It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. This will be Jose’s last KEYS of the regular season. Jose doesn’t write on the weekends, out of respect for Jews, Christians and the labor movement, and he’s not going to start now, at least not without overtime. (Note: Though two times zero dollars is still, lamentably, zero dollars.) So Jose thought this might be a good time for him to put everything that’s been building up in him over the course of the season on the table, to purge his system, to perform a high colonic cleansing of the mind and the soul before the playoff run.
First things first, Jose cannot tell you how delighted he is to not be writing a eulogy for the 2007 season in this space. Writing eulogies is an art, to be sure, but it is a gutter art, like needlepoint. Fueled by sadness and the icy void of loss it is easy to write, so, so easy. After all, art flows almost mellifluously from tragedy. But to write when one is happy, to create out of joy rather than out of sorrow, that is the jackpot of artistic creation.
And throughout this season watching this team has been a source of happiness far more often than it has been a source of pain. True, Jose does not love this team like he loved the 2004 squad. There is no jovial Pedro or wisecracking Millar, and the team only has one Jew. But there are things to rejoice in as well. While the team got less Jewish, it got more Japanese. Ramiro Mendoza will not see any playoff innings. There is a zero percent chance of Dale Sveum getting Papi thrown out at the plate by 25 feet with no outs. Perhaps, if the season drags on to the brink of November, Jose will learn to truly love this team. Like a couple in an arranged marriage, Jose and this team may learn to love each other simply by being required to stay together far longer than they would if they’d met in the wilds of the bar scene.
But there are more things Jose needs to clear from his soul. He might have been wrong about wanting Papelbon to stay in the rotation. He might have been wrong about loving the DJ Dru signing. Jose may have been in error about thinking J.C. Romero would be a splendid fit. Out go the toxic ideas, the festering thoughts of the season leaving Jose free clean and at peace for the start of the post season.
And with his soul pure and his mind relieved of fallacies past Jose has room for new ideas. He has built the proverbial birdhouse in his soul and is waiting, just waiting for a chickadee of wisdom to move in. And he is now ready to accept truths that were once unacceptable, concepts that once would have been heresy. So as the season concludes and the post season commences, Jose offers you these few sweet thought of Zen.
• What is the sound of an Eric Gagne 1-2-3 inning?
• Coco Crisp is a funny name, but it is not nearly as funny as if Boog Powell and Sean Berry had a child and named him Boog Berry.
• Wily Mo Pena may have been as bad defensively as Pete Incaviglia, but he was much better looking.
• If Jessie Ventura was covering Red Sox games he would insist that Tito Eurona’s real name was Chico and he came from Tijuana just like he did with Tito Santana.
• Joba is a really stupid name.
These are pearls of wisdom. It is your choice whether you string them into a necklace, whether your rub your teeth over their smooth yet barely irregular surfaces to test for authenticity or whether you cast them before swine, which is apparently also a popular custom.
See you in the playoffs.
2. At the game last night, a couple of people sitting behind Jose were talking about the Red Sox bullpen cop, who they affectionately called Chief Wiggum, and commenting that he must have the best job in Boston.
“Think about it,” one of the fellows commented. “He gets to stand there watching every game and hanging out with the relievers and he probably gets what? $50 per hour? $70 per hour?”
Jose thought about it. He pondered whether this was indeed the dream job he had been looking for, easy, lucrative and fun. But then he realized something, something ghastly.
“You shouldn’t dismiss the difficulty of the job,” said Jose. “In fact, Jose is not sure that they pay him enough. The man has to sit there in the bullpen every night, with a revolver at his side, and he has to not shoot Eric Gagne. That’s hard work.”
3. Jose heard an interesting analogy on, of all places WEEI, yesterday. A caller suggested to Herald scribe Steve Buckley that perhaps Eric Gagne was a lot like Scott Williamson circa 2003. As you recall, Williamson struggled after being acquired by the Sox mid-season and yet settled into a nasty groove at playoff time.
So far Gagne has completed the first part of the challenge, struggling in the regular season. He also, like Williamson, has a history of grotesque arm problems. But will he start to look like Williamson in the post season? Who knows? But the first sign that he is truly Williamson-like will be if he develops the enormous cold sore, the festering lip ulcer that gave Williamson the strength for his playoff run.
Jose’s theory is that the cold sore was so painful that Williamson could no longer focus on the pain in his arm, thereby allowing him to cut loose for the first time all year. If Gagne is going to be successful, he needs that cold sore. But there are disturbing indicators. Jose cannot recall ever seeing a cold sore on Gagne, so if we want him to develop one in time for the playoffs he either needs to go make out with Scott Williamson or possibly perform certain sexual acts upon allegedly herpetic Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter.
Alternatively, Papelbon could just kick him in the nuts. That might work too.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Showing posts with label Pena. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pena. Show all posts
Friday, September 28
Saturday, July 21
Where's the Drama?
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Where’s the drama?
Is it, as a drill sergeant on a short lived FOX boot camp reality show once suggested, being saved for “yo mamma?” Is it the preserve of pale goth chicks in pasty white makeup? Jose does not know. But surely, it is not at Fenway Park
Today is the World Famous Sons of Sam Horn bash, and there is absolutely no rumor, as yet, of Manny Ramirez demanding a trade. Not even a peep. Where the hell does that leave Jose? Lost and alone, and a little bored. That’s where. Two years ago, Manny was poised to be traded to the Mets on bash day and it made for easy copy. Pithy verbiage like “stop the music” and “trading Manny for Aubrey Huff and Mike Cameron is the stupidest idea ever” flowed freely from Jose’s clicking keys, like beer, and wine, and tequila and vodka, and rum and probably more than a little isopropyl down SoSHer Tom Ricardo’s formidable gullet.
And today? Well, today Jose has to actually use a drunken Cranston frat boy in an analogy. That’s how bad the material is today.
But let’s say Jose wants to write about real trading deadline drama. Let’s imagine, for once moment, that he would rather not write about the man called TRic. What would he write about? Would he hop on the rumors that the Sox are looking into Jermaine Dye or Marx Texiera? What about the Reggie Sanders option? Or there are even those silly rumors about Ken Griffey Jr.?
Pish tosh Jose says. Pish tosh. There is only one trade Jose wants to discuss, and that is the trade that brings Todd Helton to the Red Sox for Mike Lowell and Wily Mo Pena.
Let’s break it down.
Why would the Red Sox make this trade? It would give them a serious power boost, a skilled first baseman and allow them to move Kevin Youkilis to third.
Why would the Colorado Rockies make this move? Okay, bear with Jose for a second because it’s a little statistical, but here goes: They make the trade because someone put LSD in the water cooler. Think about it. It might work. Under the influence of acid, Colorado officials could easily become convinced that Helton was a snake monster they needed to get rid of, and that accepting a 30 foot tall Dominican giant and a kindly old wizard was a preferable to cutting him outright.
Okay, maybe no one is going to take this seriously baring the use of mind-altering drugs or possibly a kidnapping of some kind, but people took Manny for Huff and Cameron seriously, and was that really any less asinine? Okay, yes it was, but not by much.
2. Jose likes to think that he was Julio Lugo’s inspiration.
It only makes sense doesn’t it? Jose is a singles hitter with a propensity for groundouts, and an ugly tendency to throw the ball away. Sound like anyone you know? And yet at last night’s Sons of Sam Horn softball game, Jose absolutely raked. A deep home run, a triple, a single and a long fly out. No errors either. Okay, maybe one error, but it’s beer league softball.
Then all of a sudden Julio Lugo, who had been heating up anyway, suddenly crushes a ball over the monster for a grand slam. Rococo Crisp started heating up after Jacoby Ellsbury, a younger, whiter version of himself showed up. Is it not possible that Jose had the same impact on Lugo?
Admittedly, logic would say, “No that’s completely impossible. Stop being a jackass Jose.”
But Jose, jackass that he is, thinks otherwise. Sometimes all that matters is to hear the footsteps, to sense the sickly sweet breath of competition blowing down your neck.
This was one of those times.
And Jose is glad because, despite his being the worst hitter in baseball for the better part of this year, Jose never lost faith in Julio Lugo. Maybe it’s because of Jose’s deep, and borderline racist conviction that all Dominicans can hit a baseball. Maybe it’s because it simply seemed impossible that anyone not named Crespo could be that bad, or maybe just maybe, it is because Jose sees Lugo as some sort of an old testament God figure, testing Jose like God tested Job, with horror after horror. But like Job, Jose never lost faith. He got angry, sure. He may have cursed the heavens about Lugo’s four-year deal, screaming “Why, why, why are you doing this to Jose.” But he never lost faith.
And do you know why? Because Julio Lugo never gave Jose boils. If Julio had given Jose boils like God gave to Job, Jose would be all about benching him.
3. When Mike Timlin came into last night’s game, the near universal reaction at the SoSH post softball pool party was “Nooo, not Timlin.” Indeed, people would walk in the door to see the grizzled righty on the mound and immediately recoil.
This is wrong. This is dead wrong. Mike Timlin does not deserve this. We owe him our respect. He gave us years of brilliant service, he should have been on the mound in the 8th in game 7 of the 2003 ALCS, he has pitched 14 straight scoreless innings. That’s worthy of respect isn’t it? Still, that’s not enough to earn undying loyalty even as skills deteriorate, Jose knows that. No, the reason we should continue to respect Mike Timlin is that he is a large man who owns a lot of guns, and that and that alone makes him worthy of respect.
And fear. Lots and lots of fear.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Where’s the drama?
Is it, as a drill sergeant on a short lived FOX boot camp reality show once suggested, being saved for “yo mamma?” Is it the preserve of pale goth chicks in pasty white makeup? Jose does not know. But surely, it is not at Fenway Park
Today is the World Famous Sons of Sam Horn bash, and there is absolutely no rumor, as yet, of Manny Ramirez demanding a trade. Not even a peep. Where the hell does that leave Jose? Lost and alone, and a little bored. That’s where. Two years ago, Manny was poised to be traded to the Mets on bash day and it made for easy copy. Pithy verbiage like “stop the music” and “trading Manny for Aubrey Huff and Mike Cameron is the stupidest idea ever” flowed freely from Jose’s clicking keys, like beer, and wine, and tequila and vodka, and rum and probably more than a little isopropyl down SoSHer Tom Ricardo’s formidable gullet.
And today? Well, today Jose has to actually use a drunken Cranston frat boy in an analogy. That’s how bad the material is today.
But let’s say Jose wants to write about real trading deadline drama. Let’s imagine, for once moment, that he would rather not write about the man called TRic. What would he write about? Would he hop on the rumors that the Sox are looking into Jermaine Dye or Marx Texiera? What about the Reggie Sanders option? Or there are even those silly rumors about Ken Griffey Jr.?
Pish tosh Jose says. Pish tosh. There is only one trade Jose wants to discuss, and that is the trade that brings Todd Helton to the Red Sox for Mike Lowell and Wily Mo Pena.
Let’s break it down.
Why would the Red Sox make this trade? It would give them a serious power boost, a skilled first baseman and allow them to move Kevin Youkilis to third.
Why would the Colorado Rockies make this move? Okay, bear with Jose for a second because it’s a little statistical, but here goes: They make the trade because someone put LSD in the water cooler. Think about it. It might work. Under the influence of acid, Colorado officials could easily become convinced that Helton was a snake monster they needed to get rid of, and that accepting a 30 foot tall Dominican giant and a kindly old wizard was a preferable to cutting him outright.
Okay, maybe no one is going to take this seriously baring the use of mind-altering drugs or possibly a kidnapping of some kind, but people took Manny for Huff and Cameron seriously, and was that really any less asinine? Okay, yes it was, but not by much.
2. Jose likes to think that he was Julio Lugo’s inspiration.
It only makes sense doesn’t it? Jose is a singles hitter with a propensity for groundouts, and an ugly tendency to throw the ball away. Sound like anyone you know? And yet at last night’s Sons of Sam Horn softball game, Jose absolutely raked. A deep home run, a triple, a single and a long fly out. No errors either. Okay, maybe one error, but it’s beer league softball.
Then all of a sudden Julio Lugo, who had been heating up anyway, suddenly crushes a ball over the monster for a grand slam. Rococo Crisp started heating up after Jacoby Ellsbury, a younger, whiter version of himself showed up. Is it not possible that Jose had the same impact on Lugo?
Admittedly, logic would say, “No that’s completely impossible. Stop being a jackass Jose.”
But Jose, jackass that he is, thinks otherwise. Sometimes all that matters is to hear the footsteps, to sense the sickly sweet breath of competition blowing down your neck.
This was one of those times.
And Jose is glad because, despite his being the worst hitter in baseball for the better part of this year, Jose never lost faith in Julio Lugo. Maybe it’s because of Jose’s deep, and borderline racist conviction that all Dominicans can hit a baseball. Maybe it’s because it simply seemed impossible that anyone not named Crespo could be that bad, or maybe just maybe, it is because Jose sees Lugo as some sort of an old testament God figure, testing Jose like God tested Job, with horror after horror. But like Job, Jose never lost faith. He got angry, sure. He may have cursed the heavens about Lugo’s four-year deal, screaming “Why, why, why are you doing this to Jose.” But he never lost faith.
And do you know why? Because Julio Lugo never gave Jose boils. If Julio had given Jose boils like God gave to Job, Jose would be all about benching him.
3. When Mike Timlin came into last night’s game, the near universal reaction at the SoSH post softball pool party was “Nooo, not Timlin.” Indeed, people would walk in the door to see the grizzled righty on the mound and immediately recoil.
This is wrong. This is dead wrong. Mike Timlin does not deserve this. We owe him our respect. He gave us years of brilliant service, he should have been on the mound in the 8th in game 7 of the 2003 ALCS, he has pitched 14 straight scoreless innings. That’s worthy of respect isn’t it? Still, that’s not enough to earn undying loyalty even as skills deteriorate, Jose knows that. No, the reason we should continue to respect Mike Timlin is that he is a large man who owns a lot of guns, and that and that alone makes him worthy of respect.
And fear. Lots and lots of fear.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, July 17
Wily Mo's Space
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Jose was originally going to use this space today to talk about Khe-Sanh Gabbard’s remarkable complete game shut out against the Royals last night. He was going to discuss the silent lefties grace under pressure and his surprising success in the big leagues. But that was before and astute reader sent Jose Wily Mo Pena’s Myspace page.
Is it real? Who knows? But sometimes it’s fun to just crack out the old jump to conclusions mat and get hopping and this is one of those times. At this site you can learn important facts, such as that Wily Mo has never cried (note: Does that means he thinks Wade Boggs is a sissy?) and that his favorite movie is somehow Man on Fire.
Moreover, it includes some interesting tidbits, such as the fact that Wily Mo, would end the sentence “Let’s walk on the” with the word “phone.” Presumably, he misread, and thought it said “Let’s talk on the,” but still, Jose suspects that even had he read it properly, his answer would not have been “base paths.”
There is good news though. The site reveals that Wily Mo has never done a drug (note: go screw George Mitchell), hates pitchers when they get him out and regards baseball as the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
So good for Wily Mo. After all, the only think we ever got from Balki Arroyo were some sketchy pictures in a Northeastern University dorm room.
2. As part of his rehabilitation program, Curt Euro pitched a simulated game against Alex Cora, Eric Hinske, Doug Mirabelli and Wily Mo Pena. This leads Jose to ask the a question: Who, exactly, was being simulated? The worst line up in baseball history? Are there four straight batters in any major league line up who would be as bad as those four?
Jose supposes this was a simulated game in the same way astronaut ice cream was simulated ice cream, that is, not at all.
3. As some of you may have noticed, Jose has added a neat little widget to KEYS on the lower right hand side that shows exactly how many visitors from each country and city Jose is getting to his little corner of the internet. Jose would like to offer a big KEYS welcome to his three readers in Erbil, in Iraqi Kurdistan. He would like to say howdy to his three new friends in Pomorie, Bulgaria. And he would like to make a gracious welcome to his trio of fans in Santo Domingo, in what baseball indicates is the greatest country on Earth. Heck, Jose would like to welcome you all. Whether you’re from Bombay or Boca del Rio, Jose is happy to have you here. Unless you are the reader from Cranbury, New Jersey, in which case you stay the hell away.
It just goes to show, that baseball has become a truly international phenomenon and the KEYS right along with it. Who’d have ever thought we would reach a day where shepherds in Gabon could join with German factory workers and Jordanian shopkeeps to together share a love of baseball, professional wrestling and jokes about park benches.
Yes, Jose knows that most of you are actually Americans working, soldiering or playing abroad and trying to keep abreast of your beloved Red Sox, but that’s not going to keep Jose from enjoying the fantasy that KEYS has become a kind of virtual “Small World” ride. He prefers to imagine Indians in Saris, Japanese in kimonos, Arabs in galabeas, and Americans in Megadeth T-Shirts sitting down at internet terminals to bask in the gentle glow of Jose’s wisdom,
Because, no matter whom you are, it is a small world, after all. It’s a small, small world.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Jose was originally going to use this space today to talk about Khe-Sanh Gabbard’s remarkable complete game shut out against the Royals last night. He was going to discuss the silent lefties grace under pressure and his surprising success in the big leagues. But that was before and astute reader sent Jose Wily Mo Pena’s Myspace page.
Is it real? Who knows? But sometimes it’s fun to just crack out the old jump to conclusions mat and get hopping and this is one of those times. At this site you can learn important facts, such as that Wily Mo has never cried (note: Does that means he thinks Wade Boggs is a sissy?) and that his favorite movie is somehow Man on Fire.
Moreover, it includes some interesting tidbits, such as the fact that Wily Mo, would end the sentence “Let’s walk on the” with the word “phone.” Presumably, he misread, and thought it said “Let’s talk on the,” but still, Jose suspects that even had he read it properly, his answer would not have been “base paths.”
There is good news though. The site reveals that Wily Mo has never done a drug (note: go screw George Mitchell), hates pitchers when they get him out and regards baseball as the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
So good for Wily Mo. After all, the only think we ever got from Balki Arroyo were some sketchy pictures in a Northeastern University dorm room.
2. As part of his rehabilitation program, Curt Euro pitched a simulated game against Alex Cora, Eric Hinske, Doug Mirabelli and Wily Mo Pena. This leads Jose to ask the a question: Who, exactly, was being simulated? The worst line up in baseball history? Are there four straight batters in any major league line up who would be as bad as those four?
Jose supposes this was a simulated game in the same way astronaut ice cream was simulated ice cream, that is, not at all.
3. As some of you may have noticed, Jose has added a neat little widget to KEYS on the lower right hand side that shows exactly how many visitors from each country and city Jose is getting to his little corner of the internet. Jose would like to offer a big KEYS welcome to his three readers in Erbil, in Iraqi Kurdistan. He would like to say howdy to his three new friends in Pomorie, Bulgaria. And he would like to make a gracious welcome to his trio of fans in Santo Domingo, in what baseball indicates is the greatest country on Earth. Heck, Jose would like to welcome you all. Whether you’re from Bombay or Boca del Rio, Jose is happy to have you here. Unless you are the reader from Cranbury, New Jersey, in which case you stay the hell away.
It just goes to show, that baseball has become a truly international phenomenon and the KEYS right along with it. Who’d have ever thought we would reach a day where shepherds in Gabon could join with German factory workers and Jordanian shopkeeps to together share a love of baseball, professional wrestling and jokes about park benches.
Yes, Jose knows that most of you are actually Americans working, soldiering or playing abroad and trying to keep abreast of your beloved Red Sox, but that’s not going to keep Jose from enjoying the fantasy that KEYS has become a kind of virtual “Small World” ride. He prefers to imagine Indians in Saris, Japanese in kimonos, Arabs in galabeas, and Americans in Megadeth T-Shirts sitting down at internet terminals to bask in the gentle glow of Jose’s wisdom,
Because, no matter whom you are, it is a small world, after all. It’s a small, small world.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Monday, July 16
How Much Can You Bench?
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. How are the Boston Red Sox like the U.S Supreme Court? In both cases, Jose doesn’t like who is on the bench.
We’re more than half way through the season now, and a bench that was supposed to be a strength of this team is emerging as a glaring weakness. Never was it more obvious than yesterday afternoon when Jose was forced to watch Doug Mirabelli bat with the game on the line because Jason Varitek had a sore thumb. Now, obviously Jose is not suggesting that the Red Sox carry three catchers; two is fine, as long as one of them isn’t Doug Mirabelli. Don’t we still have Carlton Fiske on the payroll? He could probably out hit Dougie these days. Does John Henry have a son? If he does, we could try the Marc Sullivan approach. (Note: Can we get a police escort to speed Mirabelli back to Logan Airport?)
But catcher is not the only problem. We have, in Wily Mo Pena, a player whose greatest asset is that he has an awesome name. Sure, if he ever got regular at bats he could do some damage, but, as he was born to DH, that’s never going to happen on this team. And Eric Hinske is just as big a problem. Sure, he can play four positions… poorly… But is below average defense all over the diamond really worth carrying a pinch hitter who can’t pinch hit? Sadly, both Wily Mo and Hinske appear to be the sorts of players who can hit respectably (note: well, tolerably) when playing every day, but not at all when cold off the bench. Is there almost any situation wherein you’d like to see one of our starters pinch hit for? Nope, and it’s not because our starters are so great.
The only bright spot on the bench is “The Coral Axe,” Alex Cora, who has the rare distinction of being an elite bench player on this squad by virtue of not being below average. He’s fine. Not great, but fine, and Jose is perfectly happy to have him as a utility man.
So the bench situation is grim. But perhaps Jose has not yet explained it in a properly KEYS-style manner. So far, what he’s written seems downright analytical. Not with numbers and stats and all, but in the sense that he’s talking about the merits and deficits of each player on the bench, rather than comparing them each to a general in the Boer War or a brand of anisette liqueur. So let’s remedy that by indulging in some of Jose’s famous secondary analysis. Let’s compare the bench to… let’s see… a bench.
The 2004 bench would be the gold standard of benches, a classic mahogany piano bench, lovingly hand-lacquered by Trappist monks—the sort of place where a virtuoso might sit in order to bring ancient concertos of rare beauty to life. At the other end of the spectrum would be 2000 Red Sox bench, which included Andy Sheets, Ed Sprague, Mike Lansing and ‘roid freak Manny Alexander. The bench was so bad that the best bench option would have been either Mike Stanley, who complemented his .222 batting average with 10 home runs or Lou Merloni, who was, well, mocked by Ben Affleck. That bench would have been like a public bench in a bad part of town. Not only is it slathered in graffiti, not only is its low-grade wood splintered and weak, but there is a big pile of dog excrement on it.
That leaves this year’s bench somewhere in between. Jose would compare it to a public bench in the heart of downtown. At first glance, it looks okay. It’s shiny, it’s more or less clean, there are no obvious spills on it. But when you get closer, you notice that there’s a homeless drug addict on the bench swigging from a bottle of Old Mr. Boston vodka. Could you sit on the bench? Sure you could, if you had a leg problem and absolutely needed a break. But would you want to sit on the bench? No, not unless it was absolutely necessary. And that’s how it is with the 2007 Red Sox. Can you go to the postseason with this bench? Sure, you could, but you probably don’t want to. And just like when you sit next to the drug addict, if you go ahead and use this bench, there is a pretty good chance that you are going to get beaten.
2. You know what’s missing from this year’s Red Sox? A good gimmick. Hell, even a bad gimmick. Or a nickname. Something like that. The 2003 Red Sox had “Cowboy Up.” The 2004 Championship squad was the band of idiots. But what have we had since then? Not a whole heck of a lot, and Jose thinks that if we want this team to really gel, we need something.
A few ideas:
1. How are the Boston Red Sox like the U.S Supreme Court? In both cases, Jose doesn’t like who is on the bench.
We’re more than half way through the season now, and a bench that was supposed to be a strength of this team is emerging as a glaring weakness. Never was it more obvious than yesterday afternoon when Jose was forced to watch Doug Mirabelli bat with the game on the line because Jason Varitek had a sore thumb. Now, obviously Jose is not suggesting that the Red Sox carry three catchers; two is fine, as long as one of them isn’t Doug Mirabelli. Don’t we still have Carlton Fiske on the payroll? He could probably out hit Dougie these days. Does John Henry have a son? If he does, we could try the Marc Sullivan approach. (Note: Can we get a police escort to speed Mirabelli back to Logan Airport?)
But catcher is not the only problem. We have, in Wily Mo Pena, a player whose greatest asset is that he has an awesome name. Sure, if he ever got regular at bats he could do some damage, but, as he was born to DH, that’s never going to happen on this team. And Eric Hinske is just as big a problem. Sure, he can play four positions… poorly… But is below average defense all over the diamond really worth carrying a pinch hitter who can’t pinch hit? Sadly, both Wily Mo and Hinske appear to be the sorts of players who can hit respectably (note: well, tolerably) when playing every day, but not at all when cold off the bench. Is there almost any situation wherein you’d like to see one of our starters pinch hit for? Nope, and it’s not because our starters are so great.
The only bright spot on the bench is “The Coral Axe,” Alex Cora, who has the rare distinction of being an elite bench player on this squad by virtue of not being below average. He’s fine. Not great, but fine, and Jose is perfectly happy to have him as a utility man.
So the bench situation is grim. But perhaps Jose has not yet explained it in a properly KEYS-style manner. So far, what he’s written seems downright analytical. Not with numbers and stats and all, but in the sense that he’s talking about the merits and deficits of each player on the bench, rather than comparing them each to a general in the Boer War or a brand of anisette liqueur. So let’s remedy that by indulging in some of Jose’s famous secondary analysis. Let’s compare the bench to… let’s see… a bench.
The 2004 bench would be the gold standard of benches, a classic mahogany piano bench, lovingly hand-lacquered by Trappist monks—the sort of place where a virtuoso might sit in order to bring ancient concertos of rare beauty to life. At the other end of the spectrum would be 2000 Red Sox bench, which included Andy Sheets, Ed Sprague, Mike Lansing and ‘roid freak Manny Alexander. The bench was so bad that the best bench option would have been either Mike Stanley, who complemented his .222 batting average with 10 home runs or Lou Merloni, who was, well, mocked by Ben Affleck. That bench would have been like a public bench in a bad part of town. Not only is it slathered in graffiti, not only is its low-grade wood splintered and weak, but there is a big pile of dog excrement on it.
That leaves this year’s bench somewhere in between. Jose would compare it to a public bench in the heart of downtown. At first glance, it looks okay. It’s shiny, it’s more or less clean, there are no obvious spills on it. But when you get closer, you notice that there’s a homeless drug addict on the bench swigging from a bottle of Old Mr. Boston vodka. Could you sit on the bench? Sure you could, if you had a leg problem and absolutely needed a break. But would you want to sit on the bench? No, not unless it was absolutely necessary. And that’s how it is with the 2007 Red Sox. Can you go to the postseason with this bench? Sure, you could, but you probably don’t want to. And just like when you sit next to the drug addict, if you go ahead and use this bench, there is a pretty good chance that you are going to get beaten.
2. You know what’s missing from this year’s Red Sox? A good gimmick. Hell, even a bad gimmick. Or a nickname. Something like that. The 2003 Red Sox had “Cowboy Up.” The 2004 Championship squad was the band of idiots. But what have we had since then? Not a whole heck of a lot, and Jose thinks that if we want this team to really gel, we need something.
A few ideas:
- KEC-- (Note: Which stands for the Kosovo Electric Company)—Because power outages are a major problem. (Note: Ever since Jose was in Kosovo, anytime something doesn’t work, he explains the problem as “No KEC.” For instance, if a flashlight has a dead battery the problem is no KEC.)
- The Gulag Archipelago—They have lots of people from islands (note: Dominican, Japan, though the DR is not an archipelago), and as in the gulag, no one has any idea what tomorrow is going to bring.
- The British Bulldogs—No reason, they were just an awesome tag team.
- The Partridge Family—Every time Jose looks at the standings he thinks he loves you. But then he sees a game like yesterday’s 2-1 loss to the BJays, and wonder’s, so what is he so afraid of.
3. Do you think the British Army would send Gil Meche to Iraq or would the fact that he’s a Royal make him too much of a target?
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, May 29
First Game
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME
1. Interesting fact. Did you know that there are people on this good Earth, who have never seen a baseball game? Really. There are. But now there is one fewer.
Last night, Jose gave a Kosovar Albanian the greatest gift that an American can give a Kosovar, you know except for freedom from tyranny and pending, genocide, a chance to see a major league game. In 2005, while visiting Kosovo, Jose had tried to explain the great American game to this fellow, let’s call him Jack, but despite the innate Albanian love of all things American, he struggled to follow Jose’s lovingly hand scratched diagram.
“Where are the other eight men?” he asked when Jose explained that the batter was the only offensive player on the field. It’s all in the 2005 KEYS, you should read it. It’s excellent.
But a mere diagram is no substitute for the actual experience of attending a baseball game, much less a major league game at Fenway Park. As the emerald turf stretched before him as he emerged from the tunnel, Jack got that look that we’ve all seen in four year olds attending their first game, that we remember having ourselves when we first entered Fenway. But seeing it on a 33 year old man, dressed in what can best be described as a Miami Vice getup, is a different experience entirely. Wonder on the face of a child is beautiful, but common, wonder on the face of an adult, by contrast, is as rare as an inside the park homerun.
And that’s when the questions started.
Why is this guy going to the base? Why is a foul a strike sometimes but other times not a strike? How come the Japanese guy doesn’t pitch every day?
Some of the questions were easier to answer. Jose can explain the strike zone or the ground rule double, but others such as why Casey Blake was out after getting hit on the fingers on a swing, or why in God’s name we play Sweet Caroline in the eighth, reminded Jose that there are many things in this game that remain opaque, hidden beneath cloaks of time and behind walls of dusty tradition.
2. Jose loved Amelie Benjamin’s piece in today’s Globe Red Sox Notebook about the feud between Kevin Youkilis and Dustin Pedroia about who is slower. The centerpiece of the article was Youks claiming that his inside the park home run last night proved that he is faster. This, of course, proves nothing, as Steven Hawking could have rounded the bases on that ball.
Jose likes it because it reminds him of his feud his freshman year of high school with his friend Dan over who would be the slowest cross country runner not only on the team , but in Belmont High School history. Dan tried his best. Despite his long legs and lanky frame, he managed to run truly pathetic 10 minute miles throughout the 3.5 mile course. But Dan couldn’t compete with Jose. Jose’s inferior conditioning and general unwillingness to exert too much effort gave him the edge he needed to run 10 minute 30 second miles, allowing him to still be chugging away, long after Dan had crossed the tape. Jose’s specialty was lollygagging his way through the course and then going into the high kick down the final stretch, once everyone who had finished 10 minutes prior could see him, thereby demonstrating his grit and determination.
Only once, in the entire season, did Jose outpace another runner. Sadly, one competitor from Lexington out-slothed Jose running an astonishing five minutes behind him. Jose figures either the guy got hit by a bus while running or it was one of the Molina brothers, either way, Jose has to tip his cap.
3. Let’s be honest. As happy as we all were to see Mosey Nixon back at Fenway last night, to stand and shout and give him his due, weren’t we even happier that he was the guy up with the bases juiced in the eighth against a lefty? (Note: Yes, he did have a long sac fly rather than his more traditional “struck out swinging on a changeup away.”)
As hard as Nixon played for us, and as well as he played, there are few things in Red Sox history that Jose will miss less than watching Mosey face lefties in critical situations. On the list of things at bats has hated to watch over the years, it’s pretty much any Cesar Crespo at bat, Jim Rice with a runner on against a groundball pitcher in his last few years and then Mosey versus a lefty.
You’d think Wily Mo Pena would be making the list, with his remarkable ability to get so far ahead of an off speed pitch that he actually swings before the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, but even if it’s futile the chance that he might inadvertently start World War III by knocking the ball to Red Square makes Jose not hate his at bats.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Interesting fact. Did you know that there are people on this good Earth, who have never seen a baseball game? Really. There are. But now there is one fewer.
Last night, Jose gave a Kosovar Albanian the greatest gift that an American can give a Kosovar, you know except for freedom from tyranny and pending, genocide, a chance to see a major league game. In 2005, while visiting Kosovo, Jose had tried to explain the great American game to this fellow, let’s call him Jack, but despite the innate Albanian love of all things American, he struggled to follow Jose’s lovingly hand scratched diagram.
“Where are the other eight men?” he asked when Jose explained that the batter was the only offensive player on the field. It’s all in the 2005 KEYS, you should read it. It’s excellent.
But a mere diagram is no substitute for the actual experience of attending a baseball game, much less a major league game at Fenway Park. As the emerald turf stretched before him as he emerged from the tunnel, Jack got that look that we’ve all seen in four year olds attending their first game, that we remember having ourselves when we first entered Fenway. But seeing it on a 33 year old man, dressed in what can best be described as a Miami Vice getup, is a different experience entirely. Wonder on the face of a child is beautiful, but common, wonder on the face of an adult, by contrast, is as rare as an inside the park homerun.
And that’s when the questions started.
Why is this guy going to the base? Why is a foul a strike sometimes but other times not a strike? How come the Japanese guy doesn’t pitch every day?
Some of the questions were easier to answer. Jose can explain the strike zone or the ground rule double, but others such as why Casey Blake was out after getting hit on the fingers on a swing, or why in God’s name we play Sweet Caroline in the eighth, reminded Jose that there are many things in this game that remain opaque, hidden beneath cloaks of time and behind walls of dusty tradition.
2. Jose loved Amelie Benjamin’s piece in today’s Globe Red Sox Notebook about the feud between Kevin Youkilis and Dustin Pedroia about who is slower. The centerpiece of the article was Youks claiming that his inside the park home run last night proved that he is faster. This, of course, proves nothing, as Steven Hawking could have rounded the bases on that ball.
Jose likes it because it reminds him of his feud his freshman year of high school with his friend Dan over who would be the slowest cross country runner not only on the team , but in Belmont High School history. Dan tried his best. Despite his long legs and lanky frame, he managed to run truly pathetic 10 minute miles throughout the 3.5 mile course. But Dan couldn’t compete with Jose. Jose’s inferior conditioning and general unwillingness to exert too much effort gave him the edge he needed to run 10 minute 30 second miles, allowing him to still be chugging away, long after Dan had crossed the tape. Jose’s specialty was lollygagging his way through the course and then going into the high kick down the final stretch, once everyone who had finished 10 minutes prior could see him, thereby demonstrating his grit and determination.
Only once, in the entire season, did Jose outpace another runner. Sadly, one competitor from Lexington out-slothed Jose running an astonishing five minutes behind him. Jose figures either the guy got hit by a bus while running or it was one of the Molina brothers, either way, Jose has to tip his cap.
3. Let’s be honest. As happy as we all were to see Mosey Nixon back at Fenway last night, to stand and shout and give him his due, weren’t we even happier that he was the guy up with the bases juiced in the eighth against a lefty? (Note: Yes, he did have a long sac fly rather than his more traditional “struck out swinging on a changeup away.”)
As hard as Nixon played for us, and as well as he played, there are few things in Red Sox history that Jose will miss less than watching Mosey face lefties in critical situations. On the list of things at bats has hated to watch over the years, it’s pretty much any Cesar Crespo at bat, Jim Rice with a runner on against a groundball pitcher in his last few years and then Mosey versus a lefty.
You’d think Wily Mo Pena would be making the list, with his remarkable ability to get so far ahead of an off speed pitch that he actually swings before the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, but even if it’s futile the chance that he might inadvertently start World War III by knocking the ball to Red Square makes Jose not hate his at bats.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Wednesday, April 18
Not Down on Cocomo
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Cocomo, the dubious centerfield combination of Rococo Crisp and Wily Mo Pena finally got in gear last night with two hits each (note: though Pena was technically playing right), including a monstrous 450 foot blast to center field by Pena. In light of this achievement, Jose though they deserved a musical tribute in the style of The Beach Boys.
1. Cocomo, the dubious centerfield combination of Rococo Crisp and Wily Mo Pena finally got in gear last night with two hits each (note: though Pena was technically playing right), including a monstrous 450 foot blast to center field by Pena. In light of this achievement, Jose though they deserved a musical tribute in the style of The Beach Boys.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play
Center field?
In between left and right,
There’s some guys called Cocomo,
If they can’t hit, we’re gonna blow,
and will not play in the fall.
Sliders slide away,
For a fastball having to pray,
Because you can’t hit the curve.
Another sad hitting display,
Down goes Kokomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
Hamate. Finger. Injuries that linger.
Diving for the ball,
Playing caroms off the wall,
Cannot track off the crack of the bat, the defense tends to appall.
Hitting seven or eight,OBP that’s not too great,
That dreamy look while pitches go by,
Is gonna make us cry.
Down goes Cocomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
Jacoby Ellsbury, get here in a hurry.
Every pitcher knows,
Don’t throw heat to Cocomo,
Breaking stuff is the way to go,
If you must face either one.
Down goes Cocomo.
‘Gainst Texas, Toronto, get some base hits pronto,
The Angels, Seattle, let’s put up battle,
The night time, the day, baby why don’t we play?
Ooo and in the field that Cocomo,
One guy is fast,
While the other’s slow,
But the fast one cannot throw.
Down goes Cocomo.
2. Jose is not sure what to make of last night’s incredibly weird start by Mr. Matsu. The righty absolutely cruised for three innings and then completely fell apart in the fourth after missing a borderline strike three call, a borderline play at first and a borderline error by Julio Lugo. It’s not just that he stopped being able to get people out, it’s that suddenly he turned into Rick Ankiel, skipping balls in like a cricket bowler and sailing pitches high above the catcher.
This alone would be weird, but certainly not unprecedented. Sometimes pitchers are going along fine and then they completely lose it. It happens. What is exceedingly odd, however, is that Mr. Matsu recovered completely in the fifth and sixth setting down all six batters he faced and striking out most of them. Who the hell falls apart and comes back together so quickly?
Jose knew he had heard about something exactly like this before, so he did some research. Was it Tom Seaver? Nope. Fernando Valenzuela? Uh-uh. Perhaps Senator Jim Bunning? Not him either. And then he found it. It’s Captain Marvel. Duh. Jose heard the editors of Gone and Forgotten, one of the links featured on this very page talking about it on This American Life some time ago. Captain Marvel (note: not to be confused with Captain Marvel) was an alien robot sent from his dying planet to preserve peace on Earth who had the power to fall apart by yelling “split”—literally, head legs and feet flopping everywhere-- and then to come back together by yelling “Xam!” Apparently, he draws this power from something called Element X. And here’s the funny thing. Right before he struck out Royce Clayton in the fourth, the first indication that he had gotten himself back together, Jose could swear he heard Mr. Matsu yell “Xam.” Or maybe it was “Bam” and he was doing a tribute to Emeril or the late wrestling great Bam Bam Bigelow. (Note: Does Element X count as a performance enhancing drug?)
So, the way Jose sees it, it appears that Daisuke Matsuzaka, rather than being Japanese at all is, like Captain Marvel, an alien robot from a far away world sent here to protect humanity. That’s the simplest explanation for what happened last night. This means that the Japanese press can all go home, and Fenway can start making accommodations for the alien press. You know, replacing the sushi in the press buffet with entire cows, replacing the grounds crew with alien crop circle machines, that sort of thing.
Matsuzaka in the fourth last night.
3. Over the weekend, Jose had a conversation with his friend Jamie and Jamie’s brother, legendary SoSHer RomeroRomine about the unique place Manny Ramirez holds in American sports. A couple beers in, RomeroRomine posed a fascinating question: Will this be the year that Manny finally starts to fall off? Wait… that’s not fascinating. It’s terrifying. Sorry.
The fascinating questions was: Has there ever been a hall-of-fame caliber baseball player who was so spacey, so prone to inexplicable lapses of concentration and yet was so universally beloved?
After much thought, the only one we could come up with was Yogi Berra. (Note: Though the more Jose thinks about it, the more it seems Babe Ruth might fit. Couldn’t you see Manny being caught stealing to end a World Series?) Of course, Yogi went on to manage an actual major league team… well, he went on to manage the Yankees anyway, and Jose has a very hard time imagining Manny managing even a little league team.
If even a smart guy like Gabe Kapler can, as reported by the Globe, inadvertently render a pitcher ineligible to play by failing to change his lineup card after a rain out, can you imagine what Skipper Manny might do?
Jose imagines you would see him calling for shifts to right against left handed hitters, ordering pitchouts to leadoff hitters, and of course positioning the left fielder inside the left field wall or possibly at a car show in Atlantic City.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Tuesday, April 17
Making It To the Show
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
1. Jose has arrived.
At long last, in his fourth season of toil in the seedier districts of Red Sox blogdom, Jose has at last emerged into the mainstream alternative press. The first hint came prior to opening day, when Jose’s blog email received a press release from NPR informing him that they would be airing an interview with slugger Gary Sheffield on the subject of the steroid scandal. Needless to say, Jose dismissed it as spam, assuming that NPR stood for the Nigerian Petroleum Resource, and that Gary Sheffield, his career nearing a close, was figuring to raise some money by offering large finders fees to anyone who would send him checks. It appears now, though it remains unconfirmed, that NPR may have stood for National Public Radio, and the story may have been legit. Whoops.
What has changed Jose’s mind is an email he received on Sunday morning from The New Yorker, the esteemed intellectual magazine that is best known for it’s cerebral black and white cartoons, which, as a saying of undermined origin has it, could all be better captioned “Go f*ck yourself.” It seems that in the years since Tina Brown fled the smoldering ruins of the magazine, it had abandoned its policy of writing exclusively on Spike Lee and Woody Allen, and had rededicated itself to its previous, long-standing editorial policy of publishing non-fiction articles on subjects about which Jose gives a sh*t. In this, case Manny Ramirez.
The New Yorker, validated Jose’s existence, by sending him an advanced copy of the Manny story by Ben McGrath, scheduled to run in the April 23 issue (note: the one with the clever drawing on the cover) and a press release offering Jose the invitation interview McGrath. Okay, technically, it was an invitation to anyone getting the release, but Jose will pretend it was just him, because that makes him feel loved.
The excellent and lively profile, enriched by an unprecedented nine minutes of interview time with Manny (note: nice job Ben!) offers a number of fascinating revelations, including:
- When then Sox GM Dan Duquette asked Manny why he sometimes stepped into the batters box after ball four, Manny responded “I don’t keep track of the balls. I don’t keep track of the strikes, either, until I got two. Duke, I’m up there looking for a pitch I can hit. If I don’t get it, I wait for the umpire to tell me to go to first. Isn’t that what you’re paying me to do?”
- David Ortiz’s comment for the story? “Manny Ramirez is a crazy motherf*cker.
Sadly absent, was any comment on the rumor that Ramirez is from Mars and simply groks hitting.
Of course, now as Jose rereads the press release, he notices that the issue is currently on the stands, so much for having the inside track. Guess Jose isn’t so big time after all.
(Note: That said, Jose is going to try to send some questions about the article off to author Ben McGrath. Post your questions in the comments section of KEYS and Jose will send them along. Unless they’re stupid. Then he promises nothing.)
Stranger in a Strange Land
2. Jose went to the Patriot’s Day game yesterday with a nervous Sam Melendez, Jose’s brother, who was wracked with anxiety about whether delays to the start of the game would force him to leave early to see his marathon running girlfriend romp through Kenmore Square. As we passed the time waiting for the rain delay to be lifted and the game to begin, Sam taunted Jose with what he assured him would be some “great KEYS material.”
“Fantastic,” responded Jose. “Jose loves things that write themselves.”
Sam dangled the material coyly, allowing anticipation to build until the third inning when he finally saw fit to reveal his insight. His suggestion, his comic vision, was that when it came time to sing Sweet Caroline in the eighth inning stretch, Red Sox fans should belt out “loving me, loving Drew” instead of “loving me, loving you.”
Umm… okay.
Sam explained that this would honor right fielder DJ Dru and was totally funny when he was at a game once sitting next to some guy named Drew.
Jose remained underwhelemed.
“Jose supposes he could use that,” he responded slowly. “Maybe in a KEY about how you gave him this really unfunny idea. Really, that idea is like a Wily Mo Pena at bat this year. Lots of anticipation, even more disappointment.” (Note: Okay, Jose didn’t actually use the Wily Mo metaphor, but at least he’s going to come clean now, lest Seth Mnookin write one of his holier than thou, “hey, this guy is totally making things up” articles about Jose. Jose needs to fend those off, lest anyone learn the awful truth that he is not actually a Puerto Rican former big league reliever.)
But Sam Melendez was not to be denied. He thought for a moment and then fired back.
“Even though ‘loving me, loving Drew’ is funny, how about this. Since we’re platooning Coco Crisp and Wily Mo Pena in the outfield and neither of them can hit these days, can’t we just call them Kokomo for short?”
Yes. Yes, we can. Song lyrics to follow.
3. An open letter to the two women outside that bar who told Jose that game time had been postponed until 1:05.
Dear Two Women,
Thanks a lot. As you know, Jose hates entering the ballgame before it starts on a rainy day, lest he get stuck sitting in the rain swilling $7 beers for three hours before game time. So it was incredibly thoughtful of you, as you saw Jose and his brother walking by about to leave the marathon to go to the park for the 12:15 start, to ring your cowbells loudly and announce that first pitch had been delayed until 1:05.
Even though first pitch had not been delayed until 1:05, Jose really appreciates it, because had he gotten there on time, he might have seen the first seven runs of the nine scored that day, and why would he want that? Jose goes to games to see pitching and defense, not run scoring. What a shame that Jose’s brother snuck into the bar to urinate and saw that the game had started, or we might have missed two or three inning, and kept the game to two hours. Oh well. What’s done is done.
Anyway, thanks again, and please let Jose know if he can ever return the favor. If you need him to tell you what time a plane departs, whether you’re supposed to cross the street on red or green, or how often to take your heart medication, he’ll be happy to help.
Your pal,
Jose Melendez B.A.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Monday, April 2
Thank God for Opening Day
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE GAME.
Thank God for Opening Day.
Really. Thank God for Opening Day. Most years Jose is merely glad to see Opening Day; he is just happy that the winter is over and his nightly entertainment has emerged bear-like from hibernation. In those years, he is far more like the hunter on the first day of deer season than the smack addict flush with cash from a liquor store robbery and dying for a fix. He wants baseball, he craves it, but he does not need it to avoid dissent into oblivion.
But not this year. No, this year he needs the saccharine poison of baseball season to drip hurriedly into his veins. This year, it is to him what confession is to the sinner, what nitroglycerin is to the cardiac patient, what Guitar Hero is to Joel Zumaya. It is his salvation, his light.
These have been dark days in Melendezville, dark days indeed. Jose will not delve into the details of his personal life, save to say that the inadvertent destruction of family heirlooms is pretty much the least troubling thing going on in his life. Also, he got a pretty good haircut, for a change. How bad is it? Remember when the Yankees swept the Sox five straight? Well, it’s like that, except, Jose can’t turn just turn off the TV, scream “F*ck Rudy Seanez” and move on with his life. On the plus side, at least Jose’s travails do not make New Yorkers happy. Look, Jose is not saying things are “Grady Little is your manager and your starter is looking a little tired” bad, maybe more like “Jose Offerman is your second baseman and he has to field a routine grounder” bad, deeply troubling and upsetting, but probably not going to leave one catatonic.
And so we come to today, to Opening Day. And thank God. Thank God because Opening Day is hope and rebirth and life. Jose does not want to get all Curt Euro on you, he’s not even really a Christian per se, but have you ever thought about how much Opening Day, especially after a season like last year, is like Jesus? Think about it. The 2006 Red Sox season died horribly, painfully, torturously, and yet today the Red Sox will be resurrected.
“They are risen,” Red Sox fans will cry out. And regardless of the outcome, independent of what happens when Julio Lugo digs in this evening, the lone fact that the Red Sox are playing again, a short six months after their agonizing death will be nothing short of proof of God’s love. God gives us baseball, He gives us Opening Day because he loves us. It is exactly that simple. It is the same story as that of Jesus, the miracles, the lessons, the prophecy and the excruciating execution. (Note: Yes, that is a pun about bad defense and difficulties pulling off a hit and run.) The only difference is that Jesus only came back to life once, whereas the Red Sox are resurrected pretty much annually. Point Red Sox.
Okay, so maybe it’s silly and completely sacrilegious to compare Opening Day to Christ’s resurrection, every bit as silly as it is to offer the caramel coated platitudes about spring and rebirth and “Everyone’s even in the standings today.” But there is something profoundly true about it too. Because as bad as yesterday may have been, today will be, it must be, better, because today there will be baseball. Also, Jose’s going to a barbeque, which is always nice.
2. And now, a sneak peak at the back page of tomorrow’s New York post.
ORTIZ’S TERRIFYING VOW
Kansas City, Mo—Red Sox slugger David Ortiz shocked reporters yesterday by confession to a string of killings and vowing more to come. In response to a question about what he planned to do in the coming year, the Dominican slugger respond “What I always do. Kill…”
As stunning as the admission by the seemingly genial designated hitter was, the response has been even more remarkable. Blinded by parochialism, authorities in Boston have, thus far, declined to investigate or even bring Ortiz in for questioning. The Red Sox organization has been similarly negligent, building a wall of silence around Ortiz. Even as the comments were issued, the Red Sox public relations staff seemed prepared with carefully crafted denials, suggesting that they may have known about the crimes well in advance of Ortiz’s stunning statement.
“I’m pretty sure he was talking about hitting baseballs,” stonewalled Sox general manager and unindicted coconspirator Theo Epstein. “You left out the part where he said ‘the ball.’ It was ‘kill the ball.’”
“The only thing he killed was Yankees pitching for the last four years,” added former Red Sox first baseman Kevin Millar, who was not even on site or asked for comment.
Yankees President George Steinbrenner declined to join in the campaign of denial, issuing an immediate statement. “The Yankees organization, as the classiest in baseball, calls on the Red Sox to immediately suspend David Ortiz and urge him to turn himself into authorities. Felons have no place in our national pastime.”
3. As part of the full court press accompanying Opening Day, Boston Herald Business reporter Scott Van Voorhis did one of those stories that everyone loves where he asked local business leaders to offer managerial advice to sox skipper Terry Eurona.
Jose assumed that this was going to be another one of those stupid media features where they assume that just because someone has millions of dollars, has fired tens of thousands of people and has a Harvard educated hooker err... second wife, on his arm, he knows more about baseball than you or Jose. But it wasn’t about Jack Welch at all.
Instead Van Voorhis asked a variety of executives and managers, some of whom even have sporting experience, to offer advice, and you know what they said? Crack the whip, treated everyone the same, better to have nine Mosey Nixon’s than nine Manny Ramirez’s? No, they advocated for kid gloves, a consultative approach and letting the stars do what they do best.
One commentator, developer John Drew, counseled Tito to “handle them all gingerly.” Which sort of sounded, like good advice, but then Jose noticed something. John Drew? That’s remarkably close to the name of Sox outfielder David Jonathan Drew, aka DJ Dru, isn’t it? Jose senses infiltration. So basically what you have in this article, is DJ Dru, in the clever alias of real estate developer John Drew, who Jose assumes, looks just like DJ but wears glasses, advising Tito to give stars all sorts of leeway. And who is in that group of stars? None other than DJ Dru himself.
What’s next? Will Sloan School of Management Professor Manuel R. Amirez appear in the paper advising Eurona to “let players knock off a few days before the All-Star Break, It’s just good business?” Perhaps Green Monster Games President and Founder Curt Euro will counsel Tito to “Let your number one starter stay in until he thinks it’s time to come out?” Maybe CEO of ACME Inc. Wile. E. Mopena, will suggest a new model of exploding bat. (Note: Yes, Jose knows everyone has done Wile E. Coyote jokes for Wily Mo.)
Thank God for Opening Day.
Really. Thank God for Opening Day. Most years Jose is merely glad to see Opening Day; he is just happy that the winter is over and his nightly entertainment has emerged bear-like from hibernation. In those years, he is far more like the hunter on the first day of deer season than the smack addict flush with cash from a liquor store robbery and dying for a fix. He wants baseball, he craves it, but he does not need it to avoid dissent into oblivion.
But not this year. No, this year he needs the saccharine poison of baseball season to drip hurriedly into his veins. This year, it is to him what confession is to the sinner, what nitroglycerin is to the cardiac patient, what Guitar Hero is to Joel Zumaya. It is his salvation, his light.
These have been dark days in Melendezville, dark days indeed. Jose will not delve into the details of his personal life, save to say that the inadvertent destruction of family heirlooms is pretty much the least troubling thing going on in his life. Also, he got a pretty good haircut, for a change. How bad is it? Remember when the Yankees swept the Sox five straight? Well, it’s like that, except, Jose can’t turn just turn off the TV, scream “F*ck Rudy Seanez” and move on with his life. On the plus side, at least Jose’s travails do not make New Yorkers happy. Look, Jose is not saying things are “Grady Little is your manager and your starter is looking a little tired” bad, maybe more like “Jose Offerman is your second baseman and he has to field a routine grounder” bad, deeply troubling and upsetting, but probably not going to leave one catatonic.
And so we come to today, to Opening Day. And thank God. Thank God because Opening Day is hope and rebirth and life. Jose does not want to get all Curt Euro on you, he’s not even really a Christian per se, but have you ever thought about how much Opening Day, especially after a season like last year, is like Jesus? Think about it. The 2006 Red Sox season died horribly, painfully, torturously, and yet today the Red Sox will be resurrected.
“They are risen,” Red Sox fans will cry out. And regardless of the outcome, independent of what happens when Julio Lugo digs in this evening, the lone fact that the Red Sox are playing again, a short six months after their agonizing death will be nothing short of proof of God’s love. God gives us baseball, He gives us Opening Day because he loves us. It is exactly that simple. It is the same story as that of Jesus, the miracles, the lessons, the prophecy and the excruciating execution. (Note: Yes, that is a pun about bad defense and difficulties pulling off a hit and run.) The only difference is that Jesus only came back to life once, whereas the Red Sox are resurrected pretty much annually. Point Red Sox.
Okay, so maybe it’s silly and completely sacrilegious to compare Opening Day to Christ’s resurrection, every bit as silly as it is to offer the caramel coated platitudes about spring and rebirth and “Everyone’s even in the standings today.” But there is something profoundly true about it too. Because as bad as yesterday may have been, today will be, it must be, better, because today there will be baseball. Also, Jose’s going to a barbeque, which is always nice.
2. And now, a sneak peak at the back page of tomorrow’s New York post.
ORTIZ’S TERRIFYING VOW
Kansas City, Mo—Red Sox slugger David Ortiz shocked reporters yesterday by confession to a string of killings and vowing more to come. In response to a question about what he planned to do in the coming year, the Dominican slugger respond “What I always do. Kill…”
As stunning as the admission by the seemingly genial designated hitter was, the response has been even more remarkable. Blinded by parochialism, authorities in Boston have, thus far, declined to investigate or even bring Ortiz in for questioning. The Red Sox organization has been similarly negligent, building a wall of silence around Ortiz. Even as the comments were issued, the Red Sox public relations staff seemed prepared with carefully crafted denials, suggesting that they may have known about the crimes well in advance of Ortiz’s stunning statement.
“I’m pretty sure he was talking about hitting baseballs,” stonewalled Sox general manager and unindicted coconspirator Theo Epstein. “You left out the part where he said ‘the ball.’ It was ‘kill the ball.’”
“The only thing he killed was Yankees pitching for the last four years,” added former Red Sox first baseman Kevin Millar, who was not even on site or asked for comment.
Yankees President George Steinbrenner declined to join in the campaign of denial, issuing an immediate statement. “The Yankees organization, as the classiest in baseball, calls on the Red Sox to immediately suspend David Ortiz and urge him to turn himself into authorities. Felons have no place in our national pastime.”
3. As part of the full court press accompanying Opening Day, Boston Herald Business reporter Scott Van Voorhis did one of those stories that everyone loves where he asked local business leaders to offer managerial advice to sox skipper Terry Eurona.
Jose assumed that this was going to be another one of those stupid media features where they assume that just because someone has millions of dollars, has fired tens of thousands of people and has a Harvard educated hooker err... second wife, on his arm, he knows more about baseball than you or Jose. But it wasn’t about Jack Welch at all.
Instead Van Voorhis asked a variety of executives and managers, some of whom even have sporting experience, to offer advice, and you know what they said? Crack the whip, treated everyone the same, better to have nine Mosey Nixon’s than nine Manny Ramirez’s? No, they advocated for kid gloves, a consultative approach and letting the stars do what they do best.
One commentator, developer John Drew, counseled Tito to “handle them all gingerly.” Which sort of sounded, like good advice, but then Jose noticed something. John Drew? That’s remarkably close to the name of Sox outfielder David Jonathan Drew, aka DJ Dru, isn’t it? Jose senses infiltration. So basically what you have in this article, is DJ Dru, in the clever alias of real estate developer John Drew, who Jose assumes, looks just like DJ but wears glasses, advising Tito to give stars all sorts of leeway. And who is in that group of stars? None other than DJ Dru himself.
What’s next? Will Sloan School of Management Professor Manuel R. Amirez appear in the paper advising Eurona to “let players knock off a few days before the All-Star Break, It’s just good business?” Perhaps Green Monster Games President and Founder Curt Euro will counsel Tito to “Let your number one starter stay in until he thinks it’s time to come out?” Maybe CEO of ACME Inc. Wile. E. Mopena, will suggest a new model of exploding bat. (Note: Yes, Jose knows everyone has done Wile E. Coyote jokes for Wily Mo.)
Professor Manuel R. Amirez responds to
charges that his Keynesian beliefs are outdated.
Let’s get serious here. If you want to take a business perspective, don’t ask these squishy soft “modern” business types with their six sigma and their lean manufacturing and their bathroom breaks. No, let’s ask someone who knows how to get the most out of their workers like Henry Clay Frick or Kathie Lee Gifford. What players today need is lower pay, fewer benefits and more hours at the office. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always a skilled 8 year-old who will do the job for half as much.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
Let’s get serious here. If you want to take a business perspective, don’t ask these squishy soft “modern” business types with their six sigma and their lean manufacturing and their bathroom breaks. No, let’s ask someone who knows how to get the most out of their workers like Henry Clay Frick or Kathie Lee Gifford. What players today need is lower pay, fewer benefits and more hours at the office. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always a skilled 8 year-old who will do the job for half as much.
I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE GAME.
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