the ER of the DR?
In New York’s Post, you see the words “hit man.” This does not surprise several of his former teammates, who indeed think an assassin’s bullet is not out of the question.
You may well wonder why Ortiz returned often to the DR. Was it to see his family—while leaving his wife and children back in Boston?
You may well wonder why the assassin is tied to drugs and why his companion was a police officer. You may well wonder if the long-ago charge that Ortiz used illegal substances in his baseball career might resurface.
They removed Ortiz from the DR before another attack might finish him off: how easy it is to die in a hospital from complications after being shot up and losing your intestines, spleen, and other organ parts.
Septic poisoning is but a day away.
Big Papi’s agent thinks something odd is going on. Well, when you are spirited out of the hospital before the police can question you, there is an appearance that leaves a dubious feeling.
We can count only on the fact that the Boston media has thrown up another protective shield around David Ortiz.
DATELINE: Trump Hits for the Cycle!
Kings: John Henry & Trump!
Donald Trump did not disinvite this team from his chicken-wing fast-food White House. That’s likely because the Red Sox self-determined that players of color (who actually were the heart and soul of the World Series) chose to avoid the ceremony.
Unlike other times, Trump did not blanch white at the idea that players of color showed him disrespect. He seemed pleased.
So, who did show up? The team insists that these winners are not losers in the race divide of America. Yet, we begin to wonder if the team we see on the field this season will amount to a hill of white fava beans.
Sean Spicer, Sox fan and former White House official, was stopped at the door for being a media member. So much for the goldfish memory of Trump’s team.
You cannot have half the Red Sox team in discord against the other half—well, you can, but these are not repeat winners. This year they appropriately stink up Fenway Park.
These are the whiter than white Red Sox from the town where black players have repeatedly complained about racist taunts from the fans.
The billionaire ownership has dismissed these failings in the fans. Indeed, one owner, named Tom Werner, was the man who hired Bill Cosby and defended him against all the charges made by women whose legal redress sent the Coz to jail. The other supercilious owner is King John Henry VIII whose elitism may rival Trump. You’ll never catch John Henry in a massage parlor like his fellow billionaire owner, Robert Kraft.
Trump did not breathe the name of Alex Cora, the Puerto Rican manager, who has lambasted the racism of Trump. You’d not find any White House credit given to the man whom Boston media and fans lauded as the reason for the World Series victory in 2018.
Red Sox white nationalist supporters claim that baseball is apolitical. The question is what exactly is an apolitical sport? As we recall, the origins of baseball were that it was a game for “white gentlemen.”
Black leagues were separate and kept unequal for 100 years. The Red Sox, we remind you, were the last major league team to integrate. Pumpsie Green was their first black player—and he sat on the bench for years.
Welcome to the White House, you white suck-up Sox.
DATELINE: Field of Dreams at Fenway Again
Casey, not AC?
If you were to ask, we doubt we’d have said we would return to watching the Red Sox again. Our last blog on them was several years ago, but it is the World Series in Boston, again.
If you were to ask if writing about the managers might be a possibility,we might shrug. However, we realized that two former Sox players were now in back in Boston as managers: Yes, there was an aging star Dave Roberts, now with the Dodgers, and his counterpart Alex Cora.
Might we say there is Magic in the Moonlight at Fenway? Well, only because we saw Magic Johnson there in the stands, as an executive braintrust with the Los Angeles baseball team. Wasn’t he part of the Bird-Magic story in Boston?
No, wait, we were thinking of Moonlight Graham playing in Field of Dreams when Kevin Costner was sitting in the stands with James Earl Jones who played Terence Mann, the writer who wanted to play with these same Dodgers.
No, we were shocked to see Alex Cora, or AC as his players call him in the modern familiarity with supervisors and managers. He was running a talent-laden team that had replaced the previous manager for not winning a World Series.
When AC pulled the hot rookie Devers and replaced him with a pitch hitter named Nunez, we were more in marvel at the assortment of beards on the players. Yet, suddenly, AC became a genius before a national audience.
The last time we saw that it was someone in another era by the name of Casey Stengel. He managed the New York Yankees, another talent-laden team that kept winning. Stengel would pick a pinch-hitter out of a hat who would win the game.
Suddenly there was AC channeling Casey. How appropriate, if not poetic. AC picked the man to win the game with a homer to the Monster Seats. It was a ghost movie for baseball once again.
Once again, the Boston sports media has fallen down on the job.
Over the past year or so, there have been ample opportunities to ask owner Tom Werner, the media expert of the Red Sox and co-owner of the largest share with John Henry, about his dubious association with Bill Cosby.
You might better remember Werner as the man who decided to fire Voice of the Red Sox for years, Don Orsillo, for no reason except trust in his own good judgment and disregard of fans.
Now it’s come back to us in the age of #MeTooism, that Tom Werner was one of the first great enablers of actor and sexual predator Bill Cosby as a Hollywood TV producer.
Werner was the producer of the Cosby series from 1984 to 1992, making both men rich and giving Werner the opportunity to buy the Red Sox in subsequent years.
Tom Werner is not to become confused with Werner von Braun, the space scientist. They are heavens apart.
No member the media has asked Tom about how he enabled Cosby. No member of the media has asked him for his opinion on all of the charges against his former star and pal of the series.
Unlike the previous owner named Tom (that’s Tom Yawkey, folks), Tom Werner had no problems with hiring black people and using them to profit. Tom Werner has been instrumental behind the name change of Yawkey Way in Boston near Fenway Park, with its racist connotations, to turn back the clock to the original name, Jersey Street.
But, we digress.
What did Tom Werner know and when did he know it about Bill Cosby? No one seems to have asked him the question. So, we will.
Tom, did you have any idea about all the women that Bill Cosby was accosting?
Cosby was the Harvey Weinstein of the Dark Ages in Hollywood. Werner was apparently the man behind the curtain in those dark ages. For years he helped Cosby become a success.
If there are any Red Sox fans who belong to #MeToo’s movement, they should be asking about Werner too.
DATELINE: Great Rivalry about to be Born
Jayson Tatum & Steph Curry
Are we talking a new major rivalry? Boston and New England has had its fair share of giants in sports history. We have seen loyal opposition, and red coats.
In Boston, some fans believe it is happening again.
We are looking at something special on the famous Garden parquet floor under the green banners.
We can remember Bird & Magic. We know about Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio. Recently there was Tom Brady and Peyton Manning. Some oldsters even remember Bobby Orr & Brad Park. How can we forget Thurman Munson and Carlton Fisk?
We aren’t sure if David wore a Boston jersey when he took on Goliath on the Boston Common.
Yes, Yankees and Red Sox. Lakers and Celtics. Patriots and Broncos. Bruins and Rangers.
Tonight, we add Golden State Warriors and Boston Celtics for this generation. We hope Steph Curry and Kyrie Irving can elevate us to sports Nirvana, even if Kyrie looks like the Masked Marvel for this game.
No doubt about it, the thought of a new Boston rivalry makes us giddy.
Throw in Kevin Durant, the man who didn’t like Green shorts. Throw in Jason Tatum, a phenom teenager who is the new Larry Bird.
We cannot emphasize that hyperbole is an understatement in anticipation of this benchmark game in legendary lore.
Yes, Charles Dickens said it best: it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. We had Trump; we had Brady. We had black lives mattering; we had white supremacist dolts. The times are a mess.
We pray that the worst of times will transform this sports moment into the best of times during one little basketball game, Golden State Warriors versus the Boston Celtics. Yummy.
DATELINE: Boston Not Their Home
Red Sox Fan
We heard that Las Vegas shooter Stephen Paddock considered coming to Fenway Park to bestow the city of Boston with his insane mass murder on the joint. This horrid revelation has not made a ripple with this year’s team of disgruntled, unhappy Red Sox players.
This will be our only piece about the Red Sox this year, as their season is coming to a close soon. Yeah, they are in the playoffs. Not that anyone in Boston gives much of a fig. This bunch is not liked.
Baseball fans love Fenway. They are lukewarm toward these players. If you believe baseball is business, these teammates come to the office, pick up their paychecks, but would rather play in any other city. They have no ties to Boston.
It could have something to do with the media. They hate the media, including homers like former Sox Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley who was berated and attacked earlier in the season by pitcher David Price, a pitcher whose option likely will put him elsewhere in a season ahead.
He hates Boston.
Dustin Pedroia has played his entire career in the city, but has never embraced the town like David Ortiz, the last Sox player to be part of the community.
You figure after a dozen years, Pedroia would have some ties to Boston. He doesn’t.
Perhaps they have heard racial taunts at Fenway. Some fans dispute this allegation, but the players seem stand-offish to the Olde Towne. Most don’t like the liberals around here.
Young players are stuck here, but would rather play elsewhere. For example, Jacoby Ellsbury never embraced Boston, and preferred to move on to the Yankees where he is happier being anonymous than a star in Bean Town.
These Red Sox do not love the Dirty Water. Most probably wouldn’t understand the reference. They don’t want to be here and will disperse quickly next week when their seasonal prison sentence in Boston ends.
Good riddance to this team of apathetic nobodies.
DATELINE: Sick of Baseball Already
The Red Sox have gone viral.
And it’s not pretty. A stomach virus is decimating the overrated team. Well, at least now they have an excuse when the season ends in disgrace.
Reports unlike any we have heard in our history of being a fan have come forth—upchucked like a bad meal. Not only have players run off the field like they were trying to bunt to reach base, but even the broadcaster bailed out of the booth with a case of trotting to the rest room.
Young athletes, in our estimation, live in close quarters with other men and may be susceptible to catching on with a team. We don’t recall such a decimation in Sox history.
Is there something in the bottled water in the clubhouse? Is it something in the Boston atmosphere? We also noted a few Celtics were recently sick—and even required hospitalization. Thank heavens for Obamacare.
We are taken aback at the hospital visits—as most young men in their primes and prone to six-pack abs are among the strongest of the species unless their occupation is to walk the runway.
What is causing the spate of dyspepsia among our Red Sox stars? We know that teams often now provide prepared meals taken on the road for their players—lest some visiting town sprinkle the dinners and snacks with an unknown substance.
In the meantime, the balls are being played with less than healthy members of the Red Sox.
DATELINE: Dumb Opening Acts
When an aging 40-year old superstar QB chases down a superstar tight end coming off back surgery, you have the potential for a Super Nova.
This is the kind of tale told when you sit around a campfire and explain it to your grandchildren at the end of the 21st century.
In space terms, that’s one Big Bang.
If you see stars falling out of Super Bowl LII, you may think Belichick’s mantra of “One More,” could take on all the elements of Greek tragedy.
If you like your bangs with medical accoutrements, you may be in a body cast up to your earlobes with a cast of super stupid stars.
Instead of the Alpha, jock humor will be the Omega of the Patriots firmament.
Many fans, and Bob Kraft too, must have looked aghast upon the Great Chase of Brady after Gronk who re-stole the infamous Super Bowl jersey. Only Bob Kraft saw millions of dollars going down on the Fenway short right field.
If you want to steal the fire from heaven, you could end up in Hades.
The last time we saw a chase like this, it was in a Buster Keaton silent film about the Civil War called The General. The old locomotive went into the drink—and that was that.
Imagine losing your two biggest NFL stars at an MLB ceremony. It would be like Hertz giving Avis a bunch of flat tires. If you want to kick the tires on Brady and Gronk, you might wonder how they manage to run the field when Tony Romo retires the same day at a median of their ages owing to injury.
On the other hand, you might like the feistiness of the young pup Brady, having discovered his second childhood, and the quick, nimble recovery of a man prone to back pain. You may like to live dangerously.
Fortunately, the Great Fenway Chase was about as scripted as a Three Stooges skit about a week back.
DATELINE: It’s Only $$$$
Taking a day off from our Mad Dog Patriot Season, we turn our attention to the Mad Dog Red Sox Off-Season.
After enduring the Puritanical Ben Cherington who orchestrated the witch trials that rid the Sox of the billion-dollar chicken nugget bucket brigade, Cherington settled into the dourest administration since Cal Coolidge ran Massachusetts.
We aren’t sure that the profligate Dumbo is a better fit, but it isn’t our money he’s throwing away like a sailor on holiday in Shanghai just before the Boxer Rebellion.
Dave Dombrowski is playing to the rafters. His version of Hamlet in the front office has taken on the name of action and bared his bodkin to the American League who are all running to a nunnery.
When you pay the Price, you know it has to be hefty. But, in Boston the price is right when you promise to take Red Sox Nation to the Promised Land. Churly Cherington led the team’s nation through the desert of last place for three out of four years.
He never could find manna from King John Henry VIII and finally went to the tower before losing his head entirely.
Like Cromwell, Dombo is a man of the people—he knows that a pricey pitcher is worth a two hundred million words on the shopping block.
For a time Dombrowski will have the ear of the King in the owners’ box, but there had better be an heir to the World Series, or we may have more carnage on Yawkey Way than the last act of a Shakespearean play.
DATELINE: Dry Humor
We’ve been told in no uncertain terms to lay off David Ortiz. The Big Papi had to sit out a game in the hot Florida sun because it dehydrated him.
We hesitated to point out that old people all suffer from this because the body thermostat loses its effectiveness after a certain age. We just didn’t know that age was 39.
In our day, being 39 was thought to be a symbol of youth’s last glimmer. If 39 is the new 50, then Jack Benny has lost his funniest joke. And, the Red Sox have found it.
Some people questioned how a man who sits in the dugout during the game, under shade and next to the watercooler can possibly overheat.
Some people have wondered how a man whose entire career has avoided hot grass and sun-drenched playing fields could suddenly fail to avoid those.
Others are questioning the rigorous spring training regimen that Dudley Do-Right Farrell has imposed on his out of shape roster.
You might say that Ortiz should have spent the winter in Boston, shoveling out his car every day. He’d be far more sympathetic to the hot Florida sun.
But, a cadre of voters for including Big Papi in the Hall of Fame have accused us of cruelty and injustice. It’s almost as if we have taken umbrage at Deval Patrick for wanting $7500 a day to promote the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How dare we deny a man his livelihood? How dare we attack an icon for being iconic?
Hey, we’d probably vote to convict Aaron Hernandez too. Call us callous.
DATELINE: Highway to Spring
Truck Day is not supposed to arrive for another week, but the New England Patriots once again one-upped the Boston Red Sox.
Diehard Sox fans wait for February’s semi-holiday to improve their moods as the snow flies. This year, more than usual, Truck Day has become bigger than having one’s throat blessed.
This is the time that baseball equipment is placed in a convoy of big rigs for a long winter’s drive to the spring training facility in Florida. Apparently, driving on slick highways is cheaper than asking Jet Blue to transport this stuff to Jet Blue Park.
If catchers’ mitts and fungo bats go off the road in an icy skid, the Sox season could be in jeopardy. Yet, this foolhardy tradition has unwavering, if not unsteady, support from the snow-blower contingent around Fenway Park.
Yet, the Patriots have now usurped the Red Sox tradition.
You can blame Tom Brady for having another season of immense pressure and showing grace under it.
Yes, it seems Truck Day has a new meaning for the MVP of Super Bowl XLIX. He has circumvented the tax code to bestow a gift on a fellow Patriot.
The Butler who did it in the final seconds of the game will now receive a red Chevy truck as his gift. It seems Tom Brady, whose wife’s annual salary is double the paychecks of the entire offensive Patriot line, has seen fit to donate the truck to a deserving soul.
Matthew Butler, whose interception actually won the game, will now be the tow-truck recipient of Tom Brady’s re-gifting.
We never look a gift of horsepower in the mouth.
DATELINE: Screwball & Blackball
Major League baseball writers threw a blackball at Curt Schilling when they elected his teammate Pedro Martinez to the Hall of Fame at Cooperstown.
Perhaps election to the Hall is overrated. You only have to ask Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens about that.
However, to most players who loved the game they played, and loved the millions of dollars they earned playing it, the Hall is some kind of apolitical, neutral body that steps away from team and city partisanship.
You’d think that, but according to Curt Schilling, you’d be wrong.
The man whose bloody sock won a city heart and world attention when he pitched his plasma out in a World Series game was denied a walk of fame down the Hall.
He blames it on his politics. He is a conservative in a world of big city Democrats. Those pesky writers never are part of the world of athletes—and voting on entrance into the Hall of Fame is a good way to show their partisanship.
They are better educated, know the game better, are holier than thou, and now appear to be amoral.
The writers died Curt Schilling, Republican activist who almost ran for U.S. senator. He also has spent his energy and time on helping find a cure for ALS before people dumped cold water on their heads. He never used PEDs or steroids, which you can’t say about many of his colleagues (only the others elected to the HOF).
He is a man who also took a government loan to start a game business and went bankrupt. Apparently, the safeguard of taxpayers, the MLB writers decided to punish him.
No Hall for Curt. We know all about liberal hubris and blackballs. We worked in academia. Our sympathies to Curt.
We have learned from a secret source what King John Henry VIII offered in the package meant for Jon Lester if he chose to stay with the Red Sox.
Larry Lucchino has leaked this information to show what a parvenu ingrate Jon Lester has become.
First, Lester could have used Henry’s season tickets to the Boston Symphony Orchestra three times per year. On the upcoming programme was Rachmininoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini and Puccini’s Nessun Dorma.
King John Henry would send his tailor to give Lester his choice of a tux or a dressing gown in silk and an opportunity to take art appreciation classes at the MFA.
Henry offered a weekend cruise on his yacht the SS Minnow to Cannes for the foreign language film festival each of the subsequent three years of the contract.
A month’s supply of Beluga caviar was already at the Post Office for special delivery to Lester.
For hunting trips (much favored by Lester) Henry had a litter of teacup Maltese pups in white ready for the excursion and a trip to the Westminster Dog Show afterward.
Also in the package was an opportunity to play a cameo role on next season’s Downton Abbey acting in the role of Shirley MacLaine’s American chauffeur. Following that he would be taken to Covent Garden to watch the Royal Ballet perform Sleeping Beauty.
Considering these magnificent cultural perks, we are dumfounded that Lester chose to take the offer by Joe Maddon to go hunting with one of his bench coaches.
The values of the sports world are clearly not what they used to be.
And now for the truth you won’t hear on Boston sports blab shows or on websites beholden to the Red Sox kingpins…
We will tell you the unvarnished truth about why Jon Lester went elsewhere.
Yes, you could start at the long goodbye during the hideous 2013 season when the Sox ownership insulted Jon Lester with their offers. As Dan Shaughnessy brilliantly pointed out, Fredo Corleone was given a better sendoff by the Godfather.
That was the end of the trail, not the start of negotiations.
If you want to appeal to the heart of a player, you don’t send King John Henry VIII to make the appeal. You could send Robert Kraft who actually loves his players and relates to them as young men.
Henry relates to them like a disdainful banker. He is, at his smarmiest, a cold fish. He is not a dog lover, a hunter, or a down-to-earth uncultured slob. He is a snob.
Given a boatload of money, some players are charmed by the Red Sox, but others know they have to buy the duckboat for real love.
King John Henry VIII will invite players to his yacht, the Pequod, and give them expensive gifts—like a divorced parent on a guilt trip. But, then he will come down hard on the Chicken and Beer brigade—divesting them to another league and another coast. Those chicken wing munchers like Josh Beckett and Adrian Gonzalez were friends of Lester.
When you ask all those Red Sox players on the Yankee roster the eternal question of “Why”, they will look at you with befuddlement. They wonder what is going on in the bubbleheads on Yawkey Way. Jacoby Ellsbury is only the latest to feel when they fall out of love with you, you are dog food.
King John Henry VIII’s minions will now talk a great game to win back the goodwill of fans. But, be careful, fans. That bridge goes to Brooklyn. Mae West and Bugs Bunny and King John Henry VIII are only the latest salespeople.