The verdict is in after the beanball battle royale in Tampa Bay last Sunday, and the hammer of justice has come down.

Absolutely unbelievable. Bronson Arroyo, who hit Chris Singleton in the leg, gets six games while Lance Carter, who threw behind Manny Ramirez and then immediately afterward threw hard and fast at David Ortiz's head, gets five? (I'm convinced that Arroyo hit Aubrey Huff earlier in the game by accident, by the way. It's what he does.) Ortiz gets nailed with a fine for acting like a sentient human being and taking umbrage at Carter's head-hunting. Terry Francona's out for three games. Trot Nixon for two. It boggles the mind.

We all knew this was coming. But I don't think anyone was expecting this severity. And, as if it needs to be said, losing Arroyo for a start is pretty much the last thing we need with our rotation in such shambles at the moment. All we can do is appeal -- and we most certainly will -- and see what happens.

Happily, Wade Miller looked great in Pawtucket last night, allowing five hits and no runs in five innings. One more start, and he's all ours.

And, on a lighter note, "Jose Melendez" has the funniest line of the day today in the Sons of Sam Horn game thread for tonight's Wakefield/Chan Ho Park match-up in Texas.

What [Tony Massarotti] says: "And the Red Sox suddenly have a starting rotation that looks disturbingly thin."

What [Tony Massarotti] means: We just lost the two fattest guys in the rotation, so the average weight of Sox starters has dropped by like 40 percent. And I for one am concerned. Did you read that study saying slightly overweight people live longer? We need to get some bulk on Arroyo... just for his own health.

Speaking of Sons of Sam Horn, I finally got a copy of Win It For... the other day -- thanks, Kevlog! -- and it's a thing of beauty. A profound and genuinely emotional testament to the real passion and soul of Red Sox nation, and the deep love we all have for this team. (For those who care about such things, I'm on page 132.)

P.S. Maybe the Yankees really do suck?

4/29/2005 3:16:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [1] |  

Pitching problems abound.

Sox cede big lead with Clement and Foulke to blame.

Wells on the DL.

Now Schilling too.

Please hurry back, Wade Miller.

Please pitch well, John Halama and Lenny DiNardo.

Please, God. Let it rain good and long.

4/27/2005 2:22:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Today, Sox Blog's esteemed Phoenix colleague, David S. Bernstein, posed an intriguing question. I've got an idea or two about how to answer, but I figured I'd throw up here to see what others have think. Here it is.

In 1999, Tiger Woods had LASIK laser surgery on his eyes, bringing them from legally blind (without contacts) to 20-20. He freely discusses how much it has improved his physical ability to play golf, and how he considered and weighed the potential serious risks associated with the surgery.

Bonds (assuming the worst of what he has been accused of) took steroids to improve his physical ability to play baseball, knowing the potential risks associated with the use of steroids, during a time when baseball had no policy banning the use of steroids.

What is the difference?

Why is Bonds's action so bad that people are discussing placing asterisks on his records and banning him from the Hall of Fame, while Woods is perhaps the most popular figure in sports, with people rooting for him to break Nicklaus's records, while he acts as spokesperson [see his testimonial here] for his enhancement?

We await your response.

4/26/2005 1:44:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

You win some and, well, you don't win some. After pitching so brilliantly against the Orioles last week, David Wells surrendered eight hits and six earned runs in three and two-thirds innings last night, apparently spraining his foot in the process. Reliever Matt Mantei also twisted an ankle in the dispiriting 8-4 loss. From the looks of it -- knock wood -- Mantei's injury isn't serious. (He says he'll be ready to pitch again tonight.) Wells's prognosis, on the other hand, remains to be seen. It's also up in the air whether the fact that he stayed in the game for five more batters -- one of whom, B.J. Surhoff, hit a two-run homer -- after he limped off the mound helped to worsen it. Luckily, despite being rained out twice up in Portland, Wade Miller may be ready to join the rotation as early as next week. Fingers crossed....

Meanwhile, Kevin Millar pacing left field is a sight scarier than Ben Affleck in a Red Sox ski cap. I know that I argued last week that Manny Ramirez should be able to rest his risky legs when time and situation permits, but seeing Kentucky Fried Kevin in the Green Monster's shadow yesterday evening was chilling. Moreover, as the Globe's Chris Snow reports, Millar's legs are in pretty horrific shape themselves. (Plunked five times already, he's on pace to get hit by 43 pitches this season, which would set a club record.) "His right leg is black and blue, knee to ankle, the damage done by Tampa Bay's Scott Kazmir Friday night," Snow writes. "There's a line on his leg just below the knee where the seams of the ball stamped his skin. Then there's a fading bruise on his side, where he was plunked last Tuesday by Toronto's Roy Halladay. And there are two marks on his upper left arm, one caused last Wednesday by Baltimore's Bruce Chen, another Saturday by Tampa Bay's Seth McClung." Ow.

He was serviceable out there, but looked a hesitant on a couple balls hit his way. It's also a shame because his defensive work at first base seems markedly improved, so far, from last year. Instead, we got David Ortiz at the not-so-hot corner -- a position he shouldn't play again until we're questing to repeat our World Series victory in a National League park. His error in the second inning is an object lesson why. Meanwhile, Manny went 0 for 5 as DH. Ah well, we'll get 'em tonight. Hopefully Matt Clement can repeat last week's dazzling success against the hottest-hitting team in baseball.

Etc.
Former Sox pitcher Earl Wilson, who hurled a no-hitter for us in 1962 -- the first by a black pitcher in the American League -- and who was one of the best home run hitting pitchers in the game, has died of a heart attack at age 70. Wilson was the first African-American player signed by the last club in baseball to integrate. (His military commitments meant that Pumpsie Green would actually take the field in a Sox uniform first). See Ian Browne's profile from two years ago here.

For those who didn't catch it in this past Sunday's New York Times magazine, Moneyball author Michael Lewis has written an excellent article about the way many minor leaguers are being compelled to change their playing style. The goal: power. Returning to the Oakland A's farm system, he profiles two players, pint-sized Steve Stanley, and big guy Mark Teahen. Stanley is a speedster, with the third most hits in college history and terrific on-base numbers. Teahen's batting style makes him adept at sending the ball the other way. But that's not good enough -- neither of them hit enough homers. Lewis's piece shows how steroids aren't the only way players are being corrupted as they strive for ever-higher slugging percentages and home run totals. Many guys are forced to mess up their own carefully honed, idiosyncratic approaches to hitting. That, he says, is bad for the game.

Also in Sunday's Times, David Leonhardt finds that Sox advisor, statistician, and sabermetric maven Bill James may believe in clutch hitters, after all. Here (in .pdf form) is "Underestimating the Fog," the article from The Baseball Research Journal in which James offers his mea culpa.

4/26/2005 11:55:00 AM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Why is it that every time Manny Ramirez misses playing time due to a minor injury, someone accuses him of malingering? Or at least insinuates that he is? Today, it's Tony Massarotti, writing about Manny leaving the game after the seventh inning last night.

"Terry Francona said following the game that Ramirez was lifted because of tightness in one of his quadriceps muscles, though Ramirez never made himself available to discuss the ailment," he writes. "The matter was curious, particularly given Ramirez' peculiar history."

Look, no one denies that Manny's received a few dubious diagnoses over the years. (Why didn't Enrique Wilson catch that pharyngitis?) But whatevever happened to innocent until proven guilty? The fact that he doesn't submit himself for extensive cross-examination after begging out of a game does not automatically mean he's faking it.

I winced just like everyone else last night when Jay Payton strode to the plate in Manny's place in the bottom of the eighth with two outs and two runners in scoring position -- then proceeded to fly out on the first pitch. (Although, batting .300 with a homer off Randy Johnson, it's not like Payton's exactly a liability with a bat.) But Manny has five home runs in four games now, including one that cleared the light tower and might have landed on the Mass Pike last night. (Had it been to right field instead of left, it may well have verifiably broken Ted Williams's red-seat-commemorated, 502-foot record.) He's third in the American League with 16 RBIs. And he's got a history of calf and hamstring issues. Can we give him the benefit of the doubt, just once?

Meanwhile, Dan Shaughnessy once again proves himself incapable of writing a column without getting in at least some sort of subtle dig at his subject.

The signing of Tim Wakefield to a contract extension that may well have him finishing his career with the Red Sox, is about as feel-good as sports stories get these days. The money's right. Wake is a great guy. He's foregoing a potentially larger paycheck to stay with the team and city he loves. And he's pitching really, really well at the moment.

So what's Shaughnessy's take? "There's always been something a little boring about Wakefield. He doesn't say a lot of interesting things and almost never makes news off the field." He's "Dull. Sidekick to the superstars."

He couches it like he's giving Wakefield a compliment, casting him as the strong, silent type, committed to winning at the expense of his own self-interest. But that's not quite how it reads. "Boring" and "dull" are pejoratives. Does Wake just not give good locker room quotes?

In the midst of singing the praises of Wakefield's community service and his selfless commitment to team play, Shaughnessy writes that the knuckleballer is the real deal, that "cynics get the day off with this guy."

If that's the case, why didn't he?

4/20/2005 12:29:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Tim Wakefield will be sticking around, at least through next year -- possibly even longer.

That's the best news I've heard all day.

The Globe's Chris Snow reports that the team has signed the knuckleballer to an extension for 2006, with club options for 2007 and beyond. He'll make $4 million in base salary, and if he makes 30 starts, a performance bonus will bump that up to $5.25 million.

He deserves every penny. He's a class-act, of course: a tireless community presence, and a fan favorite. The longest tenured Red Sox, he just passed Cy Young on the team's all-time strike out list. And he's the Yankees' worst nightmare.

At the moment, he also has the lowest ERA in the American League.

A very wise move for the team to lock-up such a versatile and selfless player for what could end up being several more years.


Etc.
It was little noticed down here, but the Red Sox' Double-A affiliate, the Eastern League Portland Sea Dogs, began their season with a torrid 10-game winning streak, the longest in all of professional baseball. It ended last night with a loss to the Binghamton Mets, but tonight they'll look to start up another one as they take on the Mets again at Hadlock Field.

With a line-up that includes superman shortstop Hanley Ramirez and outfielder Brandon Moss, a rotation featuring fireballer Jon Papelbon, and a bullpen boasting Boston's own Manny Delcarmen, that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Ramirez and Papelbon should be promoted to Pawtucket by mid-summer, and it's even conceivable they could see some time in Fenway when the roster expands in September.

As the weather gets warmer, it's well worth a weekend journey up to Portland to catch a game or two at Hadlock. It's a beautiful field, and tickets are cheap. And it's a great way to keep an eye on the players who may well play big roles in the big club's future.

4/19/2005 5:18:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

And it's only April! If I could somehow insert a hysterically laughing emoticon right here, I would (instead, you'll have to use your imagination). George Steinbrenner has waited all of 12 games to throw his last-place team under the bus.

"Enough is enough," he fumed in one of his trademark fire-breathing diktats after the Yanks lost to the Orioles, dropping their fourth in a row and their eighth of the last 12 games today. "It is unbelievable to me that the highest-paid team in baseball would start the season in such a deep funk.... I expect Joe Torre, his complete coaching staff and the team to turn this around.''

This is, remember, the team that George Steinbrenner assembled. Working closely with -- and sometimes even overriding -- his own GM Brian Cashman on personnel decisions. And now it's Cashman and Joe Torre who are expected to clean up the mess and fear for their jobs. Priceless.

Behold, the mighty Bronx Bombers, possessors of mystique and aura, the classiest team in all of baseball, 26-time world champions. Their bullpen coughed up a four-run lead on Saturday night. Their center fielder is old and decrepit. Their third baseman -- life-saving heroics notwithstanding (how did he find the only Yankee fan on Newbury Street?) -- only hits when it doesn't count and is frightened of ground balls. Their closer is no longer all that effective against their chief rivals. One of their starters gave up six runs in two innings this afternoon. And their marquee pitcher, the off-season's most sought-after and ostensibly intimidating arm, surrendered three homers to the Red Sox the other night, including one to our back-up outfielder. Speaking of which, the Yankees' bench is laughable: Bubba Crosby and John Flaherty? Ha. Ha!

And the fans are letting them hear it.

(Maybe a new stadium will help turn this ship around?)

This won't last, of course. These are the Yankees.
But let's enjoy it while we can.

4/17/2005 6:48:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Manny being Manny.

4/17/2005 11:36:00 AM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

ESPN Page 2's David Schoenfield has compiled a list of 86 reasons he's sick of the Red Sox -- and you might be surprised that Sox Blog agrees with many of them. They include #1 ("we still have 15 more Red Sox-Yankees games, full of inane hype and ridiculous amounts of attention, left this season, not including a potential playoff matchup") and #22 ("'Yankees suck' chants. It's pathetic, lame, embarrassing and not funny. Give it up.)

On the other hand, many of his other reasons are just plain wrong. Trot Nixon's hat (#39) is awesome. And to call Ted Williams "the best hitter of his day ... [but] a bad apple. In other words, an old-school Barry Bonds," (#10) does the Splendid Splinter a grave disservice. Sure, both were feared hitters with surly attitudes. But the comparisons end there. Yes, there was a lot of bad blood between Williams and the Knights of the Keyboard. And yeah, he once spit at the fans. But he also did tireless work for charity, making hundreds of visits to cancer-stricken children and donating untold amounts of money and time to the Jimmy Fund. And he did so privately, keeping quiet about it. He also put his career on hold, twice, to fight in foreign wars. Meanwhile, all Bonds seems to do these days is bitch, blaming the media for his image problems and playing the race card. (And can you imagine him enlisting?) Ted Williams also hit .406 in 1941. And he'd never heard of BALCO Labs.

Anyway, it's meant to be a joke. And #'s 48 through 59 are pretty funny. So, in the interest of fair play, here is one non-Sox fan's reaction to yesterday's pomp and circumstance.

4/12/2005 2:42:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

One pitch. One weak hit, straight back at the pitcher. One throw to first. One out. One hell of a way to open a season at home. Tim Wakefield's first toss to Derek Jeter had Captain Intangibles strolling dejectedly back to the visitors dugout this afternoon, and things didn't get much better for the Yankees after that. A-Rod struck out swinging. Sheffield walked. Matsui struck out swinging. And eight innings later, the Red Sox were victors, 8-1.

It was a beautiful day. Chilly, with a cutting wind. But beautiful. In every way. At around noon today on Brookline Avenue I saw a guy in a Yastrzemski jersey shaking his friend's baby's tiny hand. "Enjoy it, buddy. You don't get to see this very often." Indeed not. I certainly didn't plan to -- at least not in person. Ticketless, I was content to hang around outside the park, to watch the Fenway faithful rain down vociferous abuse on their New York City nemeses, to hear the hawkers once again, to wolf down a Sausage Guy special, and then watch the rest at the Baseball Tavern.

But when the folks at Nantucket Nectars asked me to come take a gander the oversized good luck card they'd set up for signing in the right field concourse, it seemed that suddenly that I had an in. So I took it. (I'd also like to take this opportunity to say that Nantucket Nectars makes some damn tasty juice. Try some today!) This was most unexpected and pleasant surprise, especially given that one guy I saw today admitted that he'd paid $1200 for his box seats. (He was a Yankee fan; "He paid $1200 to get taunted?" a bystander wondered aloud.) The aim here was to get 10,000 signatures and words of encouragement on the giant card, after which the Juice Guys would donate $10,000 to the Jimmy Fund. (Note: By "Juice Guys" I refer not to Sheffield and Jason Giambi, but to Nantucket founders Tom First and Tom Scott. In fact, the company has begun a program, called "Are You Juiced?," which seeks to educate high school athletes about the scourge of steroids.) The scrawled messages on the 48-foot card were a hoot to read, a handwritten glimpse at the of the mood of Red Sox Nation: jubilant, but never complacent -- and always opinionated: "Bring back Cabrera!" ... "Get rid of David Wells" ... "Blaine Neal All Day Long" ... "Bring back Minky!" ... "Control for Clement" ... "Timely hitting. Constant Hustle. Pitching"... "Dreams can come true again." And then, simply, "Win."

The pre-game ceremonies, the ones we've been waiting for all winter and for 86 years before that, were understated and tasteful. As "Also Sprach Zarathustra" swelled, banners unfurled over the Monster, one for every World Series championship: 1903 ... 1912 ... 1915 ... 1916 ... 1918. Then, one enormous banner fell over them all: WORLD SERIES 2004 CHAMPIONS. "We're not losers!" one guy nearby screamed, as if to finally convince himself.

Injured Iraq War veterans from Walter Reed and Bethesda Naval Hospital then marched out across center field, bearing rings. One of them carried the World Series trophy. Two were in wheelchairs. Wally the Green Monster bowed in obeisance.

Then it was time. 1967 was long ago, but "The Impossible Dream" finally came true in 2004. So cue the Man of La Mancha soundtrack! One by one, they emerged from the Red Sox dugout. Terry Francona, on the mend, received rapturous applause. So did now-retired Ellis Burks. Derek Lowe, who flew out from his new home in La-La Land? He brought the house down, and I doubt it's a sound he'll soon forget. Manny. Big Papi. Curt. All of 'em were given heroes welcomes. Dave Roberts, visiting from San Diego, too. And silver-haired and spry Johnny Pesky, the living embodiment of the Boston Red Sox team history, had all 33,702 fans screaming his name. The Yankees, classily, did watch from the top step of the dugout, even applauding a little.

The one misstep was having Terry Cashman, the "Balladeer of Baseball," sing his treacly MOR number, "This is for Teddy Ballgame" as the World Series banner was raised in deep center. Still, there was no denying how moving it was to see the current roster join ranks with players past -- Jim Rice, Luis Tiant, Rico Petrocelli, Dom DiMaggio -- as Pesky and Yaz hoisted it high. (Rather, it will be hoisted high soon. At the moment, it remains at half mast, below the Stars and Stripes, in reverence for the Pope.)

"Now," said emcee Joe Castiglione, "let's turn the page."

The Yankees were introduced. All of them (even the bat boy!) were booed heartily -- except for Mariana Rivera, the suddenly mortal closer, who was cheered, hilariously, with gusto for the help he's given us in recent days. He tipped his hat and grinned.

The Red Sox were introduced. All of them were cheered loudly. Even David Wells.

Then, we commenced kicking ass. Tim Wakefield went three innings without giving up a hit. Doug Mirabelli hit a two run blast over the Monster in the second. Kevin Millar hit a two run single up the middle in the third. Trot Nixon hit a two-run double to deep right in the fourth, and then was driven in himself by Manny Ramirez.

The middle innings were pretty uneventful, but that gave me time to reacquaint myself with the Fenway I've missed so badly the last several months. Everyone has their own favorite thing about America's Most Beloved Ballpark. The Green Monster. Pesky's Pole. The Bleachers. Mine is the men's bathroom. I'm serious. The schtick is always the same, but a crowded room filled with half-drunk, ruddy-faced, beer-bellied men, shouting at each other jocularly to speed it up at the urinals, is good for some laughs -- and a strange feeling of camaraderie.

"Have a plan when you get up there, people!" one guy yelled.

"Act like ya been there before, OK!" his pal echoed. "And no playing with yaself!"

"No stage fright!" laughed one beefy fan, backslapping the stranger in front of him.

"Thank you," the man replied, unsmiling, before taking what seemed like seven minutes to relieve himself.

"I talk a good game," another loudmouth admitted to his buddy. "But jeez, I get wicked stage fright."

The everlong beer line ensured the men's room would be well-crowded. There too, spirits were high. It was heartwarming to see the tap jockeys and their loyal customers reunited after a long, cold off-season. "Hey! Howahya? Good to see you again!" said one server. "How was your winter?" Later, she asked another guy -- he was roughly one and a half sheets to the wind -- what the score was. "I have no idea" he said, six-dollar Bud Light sloshing onto his arm.

At that point, the score was 7-1. But then in the eighth Bill Mueller doubled to center to drive in Edgar Renteria, tacking on one more run for the good guys, and that was all we'd need.

"Wakefield is the shit," the guy in front of me had marveled as the Yankee-slaying knuckleballer finished his seventh strong inning. During the eighth, a guy leaned over to me to ask who was pitching. "Matt Mantei," I said. "Wow, that guy really brings it!" he said, as one pitch clocked in at 97 mph. (It was good to see Mantei pitch crisp and clean, striking out two, after his shaky outing Saturday; he lowered his ERA by four and a half points in just an inning of work.) Then Keith Foulke came in for the ninth and nailed it shut. "Dirty Water" played, the crowd, smiling and shouting, herded tipsily toward the gates, and all was right with the world.

Curt Schilling goes on Wednesday. Let's win that one too.

4/11/2005 10:42:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Well, here we are. For sure, it's not exactly where we'd like to be -- residing as we are in the cellar of the American League East with a 2-4 record -- but the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox (I never get tired of typing that) are back in the Fens. The outfield grass is green, the red, white, and blue bunting is hung, and the fast-talking sidewalk scalpers are refreshed from their winter rests. Terry Francona is out of the hospital and ready to rock. And the New York Yankees are in the visitor clubhouse. Today they'll see their hated enemies bestowed with gleaming, ruby-encrusted rings, and they'll watch the World Series banner hoisted in center field to snap smartly in the wind.

Could it get any better? Well, yeah. A win would be nice. Hopefully, the team that put up the second-best home record in all of baseball last season -- second only to the Yankees -- will find just the spark they need today to rattle of a string of victories at friendly Fenway. (The next three in a row would be especially nice.) The throngs waiting patiently by Gate C on Lansdowne Street today, hoping against hope to snag the hottest ticket in Boston sports history, seem utterly unconcerned about the team's woes of late. Not David Wells's two cringe-worthy outings so far, including surrendering three home runs in a row on Saturday. Not our bullpen, with its ugly ERAs of 9.00 (Keith Foulke), 13.50 (Matt Mantei), 16.20 (John Halama), 20.25 (Blaine Neal). Not Edgar Renteria's .167 batting average. Not the two maddening losses, one to the Yankees and one to the Blue Jays, where we rallied to tie the score in the ninth, only two blow it the next half-inning.

Nor should they be, really. As frustrating as our record is at the moment, the Sox have shown spark over the past six games and I'm optimistic that this eight-day home stand will help fan it into a flame. The pomp and circumstance of today's ceremonies, taking place beneath the shadow of a Green Monster that, thanks to Fenway's new field surface, is a foot and a half taller than it used to be, should be especially galvanizing. The last time we played baseball in this park it was in a World Series that we'd soon go on to win. If you're still having a hard time believing that, today will drive the point home. At 2:15, the World Series rings will be awarded. At 2:30, the World Series banner will be raised. At 2:45, the World Series Champion Boston Red Sox will be introduced. At 2:57, someone -- WEEI is reporting that it'll be Teddy Bruschi -- will throw out the ceremonial first pitch. At 3 o'clock, 92-year-old "Broadway" Charlie Wagner, the oldest surviving Red Sox player, will yell "play ball!" And at 3:05, Tim Wakefield, the team's longest-tenured member, will send a knuckleball fluttering toward Derek Jeter's paralyzed bat.

Then we will win.

Etc.
In todays Boston Globe, Chris Snow shows how important this start, his 200th at Fenway, is for Tim Wakefield. There's also a grandiloquent editorial, expressing satisfaction that "[o]pening day in Boston, 2005, feels like a regional personality transplant, so ingrained were the superstitions and hair shirts -- none of which fits now," but reminding us that "[t]here's work to be done, baseball to be played, and a different identity to be carried while walking tall. But not so tall as to be blinded by clouds, or to be afraid of falling."

The struggling Boston Herald, meanwhile, went all-out with a 48-page Red Sox supplement today, and is handing out free copies all around Fenway. My colleague Dan Kennedy reports that the Teamsters are also in the neighborhood, doing a little handing out of their own.

Over at Wall Ball Single, Jose Melendez offers his ever-astute "Keys to the Game."

I'm ticketless today, but am about to head out to the red and blue maelstrom on Lansdowne Street and Brookline Avenue. Check back late this afternoon for post-game thoughts.

4/11/2005 11:50:00 AM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Sons of Sam Horn has some sublime photos of the 2004 World Series rings, which will be distributed to their worthy recepients -- including Derek Lowe! -- in less than 72 hours.
They're things of beauty.

More good news: Tito's a free man.

4/8/2005 4:31:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

I can't find any update on Terry Francona yet this afternoon, but this morning the Boston Globe and the Red Sox site indicate he's in for another battery of tests today. Reportedly, the current thinking is that he did not have a heart attack. That's good news. But he does have a history of blood clots and circulatory problems. I knew that, and knew that he took blood thinners regularly, but had no idea how hairy things were for him a few years back. This article is old but it's exhaustive, with all the horrifying details about Francona's brush with death in late 2002. Let's pray this episode is nothing like that one, and that Tito's rocking back and forth from his dugout seat again with all due speed.

On a lighter note, I know the Yankees series is over, and tomorrow we'll be in Toronto. But I wanted to get one more laugh out of Mo Rivera's troubles before we move on. Bill Simmons provides it.

THE BRONX (April 6) -- Major League Baseball on Wednesday set April 8 as the date for the historic start of the conclave to elect a successor to Mariano Rivera, as the Yankees made final arrangements for the funeral of a great career that is expected to draw millions of Yankee fans and world leaders to the Bronx....

Fans continued to flock to Yankee Stadium after Wednesday's game, jamming up streets as they waited to pay their final respects to Rivera, who has been lying in state of shock since the Red Sox hammered him off the field for the second straight day. More than 200,000 Yankee fans will have filed solemnly by the pinstriped body by the end of Wednesday night, at a rate of about 15,000-18,000 people an hour in a nearly around-the-clock procession, according to calculations by the Yankee front office.

Brilliant.

And this news from the land down under -- here and here -- is just plain weird. Very intriguing, but weird.

World Series champions the Boston Red Sox have expressed interest in the possibility of Australian wicket-keeper Adam Gilchrist playing major league baseball when he retires from cricket.

I know less than nothing about cricket, and have never heard of Adam Gilchrist, but a quick search of the Internets indicates he's a pretty big deal in the sport. (Here's his official site.)

Don't expect much to come from this. The jury's still out on whether Gilchrist's skills would translate to a sport he's played exactly once. Or whether he'd even want to make the switch, although the potential salary bump is nothing to sneeze at. But I like the unorthodox thinking.

The Red Sox actually have a couple Aussie pitchers, James Albury and Adam Blackley, in their farm system. Don't expect to see them on the mound for the big club any time soon, but it's great to see baseball -- especially Red Sox baseball -- gaining popularity on antipodean shores.

4/7/2005 1:40:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Today was a good day. (Terry Francona's scary ambulance ride notwithstanding; he's reportedly been transferred via Medi-Vac from New York to Boston and is resting comfortably overnight at Mass General for observation.) The Red Sox accomplished three significant things in the Bronx this afternoon. A) They won. B) Edgar Renteria racked up a pair of hits (both RBIs), his first of the season. Barring any significant blunders this weekend in Toronto, this ensures he won't be booed by classless boors at Fenway's home opener on Monday. C) The Sox established, as an indisputable fact, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they OWN Mariano Rivera. He gave up five runs -- with a little help from A-Rod's hilarious double-bobble -- before being pulled after two thirds of an inning in the 7-3 win. And he looked scared. This was his second blown save in two consecutive days. His fourth blown save in a row. His fourth blown save in a row against the Boston Red Sox. His eighth blown save against the Boston Red Sox since May of 2003. Over at NYYfans.com, the pinstriped partisans are already suggesting that he go on the DL. That he see a sports psychologist. That he only appear against other teams, with the Yanks assigning former Sox closer Tom Gordon, or Worcester's own Tanyon Sturtz to close out close games against us. Priceless.

Tonight wasn't too shabby, either. Fenway Park won't hear the crack of a bat for four more days, but this evening it was resplendent as it hosted its first-ever movie premiere, fans cheering loudly in the stands for the first time since October 24 of last year. Fever Pitch made its world debut as Drew Barrymore, Jimmy Fallon, the Farrelly Brothers, and Nick Hornby strode down the Sox-red carpet rolled down the first-base line. Glad as I was to see the stars, I have to admit I was disappointed in them. Fallon confessed that, as much as he professes to love the Sox -- and Boston, a town where "the Red Sox are beyond baseball; they're like a family, a religious thing" -- he's still a Yankee fan. And he told me his Yankee fan friends don't hold his participation in the movie against him because he was, uh, acting. Barrymore, apparently unaware of my longtime crush, spoke briefly to the guy to my left, then offered me nary a glance as she breezed right by, her handler steering her towards a waiting camera. Her loss. I had much better luck getting a quote from Brett Murphy, the 13-year-old Shrewsbury little leaguer -- he's a catcher, and his first game is next week -- who plays Ryan, the wise-beyond-his years slugger who gets Fallon's character to put his obsession with the Red Sox in perspective. Has starring in his first major motion picture made it easier to get girls at school? He looked up at me with a freckle-speckled grin, his hands thrust louchely into the pockets of his sharp suit. "Oh, yeah."

The advance notice of the premiere had promised Sox players would be in attendance. But I was skeptical. I figured maybe that would mean Sam Horn. Or Luis Tiant. Johnny Pesky, if we were lucky. After today's gutsy game in New York, after coming off their first series of the season, I doubted anyone from the 40-man roster would want to head north immediately after the win, willfully sacrificing a precious night off to press the flesh, have cameras flash in their faces, and be serenaded with the screams of adoring fans. (There were probably about 2,000 there, "more people than actually came to games when I first started coming here in the '60s," joked Phoenix film editor Peter Keough.)

But I was wrong. Johnny Damon was there. So was Jason Varitek. David Ortiz. Trot Nixon. Kevin Millar. Mike Timlin. Tim Wakefield. Damon spoke to pretty much every camera there (more about his new blond highlights and Queer Eye threads, than about yesterday's almost-home run against Rivera or today's two hits). As he did, Ortiz, wearing some hefty jewelry and redolent of cologne, did a little bump and grind with Damon's wife, Michelle.

I asked Millar, who went three for three today but left the game with a leg cramp, how he was feeling. "Ah, I feel great," he said. "It was just a cramp."

"You don't say that!" said Varitek, putting his hands on Millar's shoulders. "You don't say that. You say you hurt your knee." I couldn't quite tell if he was joking or serious, but his captain's gravitas was unmistakable.

I asked Timlin, today's winning pitcher, how it felt to finally be back in Fenway. "Feels great! Good to see a new field out there," he said, gesturing towards the soft and verdant infield, which has replaced the much-maligned pitted pitch of yore. "It's, like, flat. That's a great thing."

Wakefield -- who gave up just three hits (including home runs by Alex Rodriguez and Tino Martinez) in six and two-thirds innings today -- walked past, and the fan in me couldn't resist. "Hey Wake, you did great today!"

"Thanks," he said smiling, extending his right hand. It was a good, firm shake. Tomorrow I might try throwing a few knucklers, see if anything rubbed off.

Tom Brady was there, too. He's much taller than I'd ever imagined, looked sharp despite a hole in his jeans, and had very white teeth. Doug Flutie, who's not quite as short as I'd been led to believe, was also in attendance. So was David Givens, who wore a billion-carat diamond in his ear, and Ray Bourque, who did not. The Dropkick Murphys, who'll be performing "Tessie" (perhaps for the last time) at Boston Billiard Club on Brookline Avenue the morning of opening day, also walked the gauntlet. They were bemused, seeming not to know quite how to act on a red carpet.

I would've liked to report back on the movie, but the screening at the Fenway was full. (Check out Peter Keough's review instead.) Instead, after leaving the glamour and flashbulbs of that crimson rug, I got to watch a uniformed police officer shooing an enormous, charcoal-gray rat down the Yawkey Way sidewalk as passers-by laughed and screamed. That was fun too.

4/6/2005 11:54:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

Well, that was no fun. After an off-season spent basking in the glow of victory, last night's lifeless, listless, lackluster debacle was a reminder that we are indeed mortal.

Let's move forward.

It must be tough to play ball for more than a month in sultry Florida sun, then to suddenly find yourself pitching in 40-degree evening chill. I'm hoping that explains David Wells's utter ineffectiveness last night. Or maybe it was the weirdness of pitching in his old stomping grounds while wearing enemy colors. (Did he really think he wouldn't get booed?) Anyway, for a guy who's ostensibly supposed to be replacing Pedro Martinez, I pray he can do better next time out than 10 hits and four runs in four and a third innings -- never mind those two hit batsmen (well, one guy, Giambi, twice) and that run-scoring balk. People used to joke that Ramiro Mendoza pitched so badly for us because he was an embedded Yankee. I dread the prospect that we'll be saying the same thing about Wells by mid-summer. Randy Johnson, meanwhile, was serviceable. His control seemed a little off, and he gave up five hits, including Millar's almost-home-run (damn you, Matsui!), but he got the job done. And one game into the season, he's got a tidy 1.50 ERA, while Wells has earned himself an ungainly 8.31. Ouch.

Herewith, some other hopes and fears, as we look ahead to Tuesday's and Wednesday's games. (By the way: if this rivalry is so epochal that we needed to play the Yankees first thing in the season, why are the next two games at 1 p.m.? Some of us would really like to watch them but have, uh, jobs to go to.)

* Ortiz looked good, picking up right where he left off last year and lining a roper to deep right in his first at-bat. And I will never tire of seeing his hippopotamus frame bounding down the base paths, trying to leg out a single into a double. (Even though I cringe every time I see his great girth flopping heavily onto second base.) Let's hope his shoulder stays healthy and his hitting continues apace. Let's also hope that last night is the last time Manny goes 0 for 4 for a good long while.

* I really pray all this new celebrity (covers of Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly, and TV Guide), not to mention all the dirt that's been dished about his personal life lately in his book and in the Herald's "Inside Track," isn't affecting Johnny Damon's play. He looked awful last night, going 0 for 4 at the plate and committing a hideous error in center field. Today, he was on Regis this morning -- the same Regis who was sitting with super-duper Yankees fans Billy Crystal, Donald Trump, Bill O'Reilly, and Henry Kissinger in the luxury box last night -- and will be signing Idiot in Manhattan this afternoon. He should be practicing instead. At least, if worse comes to worse, he can probably count on some divine intervention. Asked by the Herald about the death of Pope John Paul II, Johnny Jesus replied: "It's an unfortunate thing. The pope was very awesome." Word is that the pontiff felt the same way about Johnny, and is gonna put a good word in with the Big Guy.

* Our right fielders, Jay Payton and Trot Nixon, looked good last night, too. Payton drove home a run in his first at-bat in a Red Sox uniform, and Trot, pinch-hitting in the ninth, drove in the other one on a sac-fly. I'm cautiously optimistic that they'll make for a very productive platoon this season. Meanwhile, Jason Varitek, infamous for hitting poorly in Yankee Stadium (a/k/a Stade Fasciste), went 3 for 4, which was great to see. That "C" on his jersey looks nifty, too.

* I liked it when Edgar Renteria grounded out in Game 4 of the World Series last year. Last night, when he grounded into a double play in the third, grounded out to short in the fifth, and grounded out to third in the eighth? Not so much. For some reason, I've got this queasy feeling that he won't hit too well this year. I really, really hope I'm wrong.

* We got a look at everyone in our bullpen save Keith Foulke last night, and Matt Mantei looked especially bad: three walks, a hit, and three runs (two earned) in just two thirds of an inning. He looked nervous...hopefully he got those opening day jitters out of his system.

The Red Sox have now lost five season openers in a row. Of course, season openers aren't predictive of anything. (Last year didn't turn out so bad, if I recall.) It's only one game. Take heart from Bob Lobel and Jim Corsi's comments during last night's post-game show on UPN38. "Nobody got hurt," said Corsi, seeking a silver lining and only barely finding one. "They're off tomorrow," Lobel said, "And then they get to start 161 [new] games."

Let's win the next one, then the one after that. The Globe is reporting that Curt Schilling will indeed make his debut against the Yanks at Fenway next week, and that Wade Miller is champing at the bit, and could be with the team by early May. That's great news. If David Wells continues to pitch like he did last night, he'd better not be our number-one starter for long.

4/4/2005 12:18:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |  

It was 20 years ago today that Sports Illustrated foisted a classic April Fools Day hoax on an unsuspecting public, when the late George Plimpton penned "The Curious Case of Sidd Finch," a 6,000-word profile of an enigmatic pitching prospect in the Mets' farm system. Finch was an orphan from Leicester, England. He'd dropped out of Harvard to study Eastern religion in the Himalayas. And he played a sublime French horn. Most staggering of all, his fastball topped out at a jaw-dropping 168 mph.

Amazingly, most people -- including a few big league managers and at least one sports page editor -- took the bait. Apparently, they didn't think to read between the lines of Plimpton's subhed: He's a pitcher, part yogi and part recluse. Impressively liberated from our opulent lifestyle, Sidd's deciding about yoga -- and his future in baseball.

Here's Plimpton's piece in all its goofball glory. (To think that as a eight-year-old fan of the AAA Maine Guides back in 1984, I myself could have seen Finch pitch! If he'd ever existed, that is.) And today's New York Times looks back on the shenanigans, catching up with Joe Berton, the shy high school art teacher who posed for photos as the gangly fireballer -- and still gets recognized and asked for autographs today.

It was a great joke. But, as Alan Schwarz points out, it also spoke to a deeper emotion that holds sway over those who love the game. "To those not furious at Sports Illustrated -- several readers angrily canceled their subscriptions -- Sidd Finch came to embody a piece of baseball's eternal dreaminess, its belief that someday, someone might come out of nowhere with a pitching arm touched by the heavens."

4/1/2005 12:56:00 PM by Mike Miliard | Comments [0] |