After they lost a heartbreaker to the Yankees on Friday, July 23, the Red Sox were a beaten team, utterly destroyed by mediocre play, bad luck and history itself. The following day, turned their miracle season around (Hint: it involved a fight between Alex Rodriguez and Jason Varitek and a walk-off homerun by Bill Mueller). I typed, sealed and mailed a letter to A-Rod the following Monday. This is an excerpt from that letter which I think is particularly relevant to recent events.
Dear Alex,
After Friday night, the 2004 Red Sox were dead. Done. Up the creek without a paddle and no MacGyver in sight. Nine and a half games back of your Yankees and no discernable heartbeat to speak of within Red Sox nation. The half-game deficit in the AL Wild Card race no longer mattered. Nomar’s unexpected resurgence no longer mattered. It was over, a fact that seemed pretty obvious to me on my television at home.
No one was sure why. The statistics were definitely there. Even after the loss, Boston led your team in almost every major hitting category. They also held the edge in pitching, outslinging your Bombers in terms of ERA and opponents’ Batting Average. Not only were the statistics there, but we had the men to manipulate those statistics. Terry’s a stats guy. Theo’s a stats guy. Ben Affleck’s a stats guy.
But stats are what they are. They’ll win a bunch of ball games, but they don’t ensure World Series victories. Just ask Billy Beane. If you take a look at every action and reaction that needs to go your way to win the whole thing – every bounce, every inch, every hanging curveball – you come to realize just how ridiculously dumb it is to simply play the odds. You need luck. You need character. You need a spark.
That’s what the Sox had last year: all of the above. I don’t believe in fate, and I don’t really believe in God, but I’ll refer to Him in this context. He genuinely screwed up last year. Period. When Aaron Boone’s homerun sailed smugly over the left field wall, only one thing was certain: Red Sox Nation would be forced to watch the replay roughly 8,000 times over the course of the next year.
Needless to say, we didn’t watch SportsCenter for months. But the off-season brought great news. You, Alexander the Great, the LSMVP (Least Significant Most Valuable Player) were unhappy in Texas, and Boston had a chance in the sweepstakes. In what seemed to be a sudden and uncharacteristic change of heart, winning, not money, became your primary concern.
But, no offense Alex, I didn’t really want you aboard. It’s not that I didn’t like you as a player or a person. You’re equally admirable in both respects, a self-made man, a guy who plays the game the right way. But it just didn’t feel right. A World Series victory with you at the helm would feel tainted, unwarranted, not quite as sweet. A Rangers-Red Sox trade would cheapen the game, and when it came down to it, that wasn’t Boston’s place … it was New York’s. I’d be damned if we stooped to Steinbrenner’s level. But hey, it wasn’t my decision.
So when the Player’s Association stopped the deal in its tracks, I was admittedly pretty happy. The alternative, a frivolous pursuit of two nobodies named Schilling and Foulke, was fine by me. By the time Spring Training rolled around, we had reeled both of them in and once again seemed poised to make this “the year.” But injuries struck early. D-Lowe was “floating it” like the little kid in “Rookie of the Year”. Our new, improved manager was nothing more than a younger, less Forrest-Gumpy Grady Little. The kids in “The Sandlot” were better defensively. And Friday was more of the same. No one could save our season. No one … well at least no one in a Red Sox uniform.
Then came Saturday’s game, and with it, the unthinkable … in the third inning, Bronson Arroyo hit you with a pitch. It wasn’t intentional. People get hit by pitches every day. You weren’t a victim. You were a statistic.
But you didn’t think so. Maybe you’d finally let the hype pad your ego. Maybe the pinstripes had finally sucked out the final wisps of your soul. But apparently no one is allowed to pitch inside to Alex Rodriguez, so you completely overreacted. You stared Bronson down – trying really hard to look tough – even gracing him with a few choice words before slowly making your way to first base. Jason Varitek took exception to your immaturity and not-so-politely suggested you take your base like a good little pretty boy. And everyone knows what happened next.
You lost your mind. After seemingly yelling the words, “DUCK BOOBS!” several times in Varitek’s direction (at least that’s what I told my impressionable little brother who used to look up to you), you picked a fight with him, even borrowing the cheesy two-finger-bring-it-on gesture from Neo in “The Matrix”. Did you forget that you’re Alex Rodriguez? My God, the umpire should’ve given you back your bat to make it a fair fight. Logically, a bench-clearing brawl ensued and ejections followed.
But a few innings later, as announcers Joe Buck and Tim McCarver were rambling on and on about “Alex Rodriguez being the symbol of the Red Sox’ frustration,” I realized something. No one could’ve done what you had just done. You were the only player, on the only team, in the only stadium, who could have single-handedly given the Sox the spark they needed, that intangible weapon to resurrect their season. This was Apollo Creed’s death. And for that, Alex, I thank you.
I thought about waiting until the end of the season to send this letter, you know, after the Red Sox have dispatched the Cardinals in a memorable six-game World Series and after the media has absolutely killed another Kevin Millar slogan. Maybe it would find you on a romantic Maui getaway with Jeter and give you two something to read on the beach. But after watching your post-game interview, the one where you ripped off every “G.I. Joe” cartoon by saying something about “losing the battle, but winning the war,” I figured I’d send this now. Just as a token of good faith. So, for Red Sox fans everywhere, thanks again.
And by the way, your lips are purple. You should really get that checked out.
In Theo We Trust,
Matt Brochu
Matt Brochu is a UMass Graduate Student.
