when a team betrays you...

Everyone else has talked about why they're a fan of whichever team they root for. I never really did.

I've been a fan of the Boston Red Sox since before I can even remember. My parents dressed me in mini-uniform t-shirts and Sox snugglies before I could even walk. I watched every minute of the 1986 World Series, even though I don't remember any of it. At two, I learned to read by looking at TV Guide, newspaper circulars, and the box scores in the Herald. A love of Red Sox baseball was ingrained in me at a very early age through the two diehard fans I call my parents, and there's never been a moment during which I doubted that inimical faith.

But.

I love Fenway Park, but I love anything with basepaths and foul territory and 60 feet, 6 inches between the mound and home plate. I love white uniforms and hooked red lettering, but I love the smack of a snagged line drive even more. I'm a Red Sox fan second and a baseball fan first.

And as much as I love the Red Sox, that faith's been shaken. At 5:15 p.m. today, I was sitting in a cramped little conference room in Boston University's English Department, waiting for my creative writing class to start, when my professor said to the class, "Did you read the paper this morning? Not true. He's not going to sign."

And since that professor is a man named Leslie Epstein, it carried a little more weight than usual.

Theo Epstein steps down as general manager.

Deal didn't get done. Theo walked away from $1.5m per. Why? Well, if you read SoSH, it's because Larry Lucchino is Steinbrenner Incarnate. If you're a devotee of the Boston Globe's least-respected columnist, it's because Theo's a greedy kid. If you're me, you're not quite sure, but God damn, are you ever pissed off.

The Nomar trade upset me to the point of tears -- strictly an emotional reaction. Nomar Garciaparra was my favorite player, but I eventually understood that it was done for the good of the team. And it paid off. But this? No. This isn't just me being emotional. This is me being angry. Angry to the point where I can't scream, can't curse, can't even cry. So angry that I can't concentrate on anything else. This, kids, is the boiling point.

I'm angry because I feel betrayed. Not by the former general manager, but by an ownership troika that pays lip service to the idea of putting the best team on the field while concentrating all their efforts on profit. Letting Theo Epstein go is the dumbest thing I've seen happen in the nearly twenty years I've been following Boston baseball. This surpasses letting Clemens go. This surpasses letting Pedro go. This laughs in the face of every stupid free agent signing of the last two decades.

Some people will say that they didn't offer him enough money. That's bullshit. Some people will say that he wanted more power, like Billy Beane. That's not true, either. Some people will say that he doesn't like living in a fishbowl. True enough, but is that enough to drag you away from your dream job, especially when you'll be living on Easy Street, financially? I call bluff here, and I'll tip my hand in terms of my personal opinion -- this is about working under Larry Lucchino, Steinbrenner du Nord. I don't think this is about money or power or the Boston atmosphere -- this is about a general manager who wants to put the best possible product on the field, and a CEO worried that the best product might not be the most profitable one.

Earlier, I spoke about how Theo isn't necessarily the best GM in baseball, but how he has the potential to be. And I stick to that. As much as it pains me to say it, Theo Epstein is a replaceable commodity.

But.

With whom will he be replaced? Paul DePodesta? I like DePo, but if he couldn't deal with ownership and the media in L.A., he's not going to hack it here. Josh Byrnes? Whoops, they let him run off to Arizona. Brian Sabean? Yeah, I'd love to see an outfield full of exhumed corpses and a starting rotation of Civil War vets. Pat Gillick? No, please. Chuck LaMar? Sure, I've been dying to see what the cellar of the AL East looks like. Larry Lucchino? Why not? Seems like he wants all that power anyway.

Theo Epstein is theoretically replaceable, but in reality? Who the hell are they going to find that can do the same job? If someone who grew up rooting for the Red Sox will turn down $1.5m a year because of the conditions under which the job exists, who the hell do they think they're going to get to replace him? Speculation says that half the Sox FO will be heading to Arizona along with Byrnes, and I don't blame them one bit.

The Red Sox have the loyalty of generations of New Englanders. But does the organization care about the fans? It was easy, during the 2004 honeymoon, to think that they cared about nothing else. But by driving away one of the brightest people working in the game today, the owners of the Boston Red Sox have shown their cards -- damn the talent, damn sabermetrics, damn a general manager who brought us a championship for the first time since the Wilson administration. It's a public relations disaster, but who cares? It's all about the Benjamins, baby.

And that makes me sick. People say that Boston fans aren't happy unless we have something to bitch about, but do these people ever think that the reason we bitch so much is because of how much bad shit there's always been? That my grandparents complained about the Sox because underneath, Tom Yawkey was too racist to sign Jackie Robinson or Willie Mays? That my parents complained about the Red Sox because between pennants, the ownership's cronyism destroyed all chances of winning? That as a kid, I complained because the team's vast pool of resources was constantly mismanaged and ill-spent, and that as a college student, I now complain because the current group's focus is on turning profits instead of double plays?

I bitch because I care about the Red Sox more than I care about almost anything else, but do I really have a solid reason for caring so much?

My family and my friends always ask me questions about the business of baseball, like I'm some sort of sabermetric Svengali when all I really do is obsess over a game that's too misogynistic and too conservative to ever let someone like myself -- a socialist-style girl who hasn't tied on spikes since the ninth grade -- attain any measure of power. But it's fun to speculate. When a major deal goes down, I always think about whether or not I'd want to be in the GM's shoes. And there's never been a situation that's ever made me think otherwise. The idea of making trades and structuring contracts never lost its intrigue.

When I got home from class, and after I ate half the kitchen along with my feelings, Beth asked me, "If someone said they'd pay you that much money to be the general manager of the Red Sox, right now, would you take it?"

And for the first time, I hesitated.

I'll always love baseball. I believe in baseball like better people believe in God. But will I always love the Red Sox?

After today, I'm not so sure.

It's Snowing and It's OCTOBER

Let the record show that Suzie and I were Vanilla Ortiz and a Jason Varitek fangirl for a halloween party last night (ok, so mine wasn't a costume, but still!)

Let the record also show that B made the funniest post EVER in the Dugout

Is it spring yet? I miss baseball!

manny asks to be traded, suzie yawns

Manny asks Sox for trade
Boston Globe, 10/29/05
Gene Mato, one of Manny Ramirez's representatives, communicated to Red Sox owner John W. Henry yesterday that Ramirez wants to be traded, and will not report to spring training if his wish to be dealt is not met, according to a team source.

Memo to Manny Ramirez: You are not Terrell Owens. Although, to be perfectly honest, that's not a bad thing.
Memo to Gene Mato: You're not an agent, you're not a business associate, but you're an unattributed "representative"... who the hell are you, exactly?
Memo to Chris Snow: We all know that your "team source" is Larry Lucchino at this point. Give it up, dude.
Memo to Theo Epstein: Don't worry, you still can do no wrong, and I like that you have no comment besides irritated snark this morning. I hope the Red Sox pay you $5m per and let you ride around Boston in a limo made of fur.

victory and euphoria (part II) vs. loss and dejection

So the World Series is over and the ChiSox are the 2005 World Champions. Congratulations, guys. Last year on this date, I was ecstatic over the previous night's victory and the 2004 World Champion Red Sox. This year, it's two days after a World Series sweep that crushed me and my hometown team. Let's compare.

What I wrote last year to commemorate the Red Sox win:

There is something about it… something different than you’ve ever felt before. First, it was slow motion. Then, excitement at levels I’ve never known or heard or screamed before. And then, shock. And disbelief. Now, it’s more like as exultant catharsis, even though that might be contradictory.

Yes, I’m talking about the Red Sox winning the World Series. The first in 86 years. 1918. 2004. So much has changed since then… it’s hard for me to imagine waiting that long for something to happen, since I’m obviously not over the age of 86. But wow. I believe, and I’m just so happy. You’d think I grew up here, I swear. The passion I have for the Red Sox and baseball… it’s truly incredible, really. Thank you Julia for knowing how much real true passion I have for them.

Nickerson Field. Big screen, sitting outdoors in the crispy cold that are October nights in Boston. Sausage. Popcorn. Cotton candy and hot chocolate, all of it straight from Fenway. Thanks, Fenway people. IV folk all around me, and my boy next to me. Red Sox hats, t-shirts and sweatshirts clothe nearly every person, on the field and off. And then, pitch number four. Johnny and his scraggly Jesus-hair takes the breath out of all of New England, the soldiers watching in the early morning in Iraq, and Red Sox Nation across the world as the bat hits that sweet, sweet sphere into the birdhouse (ie: Cardinal bullpen). Just like that, it’s over… or it could have been. The other red team never threatened, and lusty cries of “Let’s go Red Sox” echoed above the weeping and gnashing of teeth at Busch Stadium. Yes, Red Sox Nation is more loyal than Cardinal fans… of course. Did you expect any less?

And then, a blackened, then reddened moon later, the blankets were thrown to the ground as we jump to our feet – out of cold, but also because this is it. The ninth inning, up 3-0 (thank you Trot Nixon as well). Foulke (gotta love the boy with a miniature Texas flag sewn on his glove) on the mound, yet again come in to save the night. With each pitch, the cheering gets louder and my stomach flutters more. I’m still so scared that they’ll do it again – that they’ll find one more way to mess this up, even though it seems every possible bad thing has happened to the Sox already in the last 86 years. And finally, two outs. One more. Smack, a bouncer to Foulke, and then evvverrryyytthhhiiinngg ssllloowwsss ddoowwwnnn. A few steps, a careful underhand throw to Mientkiewicz, and then, to use Julia’s word, pandemonium.

I’m screaming. Louder than I’ve ever screamed before, and at a higher pitch, too. The sound just keeps coming out of my mouth, but it’s foreign, and it can’t be stopped. Liz and Paul… their emotional reaction cannot even be described. I’ve never seen Paul that personally animated ever. They are the ones the Sox won it for. People like them. People who have been waiting their entire lives for this moment. There’s jumping – jumping up and down, jumping into hugs, jumping into Dustin’s arms as he picks me up and swings me around. That piercing scream is still escaping from within. So this is what it’s like to win a World Series. And to think, I didn’t even play for the ring. I just live the game with satellite waves and radio reception – along with nail-ripping moments and heart-thumping plays and anxious excitement that wells up every time America’s favorite pastime plays out before me. There’s a reason this is the favorite pastime of our nation – and this moment is the reason.

To Kenmore. Crazed honking and more screaming. We’re following the masses to the center of the universe. Hundreds of thousands of people converge en masse, complete with brooms and douses of champagne. We aren’t in the locker room, but we’re with our boys in spirit. We love our boys. Always have. Always will. We shove our way through the thronging crowd to the other side, near Fenway. We stand to off to the side a bit – enough to be close to everything that’s going on, but off enough that we can just soak it all in. That’s all I can do – just soak it in and appreciate it all through the shock. Because tomorrow, when I realize what has happened, this won’t be here. We stand there for at least 15 minutes, just taking it in. It’s amazing. There’s no other word. It’s like nothing ever before or ever again. And now, we maneuver our way into the crowd again. Riot police with nightsticks stand sentry, and an ambulance sirens through the throng, but they cannot damper the exhilaration we all feel. It is now a collective emotion – we have together become one enormous, bubbling cauldron of enthusiasm, happiness, amazement, and shock all at once. Manny and Pedro gaze down on us from the billboards that exemplify this season best: “Keep the Faith.” One more time through the crowd, one more look back for posterity, and then I’m home. Tonight I live at the center of the universe.

Out my window, I hear it. The last thing I hear as I drift into contented slumber is the boom of tear gas bombs and the faithful cheer of “Let’s go Red Sox!” I half-wake once in the middle of the night, and my first and only thought that runs through my head before I fall back asleep is “the Red Sox won the World Series.” The alarm that finally pulls me out of my sleep does not stop the electric stupor of last night’s events. The Boston Globe. The New York Times. Yahoo Sports. Daily Free Press. Front page of everything. I read everything there is to read, I look at every picture. But still, it’s not real. I go to my last midterm of the semester (most of which I did very poorly on because of the obsession I have with baseball and the poor timing of playoffs), and there, it finally begins to set in. My professor is a Yankees fan, and has always made that very clear. He concedes. And then I have to think about something other than baseball for a straight hour and a half. American Revolution. Think.

One more thing to make this complete. Fenway. It’s like a trek to the promised land, except this time the promised land holds a green monster and the height of capitalism, at least until the World Series gear is sold out. That shouldn’t take long – the line is all the way around the block. My camera is now my best friend, and I’ve pulled out all the stops, using the SLR with black and white film. This is too great to not be recorded carefully. The 1918 World Series banner now seems incredibly obsolete, as does the 2004 American League Championship banner. We’re better than that now. We’re the world champions. All the way around Fenway, and a full 36 exposures… along with some pictures on the point and shoot and on Dustin’s digital. It’s beginning to set in. I cross the street right in front of Derek Lowe’s hummer and I don’t even realize it. Then I see him leave, not five feet from me, waving and laughing and smiling with and at the fans, after signing people’s shirts from inside his car. These are normal, fun, crazy guys who love baseball. And that’s what makes this win even sweeter. It makes me love the sport even more to see that these guys genuinely had a heckofalot of fun getting there and making it happen. “The idiots” they may be to other players and other teams, but to us, they are the heroes that made history once more.

Wake and his knuckler, Schilling and his bloody ankle, Pedro and his vintage Petey night, D-Lowe turning into an ace and a clincher. Johnny and his hair, Manny and his divot, Trot and his slip ‘n slide play in right. Mueller and his three errors in one game, OC and his post-season streak, Bellhorn and his clutch hits… and strikeouts, Millar and his snacking habits. V’tek and his solid leadership and that one random triple, Embree, Timlin, and Foulke and their shutdowns of any offensive hope anyone might ever have. Ortiz and being Big Papi, Arroyo and his cornrows, Dave Roberts and his clutch steal that turned around the ALCS, Kapler and his heart for the Sox, Mientkiewicz and his gold glove. Mirabelli and Pokey. The guys that did what Boston has been unable to do for 86 years. The guys who asked, “Why not us?” and the guys who will live in history and our hearts forever.

The Manny and Pedro billboards had changed to "Thank you" this morning. But that's wrong. No, boys, thank you.

Last year, it was joy and pure exhilaration. This year, I wrote nothing.

This year, there was nothing to say after I saw the look on Biggio's face after they were swept, ending at home. This year, we fought hard every game, never allowing them to get too far out of reach in any individual game... but this year, we didn't come back either. We didn't have the timely hits, we left several thousand men (it seemed) on base throughout the series, and the starters that have been so amazing all season among the "big three" didn't really put it out there like they are capable of. Brandon Backe pitched the game of his life, though.

Chicago, you probably deserve it. You were the best team in the majors for a good part of the season. I have nothing to say to tear them down. But the look on Bidge's face was heartbreaking. He knows he may never get back to this place, and he'd been waiting 18 years for it. The dejection on everyone else's face too... I turned off the TV as fast as I could find the remote.

There is certainly something to say about a team that comes back from 15-30 in May to make it to the World Series though. This Astros team never, never gave up, and I loved 'em for it. Everyone contributed, and everyone was forced to step up. And they did it. They won their first NL pennant ever. They got to a place no other Houston team (heck, even no Texas team) had been, and they proved a lot of people wrong along the way. So... I'll live. They'll live. Losing is as much a part of the Game as winning. Because without the losses, you don't appreciate the wins... and you can just look at the Sox and their 86 year thing to prove it. I just wish people would stop talking about those ridiculous "curses."

Congratulations, Chi-town, you battled it out and got the big prize. But the Astros won't lose forever either. Sox and 'Stros... win or lose, those boys are mine. And I'll live or die with them.

on victory and euphoria

One year ago exactly, I stopped crying.

A lot of people write about the exhilaration of watching your team win it all, and I won't deny that it's fantastic. But for me, the best part came after the flip to first, after the on-field celebration, after the teeming masses spilled into Kenmore Square for the party of a lifetime.

The win itself is great, but the aftermath is better. A win is a moment; it's what comes after that counts. It's what happens when it all sinks in -- when you're done screaming and when the tears of joy have finally stopped, what happens when the initial shock has worn off and you can actually think straight -- that sticks with you.

I barely remember the bottom of the ninth inning. I know it went Pujols-Rolen-Edmonds-Edgar, and I know that Rolen flied out and Edmonds went down swinging, but it's filtered and fogged, kaleidescope memories, and all I really remember are the dents my fingernails left in my palms. Keith Foulke flipped to first, and I broke down in hysterical tears, hugging everyone in sight; I've seen photos from that night, but I don't remember the flashbulbs.

But I remember Kenmore. I remember finding Pam, Juli, my suitemates, some people I hadn't seen since freshman year and people I haven't seen since, hugging near-strangers with shiny streaks on their faces, dried-out tears dissolved in the wake of victory. I remember standing along a now-demolished road divider, balancing on the edge of the wobbly brick and craning my neck to see if I could spot anything that could make that moment more special.

I remember the guy who dropped to his knees and kissed the ground, right where Beacon meets Commonwealth. He stayed there afterwards, hands flat on the pavement and eyes scanning the crowd, like if he blinked, everyone would disappear.

I remember getting back to my room and collapsing on my bed, still wearing my jersey with salt-stained cheeks, and thinking that it would never really sink in.

And that feeling? When you know that something fantastic has just happened, something truly spectacular, and you know it's just going to get better from there? That's the best feeling in the world. Post-championship euphoria, man. It wells up from somewhere deep inside, and for a while, you think that nothing can ever go wrong again.

I envy White Sox fans that feeling, and I hope they appreciate it; all throughout New England's Winter of Bliss, through DVD releases and trophy tours and merchandising merchandising merchandising and constant reminders that the Red Sox had won the World Series, it never got any better than that singular moment in Kenmore Square, when that guy just kissed the ground and I thanked God I was there to see it.

Enjoy it, White Sox fans. And congratulations.

Since no one follows links anymore...

So, the following is not my writing. It was in the Trib this morning, written by Julia Keller. So she's a girl and she likes baseball, and this happens to be the most beautiful piece of sports writing I've ever layed eyes on. I think the Red Sox fans will get what she's saying. Enjoy!


Baseball, in its glory
Savoring summer's game on a cool autumn evening

By Julia Keller
Tribune staff reporter
Published October 27, 2005

"It rose in the autumn sky like a South Side Stonehenge, looking ancient and gray and invincible against the late-afternoon twilight.

This was not where the action was. The action was 1,180 miles away in Houston, where a few hours later the Chicago White Sox would finish off the Houston Astros with a 1-0 victory.

But to drive past U.S. Cellular Field on the same day the Sox won the World Series--to see the ballpark squaring itself pugnaciously against a mud-colored and cloud-clotted horizon, to see it proud and lonely--was to get a sharp chill of insight:

It's over now.

Because even before the game was played, you knew. Your friends knew, too.

The whole city knew. The Sox had it in the bag. They were too good, too poised, too lucky. They were too good to disappoint the city whose name they wear across the fronts of their jerseys, the city that's now second to nobody, thanks to these first-class athletes.

You knew they were going to sweep. You knew Juan Uribe would somehow have that foul ball when he surfaced from the sea of Houston fans in the seats during the climactic ninth inning.

And while knowing it didn't take the edge off--heavens, nothing could do that--you also realized the astonishing, unbelievable 2005 season is history.

History. As in something you study, something preserved under glass.

You're happy--who wouldn't be?--but maybe a little sad, too, ever so slightly. "Aye, in the very temple of Delight/Veiled Melancholy has her sovereign shrine," wrote John Keats in his poem "Ode on Melancholy."

He never saw the Sox play, but he wrote as if he did.

Baseball ends in autumn. The World Series is played on days when the sun slips away earlier and earlier, when by 5 p.m. the sky in places such as Chicago is the color of iron filings, when the air is getting cold enough to pinch.

The World Series wraps up, that is, at a time of year when endings are what we're thinking about. Endings, not beginnings. And what gives the Sox victory Wednesday night itspoignant perfection is the fact it won't ever happen again.

Oh, yes, the team might win again next year. But it won't be the same team.

It won't be the same way. It won't be these guys and those games and this vivid assemblage of plays.

Those pure moments: Joe Crede's fielding, in which the glove interrupts the ball's trajectory like a new law of physics, one that insists that balls can't cross a plane inhabited by the leather on Crede's left wrist. Bobby Jenks' sizzling set-down of Astros batters in Games 1 and 4, when the sight of the pitcher's broad back as he fell forward to throw was as reassuring as watching the bodaciously thick door of a bank vault swing shut. And the home runs, of course, such as Geoff Blum's blistering blast in the 14th inning of Game 3, as most of the nation slept.

Baseball is played in the summer but ends in the autumn, when the light starts to fail and kids are called inside early, taken reluctantly from their games in vacant lots and dead-end streets. The moments are precious because they perish. The joy is special because it's temporary. "Death is the mother of beauty," wrote Wallace Stevens. What makes today so amazing--the first full day after the Sox victory--is that it is unique in the history of the world. And will remain so. Cherish it, because it is moving steadily out of your reach.

Does that mean we shouldn't celebrate, shouldn't revel? Of course not. A South Sider who also happened to be one of the greatest of 20th Century poets--the late Gwendolyn Brooks--had some advice on that point. "Exhaust the little moment./Soon it dies./And be it gash or gold/It will not come again/In this identical disguise." That would be Brooks' eloquent way of saying: Party, people. But know that the sun goes down and the day ends, all the same.

Brendan Boyd's novel "Blue Ruin" (1991), a tragi-comical tale about the 1919 Series, has been mentioned before in these pages during this great Sox run, but it's good enough for another go-round. When Arnold Rothstein, the gambler who bankrolled the sorry deal, runs into the kid who dreamed up the fix, Rothstein is rueful. "If you pull this off," Rothstein says, "your life will be over. You'll have gotten exactly what you wanted."

A city that can never quite figure out where it belongs in the world is now sitting on top of it. A city that gets tired of apologizing for not being New York or Los Angeles suddenly doesn't have to apologize for anything. It's a great and glorious moment, and yes, it will pass, superseded by other moments.

Like U.S. Cellular Field, that even now is hunkering down like a big iron barrel stave, waiting for the return of spring, it's enough that this day is what it is. We know what we have. We know who we are: Winners, for the blink of an eye, for the length of a lifetime."

Chisox can go back to ChiSucking

alright, sox won. what's up. go chicago. for the sake of my friends and family back home, it's awesome.

BUT.

i seriously teared up as the camera panned to the astros' dugout. seriously, they all looked so sad. like puppies. and i wanted to hug them. it made me cry a little, mostly because, man, i've BEEN there. as a cubs fan, i can feel that pain of defeat.

also, the sox fans will be absolutely unbearable for the next, oh i dunno, UNTIL THE CUBS WIN A WORLD SERIES. which might be a few (hundred) years. here's hoping that beth is right and the curses are getting eliminated year by year. the goat will fall, i know it (random trivia: the current owner of the billy-goat brought a goat back to wrigley to try to undo the curse). so i'm glad someone is winning in chicago, but i hate that it's jerry reinsdorf (one of these days i'll rant about how he completely destroyed the bulls as a team). all the players were awesome on both sides, ozzie is just (adorable) amazing, the defense was so good all around. i'm feeling a lot of love for everyone right now.

best play of the game was the foul ball catch by uribe. watching it, i was saying "and this is where bartman shows up and...". but seriously, a ton of good baseball over the course of the series. the astros shouldn't have gotten swept, they were playing on par with the sox. just a few things went badly for them and poof. there goes the series. that's the problem with sports. the mole hills become mountains.

so now that the sox won, i can go back to saying that they suck. because sox fans will take a mile if you give them an inch. next year, it'll be us man! IT WILL BE!!

so baseball is over! what shall chickball discuss aimlessly for the next 5 months? suzie's fantasy team? trades and deals? perhaps. i, of course, will be discussing football. ^_^

you knew i was going to write about theo epstein sometime

Cashman decides to return to Yankees

They'd never find anyone with a more perfect name, unless they hired Mr. Moneybags from Monopoly.

And speaking of general managers... Epstein rejects updated offer from Sox.

For the unaware, Theo Epstein is pretty much Suzie's favorite person. Like, ever. Why? Well, Suzie here fancies herself a general-manager-in-training. Suzie's always loved baseball, but she was never very... how shall we say... good at it. However, she -- oh, whatever, I hate third-person narrative -- I have been in love with statistical analysis ever since the ninth grade, when I was graciously put out of my right-field misery and became a converted scorekeeper. The Palmer High School Junior Varsity Softball Team knew their individual OPS when they didn't even know what OPS actually was. I'm an inherently right-brained kinda girl, but for some reason, numbers make perfect sense to me in relation to baseball. Maybe it's because I understand the applicability of Runs Created far more than I do definitive integrals, or maybe it's because baseball is such an all-consuming passion of mine that I can't not understand something about it, but the only time I care about numbers is within the context of sabermetrics. Which isn't nearly evidence enough to convince someone that I'd make a great baseball operations intern, but hey, we roll with what we get.

Anyway. As you'd guess, I'm a Billy Beane fan, and I like what J.P. Ricciardi's doing up in Toronto, but Theo Epstein's still my favorite. It's difficult to describe what Theo means to the city of Boston -- other, more talented writers have tried to articulate it, so I'll just say this: not only did he ascend to the top position at a time when the Red Sox fanbase was running on a fresh burst of energy thanks to the new ownership, but he's a local, relatable guy who brought Boston its 2004 WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP (kthx I like the capslock). Some of the players were Duquette guys, and some of them were even Gorman guys (I'm looking at you, Trot Nixon), but the 2004 Red Sox were by and large a Theo Epstein production.

Theo's also uniquely suited for the Boston GM job. He's from Brookline, first of all, so he understands the rabid fanbase -- public relations blunders are the domain of others in the organization, not Theo. He's also proven himself capable of handling the Boston job, which is more difficult than in any other organization with the exception of the New York Yankees. You might think that playing with someone else's money is easy, but it's not. There's a lot of money tied up in long-term deals, and Theo has to properly assess the risk of each contract in order to determine whether or not it's worth it. And you know what? Not everything he's done has worked out. But for every 2005 Matt Mantei, there's a 2003/2004 Kevin Millar. For every 2004 Byung-Hyun Kim, there's a 2003 Scott Williamson. And for every Edgar Renteria, there's a David Ortiz. (By the way, I'm still not convinced that the Edgar signing won't work out next year. But again, I'm not a GM, I just play one on TV.)

The "Curse" was never really a curse, and I have some extensive thoughts on that, but to sum it up -- the problem with the Boston franchise was that management spent too much money on marginal players, like Mike Lansing and Jose Offerman. It was mismanagement. And I know that Theo's made some deals that aren't exactly auspicious. But we're talking about a guy with three years of experience. Dan Duquette gave Mike Lansing $6,250,000 to suck ass in the infield in 2001 -- which was his eighth year of being GM. Theo's made some mistakes, but you know what? They're rookie mistakes. And the good, especially when taken in that context, far, far outweighs the bad.

I'm not saying Theo's the best GM in baseball. That's John Schuerholz. But he has the potential to be. We're talking about someone who played the primary role in constructing a WORLD CHAMPION team in his second year on the job, and that was working with parts that weren't his. Imagine what he could do if the 2011 team, say, was entirely his. I'd be down with a Red Sox dynasty as constructed by Theo -- and I haven't even talked about the draft picks.

However, he's got to be around in 2011 for that to happen.

Here's the thing. There are a number of GM openings and potential GM openings around baseball -- Philadelphia, Arizona, and Baltimore, just to name a few. The market for GMs is wide open, and there aren't that many top-of-the-line, qualified candidates out there to fill the positions. If the Boston Red Sox let Theo Epstein walk, you can bet your ass that he'll have three job offers from other teams the next day. If Sox ownership doesn't want him -- okay, I'll be blunt and evil, if Larry Lucchino doesn't want him -- then someone else sure as hell will.

Honestly? Just give him whatever the hell he wants. Comparatively, it's nothing more than a drop in the bucket for a team that pays Manny Ramirez $20 million a year -- and it just makes logical sense. If Theo walks over money (and not the power dynamic, which is an issue I'm not really confident about going near), then you have to look at it objectively: a very qualified candidate did not think that amount was enough to take the job. What are the chances of getting another very qualified candidate to take the job for less? They won't. They'll want more. The argument currently in favor is that the Sox were going to pay Billy Beane astronomical amounts to take over, and that Theo should get near the same; well, it'll work reciprocally. A very qualified GM candidate will ask for around the same amount the Sox were offering Theo, or more. Add in competing job offers, and the Red Sox will have to pay another qualified candidate more than what they're offering Theo.

They'll be overpaying for general management talent no matter what -- why not give that money to the guy who built a championship squad in his sophomore season and who's shown himself capable of not only dealing with the Boston media spotlight, but who has become a beloved figure in New England?

Just give the man his money. Theo Epstein should be getting paid whatever number Theo Epstein decides is right. Nothing less.

And I'd like to point out that I didn't even say "hot" once. Once.

Oh, MLB shenanigans...

POLL: Who's more of a crazy bastard, Phil Garner or Carl Everett?

Let's compare.

Garner: dropping the f-bomb left and right, throwing chairs, screaming, starting a fight with Jurassic Carl during the World Series

Everett: history of lunacy, not believing in dinosaurs, head butting umpires, throwing tantrums, having a screaming fight from the dugout with the opposing team's manager

Last night's game was arguably the most boring extra-innings playoff game of all time. But that fight... a nice, refreshing break from the unintentional comedy of Tim McCarver. Man, if I was on the Astros, I'd be afraid Phil Garner would either a) throw a bat at my head or b) stab me with a pencil if I dared strike out or botch a play.

P.S.- Gary Gaetti is the hitting coach for the 'Stros? Pretty sure I had his baseball card growing up.

beth's open letter to mlb

Dear MLB:

The majority of your viewers (unless they are fans of the particular teams) are NOT going to stay up until 2:30 am to watch a baseball game, World Series or no. To remedy this, I have 3 propositions:

1. If a game "starts at 8", please start it at 8, not 8:45
2. Please, no more ridiculously long commercial breaks
3. Please please PLEASE eliminate Tim McCarver from your broadcasts. This will probably result in 20% shorter games and 93% less nonsense per game.

<3,
Baseball fans

ETA Congratulations Big Papi, you earned it!

Thoughts down by the river...

First post!

So basically, the "About Me" and "Interests" sections on my profile say it all. Originally from New Hampshire, I now live nice and close to the gloriously uncomfortable yet magical Fenway Park. Fell in love with the Red Sox in 4th grade, becoming one of those weird little girls who had an extensive baseball card collection, could tell you any Sox player's batting average, and had the uncanny ability to imitate the batting stances of most guys in the American League. (By the way, Jim Leyritz and Craig Counsell--at right--are my favorite players of all time to imitate.) I adore sports of all kinds but focus my energies on BU hockey, the Red Sox, the Pats, and the Oakland A's, the latter for reasons other than merely playing ability. I read the Boston Globe religiously and enjoy explaining to my roommate why Dan Shaughnessy can be a huge douche. Oh, and I should probably add Bill Simmons to my list of interests because I can't get enough of him. He's one of my idols and I often joke that I want to be the Sports Mistress (yet secretly, I really do want to be). Meeting him last month was a defining point in my life.

So, the MLB post-season has been interesting. I honestly didn't expect the Red Sox to make a decent run but getting swept was not something I particularly wanted. Sitting near the Pesky Pole during Game 3, I was ecstatic to be at my first baseball playoff game. Never felt Fenway Park shake like that, and a friend of mine who goes to MIT said they could hear the cheering all the way to their athletic fields. Ridiculous. But things calmed down quickly after The Hour-Long 6th Inning of Doom, AKA the 2005 season's death knell. The fans quieted down, not even having the energy to boo Renteria anymore, and people in my section launched into sarcastic mode.

But, as Bob Ryan wrote in the Globe the next day, "I'm telling you this: If you're a Red Sox fan and are even remotely disappointed in this outcome, you haven't been paying attention. Last year was last year. This team was never good enough."

It's been fun rooting for the White Sox. With the exception of Mr. Head Butt, I like the team itself and feel the fans' pain. So, yeah, go Chicago!

A few thoughts:

• Did anyone else get a sick pleasure out of seeing Clemens implode the other night? I'd love to be one of those rational Sox fans who appreciate the contributions he made to the team in the 1980's, but you know what? Screw that. He's an ass.
• I really wanted the White Sox to win the ALCS yet at the same time, I'm lamenting the loss of what could have been an amusing string of McCarver quotables. He dropped this one on Fox viewers one night: "Vladimir Guerrero is only 6'3" but he has the wingspan of a condor." What could have come next? "Mike Sciosca, oh, he's so wise, like an owl." Or perhaps, "With 21 wins, Bartolo Colon has been so reliable for this team, much like a homing pigeon."
• Speaking of McCarver, my favorite part of the broadcast last night would have to be Joe Buck saying, "For those of you who might not know what Tim is talking about..."
• I'm kind of enjoying not being completely on-edge and stressed out for the month of October. I can watch a baseball game and be only moderately loud. My roommate informed me that it was "kinda weird" to have the playoffs on, minus my obnoxious commentary and cries of pain/joy.
• First Konerko, then Podsednik last night. For a team that wasn't particularly known for its offensive abilities during the regular season, they have been kicking serious ass. I feel as if someone pulls a Big Papi in every game.
• This season absolutely flew by for me. Now I'm wondering what to do with myself, formulating the ideal fantasy baseball team in my head. College hockey is fun and everything but there aren't daily stats to follow and only one or two games per week. Same deal with football. And besides, the injury ridden Patriots are just depressing right now. I'm not angry, I'm not super disappointed, but it's just DEPRESSING to see the team in such a state. But hey, at least we haven't had to call up a 41-year-old former QB to take over. I think New England would implode if that happened.

That's all for now...

milk -- it does a body OMG STEROIDS

New Got Milk? Ad Upsets MLB Officials

"There is nothing humorous about steroid abuse," said Tim Brosnan, executive vice president for business for baseball.

Actually, there is. Come on, MLB. Lighten up. Rafael Palmeiro's been pimping out a performance-enhancing substance since 2002 and you didn't have a problem with that. (But then again, Rafael Palmeiro can't tell the difference between stanozolol and a Flintstone's vitamin, so whatev.) Or are you just irritated that the California Milk Processor Board is apparently better at steroid detection than you are?

i'm really tired of hearing "houston, we have a problem"

Chickball. Cool.

Here's my deal. I live/breathe/die Red Sox baseball. But I'm also not Suzie, so I can't have her story. The Red Sox were always my AL team, I always liked them, I always followed them, and I knew their ups, their downs, and their way way downs of the 86 year drought. But I didn't live/breathe/die with them until I arrived for the first time in Boston in May of 2003 for BU Orientation. And to be quite honest, Fenway Park and the Sox were actually a part of the final decision to attend BU and live two blocks from the best ballpark in baseball. That's where it really began. You could say I have somewhat of an obsessive personality. I yelled out my dorm windows, busted up my right hand and left thumb, failed a midterm, stayed up for 68 hours straight, and yelled at Fox Sports over the course of the 2003 and 2004 playoffs, and when we won it all, I stood in awe at the edge of Kenmore Square, and then at the parade, photographing the whole thing for both posterity and my photo class' photo story assignment. Absolute lifelong Sox obsessee I may not be, but can I really help the circumstances of the location I was born? You don't have to watch me watch a game twice to know that I am no bandwagon fan. I live and breathe these boys, and no matter where I end up after college, I WILL subscribe to NESN. There's truly nothing like Red Sox baseball.

But.

But I was born and raised in Houston, home of the 8th wonder of the world, "Deep in the Heart of Texas" during the 7th inning stretch, Killer B's, and Houston Astros baseball. I went to my first game at age six against the now-defunct Expos, dragging my mom along for the ride. From that day on, Astros baseball became a mother-daughter bonding experience. I started collecting baseball cards and managed to finagle together 45 Biggio cards... my favorite player and childhood hero. I played softball for ten years, and every year I asked for number 7. Together, Biggio and Bagwell and the rest of the rotating lineup of "B's" made up my childhood. When the Astros moved to Enron Field/Astros Field/Minute Maid Park, I was crushed to see my beloved Astrodome go (but to be fair, I do love the new park now... but I still consider it "new"). I met Billy Wagner and Ken Caminiti, and I faithfully brought my glove to the dome every time I went, even though we almost always sat in the upper deck because you could get one dollar seats up there. Basically, I lived and breathed Astros baseball for a good majority of my life. Obviously, though, I lost that ability to live/breathe that team when I moved to Boston. Some teams don't have national networks, you know.

So where am I going with this? I'm going straight to the 2005 World Series, where my hometown boys are playing for the first time in franchise history. So for the next week, here's a Houston-biased take on the "fall classic." Oh, Fox Sports.

Game 1: Well, what can I say. After Contreras settled down, the ChiSox pitching was phenomenal. And wow, what a closer. Jenks is a monster. And with 100 mph consecutive pitches and a screw in his arm, that apparently qualifies him to be bionic in the Fox Sports book. Clemens has been fighting a strained hammy since the end of the regular season, so I don't really know what to say about his ugly performance yesterday. Dude, though, he's so old. Wandy Rodriguez pulled off a decent couple innings, and considering how young/new he is, I'll give him some props. Qualls was his usual amazing self, so all in all, I have to say that the pitching was pretty satisfactory. Taveras had some random hard-hit outfield hits, but other than that I don't have much to say for this one. Probably because I'm in the midst of watching game two now, and I don't like going back to the depressing thoughts of last night. It was a good game, baseball-wise, last night though.

And now, some random commentary.

I like the idea but despise the actual look of the boys with their playoff beards. They look like burly woodsmen, and Ausmus loses the semi-cuteness that is about as good as it gets on the 'Stros. And I think it's hilarious (and I'm really glad) that Biggio can't grow a beard. It would ruin all my memories of him, I think.

Don't ever, ever get me started on the stupidity of Tim McCarver and Joe Buck. Although you might not be able to help it because sometimes I just start ranting wildly about how much I hate Fox or those two men. Sort of like what I'm doing right now as I'm watching game two and yelling at the tv because McCarver is being an idiot again. And by the way, did he get Botox in his forehead? Because seriously, it looks fake.

Liz Phair was phenomenally terrible singing "God Bless America" last night. And that's all I have to say about that.

I do believe that's about all I've got right now. Except let's go 'Stros - do it for Bidge and Bags and 18/15 years they've given their heart and soul to Houston and fans like me. That's why I'm so emotionally attached to this series... for those two guys, and maybe Ausmus and Berkman too, since they were there a while before I left home too. If the Astros made the big one five years from now, I probably wouldn't care, because the boys I grew up on probably won't be there anymore. Do it for 5 and 7. There's a reason those two numbers are in every screen name I've ever had.

Now let's finish watching the end of game two.

Getting Through Baseball

So I have to admit, I believe the Boston Red Sox were cursed. Not from 1918-2004, but during the 2005 season. The reason for this curse? The attendance of a BU student from Western MA... yup, me. After the unbelievable highs of seeing ALCS Game 5 (with Papi's 14th inning hit ending almost 6 hours of ulcer-inducing agony) and WS Game 1 (another back-and forth nailbiter) live and in person, how could the 2005 season go so wrong?
Opening Day 2005- shiny new rings and a snazzy new flag, but the Sox lose. They continued to do so every game I went to this season, up to and including the heartbreaking Game 3 loss of the ALDS that allowed the now-AL Champion ChiSox to complete the sweep.
At this point, you're probably wondering- Beth, where on earth are you going with this? And to be honest, I wish I knew. Being a baseball fan was far more taxing this year than it should have been for a fan of the team who shocked the world (but not their fans) in October 2004. This was a team that was losing to the Orioles of all people for a good couple of months, then wrested away control of the East for most of the rest of the season, only to lose it in the home stretch and be forced to settle for the wild card on the sole basis that the MFY won 10/19 games between the two, as close as it could possibly be in their favor.
But the BoSox are no longer a playoff team this year, pure and simple. And the one message that we can learn from last year's successes and this year's defeat is that maybe, just maybe, the dynasty is dead in baseball. Since 2000, no champion has repeated. From 2002-2004, the Series was won by a Wild Card team that a little more than a decade ago would have been "playing golf right now (this is better)". The Yankees and BoSox were knocked out in the first round, as were the Atlanta Braves (well, no one was surprised there, but still). This year's WS representatives are a former 15-30 team that's never been there and is trying to prove they belong atop baseball, and a team who hasn't been there in 46 years and who have as much temporal and emotional baggage looming over them as last year's champs. So what if your favorite team isn't in the running this season. The past few years just go to show that they damn well may be next year- heck, even the Orioles have a shot. Baseball is exciting again, even when you watch your team get its ass handed to them all the time, if only because there's so much to cheer for and so much to admire. Those individual wins and losses don't matter in the face of The Game, and even your own personal curse can be forgotten in the excitement of a pennant race. Let's face it- we all live for this.

game 1 -- wow, playoff facial hair is weird

Full disclosure? I live and die with the Boston Red Sox. You know, the 2004 WORLD CHAMPIONS. (Oh, wait, you knew already? What's that? Oh, you got sick of the media hype in January and you're tired of Red Sox fans? You just want us to shut up already? Well, guess what -- WE DON'T CARE.) So for me, the last two weeks have been a splendid opportunity to enjoy a playoff run without worrying about imminent cardiac arrest. Like Emmers, this is from the perspective of a somewhat-unbiased observer -- I'm pulling for the Astros because I love Brad Ausmus like Tara Reid loves Bacardi, but all I'm rooting for is seven games.

Some notes --

+ There is hair, there is playoff hair, and then there is Joe Crede's mullet.

+ Emmers didn't tell you this, but she'd totally date Ozzie Guillen. Like, she's not going to actively seek him out or anything, but if the situation arose, she wouldn't say no.

+ Jeff Bagwell now bears a strong resemblance to Fozzie Bear.

+ As mentioned earlier, I love Brad Ausmus, but I hate Brad Ausmus' playoff beard. It's very Grizzly Adams.

+ Another reason I'm rooting for the 'Stros? I cannot, in all good conscience, root for a team involving Carl Everett. Carl Everett was the butt of every joke my dad and I made for about three years. "YEAH, WELL, CARL EVERETT DOESN'T BELIEVE IN DINOSAURS! HOW ABOUT THAT?"

+ Jon Garland looks a little like The Rock.

AND FROM THE "TIM MCCARVER IS AN IDIOT" FILE:

+ "HEY, GUYS? DID YOU KNOW THAT JOSE CONTRERAS IS CUBAN? LET ME REITERATE THIS POINT SEVEN TIMES PER INNING!"

+ Apparently, Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell are the same person.

+ Bobby Jenks has a screw in his arm, and therefore is BIONIC.

Tomorrow -- same bat time, same bat channel.

game 1, sox perspective

my first post here at chickball, let me give you some insight that mr. profile doesn't tell you. born and raised in the chi, i grew up with the cubs and the bears. (what the hell is with chicago and large scary animals? bears, bulls, wolves, cubs? then again, my high school mascot was the duke of york...) while i may bleed cubbie blue, i'm on the sox side of this one (although i think SOXtober is retarded), mostly because my brother-in-law is a south-sider (damn those suave polish men!), as well as a lot of friends and co-workers from back home. the jerseys say chicago, which is better than houston (which i still hate because of the enron scandal, which i'm totally obsessed with in a weird way). so in conclusion, go sox! until spring training. then all bets are off. (to all those unfamiliar with chicago sports: the cubs/sox rivalry isn't like bosox/yankees rivalry... it's more like a guy and his kid brother, not the crips and the bloods. we live in the same city and we enjoy teasing each other about how bad the other one sucks, but we're not going to riot or anything because of a lost game. so that's the insight, don't call me a traitor.)

final score: chisox 5, pastros 3.

all i've got is: what's up sox pitching. jenks, despite being bionic ::snerk::, was on fire in the 8th and 9th, pitching around 100mph. the bull pen, despite popular belief, was NOT rusty. remember all those people back in august who were like "white sox are CHOKING!" when they were in like a 5 game losing streak? yeah, they're idiots. on the northside, we call that "normal". anyway! the bull pen is looking amazing, we already know the starters are amazing, and we had 2 homers in the game.

having said that, the best play in the game was the double play in, what, the 5th? astros did an amazing job moving the ball. don't get me wrong, the astros are a great team. if clemens had lasted more of the game, maybe things would have been different. but that's what happens when you're 105 years old, i guess. ^_~

overall, i'm going to say it was a great game and i'm very much looking forward to this series. isn't it refreshing to have different teams in the series? no yankees, no red sox, no braves, no cards. the only problem is that FOX sucks so hard it's funny. come on, foxtrax? how lame can you get. ::rolls eyes::

and didn't you love the fireworks?? they have those out over the lake. ahhhh i miss chicago so bad.... ::sigh::

signing off!

the chickball mission statement

'Sup, kids.

So here's the thing. You know those "Super-Fan" clips that the major networks always splice in before a big game? The ones featuring guys all done up in warpaint and Viking caps and whatever the hell else it is that FOX thinks defines an obsessive fan? Well, there's a lot wrong with those clips. First of all, there is no reason that America should be subjected to some fat dude from the Bronx with the Yankees logo painted on his stomach; but more importantly, all those shots are of guys. And to be honest, that's more inaccurate than anything else.

The girls of Chickball are some of the legions of female Super-Fans out there, living in the shadows of the male counterparts who think it's cute that they even know what baseball is. We wear rally caps and face paint and refuse to change our lucky jeans during the playoffs. We scream at umpires more than we scream at our ex-boyfriends. We can rattle off important statistics faster than Tim McCarver, although in all fairness, that's not very difficult. But most of all, we live and die with our respective teams -- just like the boys do.

But enough with the self-important prostheletizing. On to the guts.

about the chicks

PAM is a 22-year-old Red Sox fan from New Hampshire. She has a knack for ending up in odd situations, like that one time she wound up talking to a Republican Yankees fan in a bar and that other time she drank a seven-foot bottle of beer at the Sam Adams Brewery and passed out for the benefit of nearby photographers.* A broadcast journalism major in undergrad, Pam is currently working as a producer in upstate new York. She hopes to someday become a producer at ESPN and boss around people like Jon Kruk and Rachel Nichols. Pam enjoys traveling, Australian men, and the Joe Mauer Power Hour.

* -- this did not happen, contrary to photographic evidence


SUZIE, 22, was born in western Massachusetts and spent the next eighteen years trying to escape without anyone noticing. She will one day become the general manager of the Boston Red Sox because Theo Epstein's dad said she'd probably be pretty good at it. If that doesn't work out, she'll settle for a writing gig on Conan. Despite all of this, she graduated from Boston University with a master's degree in American history in May of 2007 and spends her days temping around downtown Boston while staring nervously at Ph.D. applications and recommendation forms for Fall 2008.* Suzie likes Apple Computers, science fiction, and disloyally fangirling Rich Harden.

* -- she plans on writing her dissertation on women in sports fandom and wonders if she can use Chickball as a primary source


EMMERS came to Boston from Chicago and spends quite a lot of her time wondering what the hell is up with those damn Easterners.* The most passionate football fan on the blog, Ems is about as similar to Mike Ditka as a 22-year-old management associate can be (except she's clearly cuter). If Chickball were a company, she would be its CEO, and the whole thing would be run through Microsoft Access. Ems enjoys men in trenchcoats with guns, the NL Central, and penguins.

* -- particularly their weird-ass hot dog rolls and how they've never heard of Fannie May's


AMY grew up watching Bagwell and Biggio at the Astrodome, but has adapted to the Boston sports climate remarkably well. A former journalism student and aspiring book editor, she keeps Chickball gramatically honest. For such a small person, she can make a lot of noise when Alex Rodriguez and his giant ego come into play. 21-year-old Amy enjoys kickboxing, American history, and taking pictures of absolutely everything.*

* -- even though she might crash the car and kill Suzie and Beth in the process


BETH is the product of a Yankees-fan father and a Red Sox-fan mother; she took after her mom. A 21-year-old biochemistry and molecular biology Ph.D. candidate, Beth would be happy to spend all her time in the laboratory. She eagerly awaits the day her scientist colleagues announce the invention of the caffeine IV drip. She grew up 20 minutes away from Suzie, but the two somehow managed to miss the psychic twin vibes emanating from each other. Beth likes singing, Dance Dance Revolution, and Sister Hazel.*

* -- a little too much