Manny on the Auction Block

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE TO SPRING TRAINING.

1. “Manny headed to Atlantic City?”

That was the teaser that popped into the lower left hand side of Jose’s humble 27 inch screen as Lost reached its conclusion last night. He began to panic. Atlantic City? Atlantic City? Jose rushed off to grab his computer hoping against hope to figure out how this could have come to pass. Why was this happening? Who could we get in return?

Then Jose remembered—there is no Major League team in Atlantic City.

Phew… Crisis averted.

If the Red Sox were sending Manny to Atlantic City, the only thing they could hope to get in return would be Boardwalk and Park Place, which when you think about it, is still a better return then Aubrey Huff and Mike Cameron.

Calmed, Jose returned to watch the final few minutes of his television program, before it occurred to him, if Manny isn’t being traded to Atlantic City, what exactly is the big news about him going there? Is he going to compete in Miss America? Nope, that hasn’t been in Atlantic City since 2006. Since Manny lives at the Ritz Residences, did the recent acquisition of Ritz-Carlton Boston by Taj Hotels and Resorts confuse him into thinking that he now lived at the Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City? Possibly.

But no, the real story is that an ad has claimed that Manny will be attending a classic car auction in Atlantic City this weekend. This is big news. Huge. “Rich eccentric to attend expensive auction.” Sounds like front page above the fold stuff to Jose.

But it’s not that Manny is going. No, it’s that he’s going when he should be at spring training tossing medicine balls around and ignoring the press from up close rather than at the distance to which he has grown accustomed these last few months. We’re supposed to be concerned because Manny quit on the team last year, remember? We’re supposed to be furious that he is failing to fulfill his obligation to the team.

But what about his obligation to the car auction? Did any of you jerks ever think about that? These guys advertised Manny Ramirez, so what do they do if he ditches them, reneges on his commitment in order to get in a couple extra days of stretching? Wouldn’t he be quitting then? Wouldn’t he be ducking out on his obligations? We’d problem see Atlantic City television stations teasing “Manny to Florida?” And the Boston media would relentlessly pound him for failing to take commitments to small businessmen seriously. The poor guy can’t win.

But there’s a solution here. The Red Sox should just move Spring Training to Atlantic City. Sure it’s a little colder than you might like, but setting up a facility there shouldn’t be too expensive. Jose hears there are properties on Baltic Avenue, available for like 60 bucks.

Your next Spring Training destination.


2. In other news, DJ Dru doesn’t care what you think. According to both Dan Shaughnessy, who hates Dru because he hates everyone, and Gerry Callahan who hates Dru because he’s black (note: don’t tell Callahan Dru’s white; if Callahan learns that he hates a white guy, his head might explode), the new right fielder is completely indifferent to what you, Jose, Tony LaRussa, Curt Euro, the Grand old Duke of York and Jesus Christ think of him.

When asked if he cares what his mother thought of him, Dru was purported to say “that old hag can go f* herself.”

The result is that Jose is confused. More so. He had thought that the story line was supposed to be that Dru was a player who would struggle in a passionate town like Boston, that he was one of those players who simply wasn’t cut out for northeastern baseball. But now everyone’s saying that he doesn’t care what people think of him, that he is an unresponsive jerk, who is indifferent to the concerns and condemnation of the average fan.

So which is it? Is DJ Dru an oversensitive wuss who will crumple under the steamy salt lamps of Boston Baseball or is he a self involved jerk who is indifferent to everyone and everything around him? He can’t be both, so the media should really pick one and run with it… unless they want to work some sort of Cybil, multiple-personality angle on him, but those never seem to work out very well.

How about this. Dru could become an alcoholic, who is really sensitive when sober but a raging narcissist when drunk? That would have the added benefit of moving him a step closer to fulfilling his destiny of becoming the next Mickey Mantle.

3. Jose was all set to sell you guys out. He really was.

A week or so ago, Jose got an email from a PR flack suggesting that KEYS readers might be interested is some device one of his clients was marketing that sends real time sports scores directly into your genital organs so your gametes can keep track of the Bentley/Stonehill Lacrosse game, or whatever your pleasure is.

Sure, it came to Jose’s junk mail box, and sure Jose usually empties said junk mail box without a thought, but he had a good feeling about this one. So he did the only thing he could think to do; he looked for free merch.

“Sorry Jose has a policy against promoting products that he has not used and books that he has not read,” he wrote, hoping desperately to be offered a bribe.

But it was not meant to be. And it’s a shame, Jose was totally ready to sell you all on the virtues of a potential wonder product, but instead he’ll just have to stick to promoting products he truly believes in like male enhancers, cheap internet valium and Edgar Renteria. (Note: What do these three have in common? In each case, one does not get what was advertised.)

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO SPRING TRAINING.

Better Late...

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE TO SPRING TRAINING,

1. Manny is late. Well, not yet, but he will be. We know because Julienned Tavarez told us so, and why would he lie to us? And as usual people are going to make a big deal about it. Jose, however, will not be one of them. You know why? Because being late just isn’t that big a deal—unless you’re Bridget Moynahan. (Note: Zing!)

Since Manny’s late arrival and the former Tom Brady gal pal’s late period are the two biggest sports stories of the day, Jose thought he would explain all of the reasons why the tardy sloughing of Bridget’s uterus (note: due to impregnation) is a far more serious story.

• Manny didn’t wait three months to tell anyone he was late.
• These nine missed periods will change Bridget and Brady’s life, Manny’s lateness won’t change a thing.
• Brady actual broke up with Bridget. Manny despite his best efforts is still with the Red Sox.
• No one has characterized Moynahan having her ex’s baby as “Just Bridget being Bridget.”
• Manny’s tardiness is unlikely to have an adverse impact on a future bid for Senate.
• No one is suggesting that Manny’s lateness is a result of “skipping pills.”
• No one has blamed Bridget’s lateness on her mom having surgery.
• Dan Shaughnessy regards being a day late for camp as a far graver sin than having a child out of wedlock.

See. Now is Manny being late really such a big deal? No. It’s not like he’s contributing to the breakdown of the family and ultimate collapse of western civilization like some other people we could mention.

2. Other major Red Sox spring training news comes not from Fort Myers, but from the Indians camp, wherever the hell that is, as former Red Sox closer Keith Foulke took a break from watching Canadian junior league hockey to announce his retirement. The news came as elbow pain replaced knee pain and back pain at the top of Foulke’s “reason’s I’m pitching like sh*t” list.

Jose is not prone to weepy goodbyes, but in Foulke’s case, he will make an exception. Foulke’s overwhelming workload, and his overwhelming brilliance in the 2004 post season is, with the possible exception of David Ortiz’s heroics, the single biggest reason the Red Sox were able to end their 86 year World Series drought. And it may have cost him his career. Sure, we have no evidence that Foulke’s astonishing post season pitch count led to his injury problems, but we do know that he was dominant through the 2004 post season and disasterous thereafter. So let’s give the benefit of the doubt and assume that he sacrificed his body, his career, to save the season.

One of the popular writing tools in the new sports journalism is to compare players to girlfriends, Manny is the dumb blond you keep around because the sex is amazing, Mark Bellhorn is the charming deaf/mute and Roger Clemens (note: as characterized by Bill Simmons) is a cheating, treacherous so and so. So what is Foulke? Given how many members of Red Sox nation saw fit to boo Foulke for his miserable performances even after what he did in 2004, Jose would say Foulke is the girlfriend who jumps in front of pail of hydrochloric acid flung at her boyfriend thus saving him from disfigurement at the cost of her own beauty. He thanks her profusely, and waits on her hand and foot while she’s in the hospital. But then a few months pass, the reconstructive surgery doesn’t go so well, and he gets frustrated that she doesn’t want to have sex because she’s insecure about her appearance. So he starts telling her she’s ugly and a lousy girlfriend who’d rather watch hockey than make love. She responds by saying that she would rather join a convent, then have sex with some Johnny Burger King. And the next thing you know she’s gone off to date some guy in Cleveland who figures the scars will heal with time. But they don’t so she throws herself into the Cuyahoga and burns to death or drowns, whichever comes first.

So does the guy she saved send flowers to her grave? He’d better. Jose doesn’t want to be the guy who doesn’t, and neither should any of you, so let Jose offer the following oratorical funeral wreath.

Thank you Keith Foulke for what you did in 2004, for pitching brilliantly when you had nothing left, for catching Edgar Renteria’s come backer to end the Series and even for giving up that double to Papi in Game 4 of the 2003 ALDS. Also, you were great on that episode of Lost.

3. Over in Tampa, the Yankees training camp seems to be in turmoil as Bernie Williams has declined to show up because he has to compete for a roster spot, general partner Steve Swindal is dealing with the fallout from his DUI, and Alex Rodriquez has addressed his deteriorating relationship with Derek Jeter.

While conceding that his once close relationship with his “blood brother” Jeter was no longer so close, A-Rod offered a deal to reporters. "Let's make a contract,” said the third baseman. “You don't ask me about Derek anymore, and I promise I'll stop lying to all you guys."

Following the comment, Rodriguez’s agent, Scott Boras, told reporters that such a “not lying” contract, would demand compensation of upwards of $25 million per year for the next 10 years.

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO SPRING TRAINING.

Nicknames, Nicknames, Nicknames!!!

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE TOP 100 RED SOX.

More fun from the Top 100 Red Sox Project.

1. Jim Tabor

Rollin', rollin', rollin'
His throws he’s not controllin’
40 error years need consolin’
Rawhide!

His hitting was much better
Though he din’ flash much leather
Sailing his throws so high and wide
His lifetime OP eh-hess,
It ain’t that great ya gu--hess,
740 don’t give him much pride

Men are on, Batter up
Batter up, men are on
Men are on, Batter up
Rawhide

Throw em out, drive em in
Drive em in, throw em out
Throw em out, drive em in
Rawhide!

Keep movin', movin', movin'
His swing it was improving
In ’41 he’s grooving
Rawhide!

Played well through ’44
‘Til the army wanted him more
That ended his good Boston ride.
He was sold to Philly .
His play was willy-nilly
At thirty six years old well, he died.

Men are on, Batter up
Batter up, men are
Men are on, Batter up
Rawhide

Throw em out, drive em in
Drive em in, throw em out
Throw em out, drive em in
Rawhide!

Rawhide!

As you may have guessed by now, Jose loves the Blues Brothers. Also, Jim Tabor, who played third for the Sox from 1938-1944 was nicknamed “Rawhide.” But what do we really know about the man from New Hope, Alabama, a little southern town named for the as yet to be produced fourth chapter of the Star Wars saga? While he debuted in 1938, he didn’t really make his mark as a true rookie until 1939, when his 14 home run 95 RBI debut season was cast into shadow by the far brighter light of fellow rookie Ted Williams. His career was respectable but by no means brilliant. For instance, his top comparable according to Baseball Reference is Aaron Boone, who, as we all know, has yet to do anything of note in his career.

Still, there are a few quirks that make Tabor more noteworthy than the typical .270 career hitter. First, he is one of the small fraternity of players to hit grand slams in consecutive innings, a feat he accomplished on July 4, 1939. Second, he is one of very few major league baseball players whose last name is actually an acronym. TABOR, of course, stands for the Taxpayer Bill of Rights, a controversial Colorado constitutional amendment that has, since 1992, greatly restricted the state’s ability to raise revenue. Among the other Major Leaguers who have an acronym for a last name is Melvin Mora, named for the Michigan Off-road Racing Association. Mora, curiously, is Baseball Reference’s third best comparable for Tabor.

2. Bob Stanley
Bob Stanley, nicknamed “Steamer” because like the Stanley Steamer vacuum, he sucks, is perhaps the best Red Sox player to be almost universally disliked in the popular imagination. Roger Clemens may be hated by many, but others still love him. Jose Offerman and Mike Lansing might be derided, but they weren’t terribly good, but ol’ Bob Stanley was both awfully good and awfully disliked by the Red Sox faithful.

Be honest, have you ever met a Bob Stanley fan? (Note: Okay, at his Baseball Reference page his fenwaynation.com sponsors describe him as “Forever beloved for plunking Mike Barnacle at the 1992 Sox Fantasy Camp In Winter Haven.” But they don’t count. And have you noticed Jose is borrowing heavily from Baseball Reference in these? Wikipedia too, but not that he’s mentioned it, it’s not plagiarism.)

But why was Bob Stanley so disliked? Was it his wild pitch that allowed Mookie Wilson to score the tying run in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? Nope, every one knows that was a passed ball. Beside, Dave Stapleton should have been pitching, or something like that. Was it the relish with which he played his role as the bullpen fun police and heartless killjoy? Possibly, this is the guy who ceremonially popped a beach ball with a rake on his appreciation night at Fenway. Really. Still, probably not.

No the reason, that Bob Stanley is widely unloved despite being the Red Sox All-Time save leader with 132, despite having a career ERA of 3.64, despite being a two time All-Star is that Bob Stanley, for all of his excellence, never, ever allowed fans to feel safe when he entered a game. Even in 1983 when he was second in the A.L. in saves with 33 and plunked down a nifty 2.85 ERA, did you ever relax when he entered a game? No, you didn’t, unless you responded to his entering a game with 50mg of valium.

A while ago, Jose suggested that a new statistic be named after Steamer. He suggested that when a reliever picks up a win after blowing a lead, effectively stealing the win, he should be credited with a “Stanley.” Look at his numbers. In 1983, arguably his best season, Stanley saved 33 games while blowing 14 saves, tying a major league record. At the same time, he had eight wins and 10 losses. Do you ever feel good when your closer has that many decisions? Chances are quite a few of those wins should be scored as Stanleys.

Yes, yes, the single season blown save record is shared with a couple of pretty good pitchers named Fingers and Sutter, but still, 14 in a year? Only in a situation like that, could Calvin Schiraldi swipe the closing job.

3. Manny Ramirez
We have reached a strange and wondrous time in baseball writing. What else can you call it when age old sayings like “you’ve got to play who’s on the schedule” “Hit ‘em where they ain’t” and “I can’t pinch run, I’ve got a herpes outbreak” have all slid down the cliché totem pole behind what is unquestionably the most non-expository and overused platitude in the game today “It’s just Manny, being Manny?”

It’s just Manny being Manny. What the hell does that mean? In common parlance, it seems to suggest that one take’s the good with the bad, that along with the more than 30 home runs and 100 RBI every single year, one must accept the awkward fielding, the occasional failure to run to first, the peeing in the wall, and the incessant trade demands.

But is that what it should mean? How should we interpret this phenomenon of Mannyism. Is Mannyism some curse, some disease whose sufferers must be quarantined lest they contaminate the whole lot? Is it an infection or merely a functional disease? How far away are we from
nervous soccer moms pestering overburdened psychiatrists to prescribe gleemonex to treat their children’s latent Mannyism? And how far away are we from the day, when the most anxious among these mothers start blaming pesticides, refined sugar or vaccinations for the epidemic of Mannyism sweeping the country? But Mannyism is not a disease, and we should not treat it as such.

No, Jose rejects the clinical definition of Mannyism and instead proposes his own. “Mannyism. Noun 1. A condition wherein one competes without malice, plays without anger, and achieves astonishing excellence without forgetting that he is playing a child’s game.”

We live in a sporting world filled with angry men. These bitter ones fume that athletes do not adequately appreciate their gifts, they rage that stars are not as driven as they would be if only they had the arm, the speed the strength. To them Manny is anathema, a petulant, casual fool, to be derided for his unwillingness to sacrifice, body and soul for the game.

They are wrong. Manny is what the game is all about. You know the kid in little league who is so interested in the bugs in the grass that he forgets about a flyball headed towards him? That’s Manny. The kid who stands in front of the mirror swinging an imaginary bat and imagining the roar of the crowd? That’s Manny too. And the goofy kid who is loved by all of his teammates, regardless of what he does on the field? Manny being Manny.

Manny is the spacey kid made good. The kid who loves to have fun, who loves to swing the bat and grew up to be the man. He grew up to be the man who has been on ten All-Star teams, who won nine silver sluggers, two Hank Aaron awards, and a World Series MVP, all without ever losing his sense of fun.

From being taunted with chants of “Manny’s hitless,” when he roamed Fenway’s right field for the Indians in the 1999 ALDS to being cheered by the Fenway faithful for… well, pretty much everything. Manny has always been Manny. And that’s all we could ever ask.

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO THE TOP 100 RED SOX.

Jose Offerman is Not on This List

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE 100 GREATEST RED SOX.

Can you believe it? Can you?

Jose is doing something for the common good. For the betterment of mankind, Jose is setting aside his current personal ambition, finding a suitable nickname for lefty reliever Hideki Okajima drawing either on the 1988 Michigan Democratic Presidential Primary or the West Coast Avengers comic book (note: Wonderman? Moon Knight? Jose’s got nothing.), and becoming part of the 100 Greatest Red Sox project that has brought together myriad Red Sox bloggers to not make money no longer as individuals, but as a collective.

Of course, Jose was initially drawn to the project by the fact that Jose Offerman was on the original list, and Jose desperately, desperately wanted to write the profile on Offerman, or as Jose prefers to call him “ The Great Man.” Unfortunately, by the time the acid wore off and the powers that were no longer in the mystical fantasyland where Jose Offerman is one of the 100 greatest Red Sox of all, Jose had already been roped into doing six profiles. Each of these profiles will be available here at KEYS whenever Jose feels like it, and when their number comes up on the top 100 list.

So now, without delay, Jose is proud to present the first of two sets of special KEYS that he agreed to do before thinking better of it.


1. Tom Gordon
As the first capsule profile of a top 100 Red Sox that Jose has dared to write, there was no formula for Jose to draw upon, none of the comforting rituals of banality in which to swaddle himself. So it falls to Jose to dive in forthwith lest he be branded Hamlet on the Charles. So let’s take a look at a moment, a single instant of time, that made Tom “Flash” Gordon the Red Sox legend he is today.

Gordon stands astride the Fenway mound, his wool cap tight and drawn down over his eyes, blinders to his thoroughbred, eliminating all distractions and concentrating all focus on the task at hand. He draws his hands in to his chest purposefully, like a spring compressing. What will it be? The 97 miles per hour of dynamite? Or the curve that shaves six hours off the face of a clock? The switch flipped, the spring that is Tom Gordon expands with violence, sending the a blur of red and white, pinball-like down the alley and towards home plate…

And then…

Tom Gordon’s greatest Red Sox moment arrives.

It arrives not with the slap of a ball in the tired leather of a well-worn catcher’s mitt, but with the thunderclap of ash on horsehide, as David Ortiz swings as smoothly and as surely as a pinball flipper on a spoke, and sends the ball flying, as if rolling up a ramp and into the Boston night.

Yankees 4--Red Sox 3 and six outs to go. TILT.

Yup, Tom Gordon did a lot for the Boston Red Sox, and we should appreciate him. Heck, he did more that night alone, walking Kevin Millar, and panicking with Dave Roberts pinch running for Kentucky Fried Kevin, allowing Mosey Nixon to slap single Roberts to third on a hit and run. He did more for the Red Sox that one night than in his entire stint with the team. And that’s why he is one of the all time greatest Red Sox, even if it was for his work in pinstripes.

But of course this is totally unfair. In his time with the Red Sox, Tom Gordon was, well, flashy. He came aboard as a starter, as he had been in Kansas City before, and put in mediocre inning after mediocre inning before trying his hand in the bullpen. It was then that he discovered that free from the awful burden of pitching more than one or two innings at a time, he could throw quite a bit harder. Indeed, he was almost incapable of blowing a save, at least between April and September. But in October things were different. When the apples got big and ripe, Gordon would wither and fade, such as in 1998, when his blown save against Cleveland in Game 4 of the ALDS, only his second of the season, prevented Jimy Williams from looking like a genius for starting Pete Schourek over Pedro Martinez. At least some good came of it. No, Gordon seemed to be a Vanderjagt or Schiraldi, brilliant in the regular season and soft in the post season, than he did a Mariano Rivera.

It got worse, Sox fan and author Steven King authored a book that off-season entitled The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon with predictable results. King got hit by a truck and Gordon blew out his arm, all but ending his Red Sox tenure. We all know King is comfortable meddling with the forces of the dark, but seriously, he should have known that messing around with the Red Sox would have dire results.

2. Troy O’Leary
As soon as Jose signed his letter of intent declaring his plans to participate in this project, he knew he wanted Troy O’Leary. Let’s look at the facts. First, O’Leary hit one of the two batting practice balls Jose owns from his time working at Fenway in 1995. (Note: The other belongs to the then hitting coach a washed up hack named Jim Rice who could still crush batting practice.) Second, O’Leary, like Jose frequented a bar named O’Leary’s on Beacon St. just West of Kenmore Square. They have good soda bread there. Third, the rumors about the personal problems that distracted O’Leary in 2000 involve the delicious combination of Mrs. O’Leary and a speedy teammate, making this the most interesting story involving a Mrs. O’Leary that does not involve the incineration of Chicago. Fourth, his nickname “Yummy,” given for his sweet tooth, is maybe the best official Red Sox nickname of all time. Jose only regrets that he was not writing at the time, so he could have demanded that “yummy, yummy, yummy I’ve got love in my tummy” by Ohio Express become O’Leary’s theme song.

But let’s be honest, as much as Jose loves all of these things about Troy O’Leary, they are not the reason he is on this list and they are not the reason Jose wanted to write about him. No, Troy O’Leary became a legend… that’s right a legend... one night in October 1999 when the Cleveland Indians twice made a tactically perfect move. Two times they intentionally walked Nomar Garciaparra, the only frightening hitter on that Red Sox squad, in order to face the man they call Yummy. And Yummy ate them up like so many chocolate covered gummi bears. Each time he launched home runs a grand slam and a three run shot that, in combination with Pedro Martinez’s six innings of hitless relief, gave the Red Sox a 12-8 win. When asked after the game how he had overcome his poor performance earlier in the series to emerge as a star, O’Leary a black ballplayer in Boston answered with a reply that would have made any Sully in Southie proud “Luck of the Irish.”

3. Pete Runnels
When Jose selected Pete Runnels as one of the old-timey players he would profile, Jose just assumed that he was related to professional wrestler Virgil Runnels III, a.k.a. Goldust, and his father Vigil Runnels Jr., a.k.a. the American Dream Dusty Rhodes. Pete Runnels is not. Nuts.

However, all is not lost, as it turns out that Pete, like his fellow Runnels’ has a secret identity. His shocking true identity is James Edward Runnels. So going by Pete is kind of pathetic. Jose hates people who hide behind fake names. They’re kind of sketchy.

Come on, see the resemblance? They've got to be related.

But as it turns out Jose is glad that he ended up with Runnels. You know why? Because Baseball Reference lists, as his eighth most comparable player… get ready… Jose Offerman! Ergo, this profile is the eighth most like writing a capsule pinup of Jose Offerman. It has to be, it’s sabermetrics.

That said, there are still a lot of differences between Runnels and Offerman. For instance, Runnels was a three time All-Star in 1959, 1960 and 1962, whereas Offerman was an All-Star, well, never. Runnels won two batting titles, and barely lost a third to Ted Williams, whereas Offerman won none and narrowly lost a race with Dante Bichette for biggest jackass on the team. And with on base percentages ranging from .396 to .416 in his years with the Red Sox, Runnels could have done a far better job replacing Mo Vaughn’s “on base capability” than Offerman ever did.

Of course, Offerman does have his advantages too. Even though Jose has never seen tape of Runnels, he’s pretty sure he didn’t make that over the shoulder play running into the outfield as well as Offerman… come on, no one made that play as well as Offerman.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE 100 GREATEST RED SOX.

You are under oath

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. Uggh…

Jose has been down with an incredibly nasty cold this week. How much of a cold? Think Craig Grebeck in a Red Sox uniform—that kind of cold, just utterly hopeless. (Note: Get it, because Grebeck’s bat was really cold when he played for the Sox? No?) Still, it didn’t stop him from sending a man to jail this week. And before you’re all like “so what if you sent a man to jail this week that’s no big deal,” Jose would like to clarify that it was neither Darryl Strawberry nor Doc Gooden. So there.

No, Jose was a witness against in a larceny trial against the property manager of a building he used to live in who, rather than depositing the rent checks into the owner’s account, deposited them into his own and then ultimately into Foxwoods’ account, as best Jose can understand. This particular defendant had even been a mayoral appointee to the Fenway Planning Task Force, carrying water for the Harrington regime and the city on the new Fenway Project. And yet it’s the stealing that lands him in the big house. Didn’t see that coming.

It was the first time Jose had testified in a court of law, and it was an experience that he does not relish repeating. The direct examination was ok:

DA: Could you state your name for the record?
JM: Jose Melendez. M-E-L-E-N-D-E-Z.

DA: And do you recognize the defendant?
JM: Yes he was Jose’s landlord for three years.

DA: And how did you pay your rent?
JM: Jose slid the check under the door on the first floor.

DA: And do you recognize the checks in front of you?
JM: Yes, those are Jose’s.

DA Thank you, no further questions.

See, that wasn’t bad. But then came the cross:

Defense Counsel (DC): Now, Mr. Melendez, you say you were a tenant in the defendant’s building for three years.
JM: That’s correct.

DC: And during this time you paid your rent monthly?
JM: Yes sir.

DC: Then why is it, in fact, that your name does not show up on a single check?
JM: Pardon?

DC: And yet you swore—UNDER OATH—that these checks were yours.
JM: The thing is that—

DC: So which is it, Mr. Melendez, if that is your real name, did you lie about your name or about those being your checks?
JM: Jose… Jose… Jose..

DC: Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defense submits, for your consideration, that this man is not named Jose Melendez, that he is not Puerto Rican and that he has never—ever worked a single inning for the Boston Red Sox. Isn’t that true?
JM: Jose… Well, Jose worked at a concession stand at Fenway… and he has a blog.

DC: Well, we know you’re a liar so it stands to reason that you’re a blogger. I have no further questions.
JM: See you in court… counselor.

DC: We are in court.
JM: Isn’t that how lawyers say goodbye?

So as you can see it was tough, bordering on excruciating, but Jose hung in there, though he will admit that he got a little nervous when he was maneuvered into admitting he had a blog. As best he can tell, in any case involving a journalist now, they let the defendant go, and put the writer in the pokey. (Note: Why is jail named after Pokey Reese? He seemed nice.)

2. An upside of Jose’s illness and legal troubles was that it distracted him from the saga of Todd Helton, who nearly came to the Red Sox this week. While Helton is clearly a premiere player, the Red Sox were loath to give up even a single top prospect in the deal due to the astonishing length and breadth of Helton’s monster contract. While the Rockies had volunteered to pick up perhaps as much as half of the cost, the long term commitment was still frightening. Consider the following provisions in Helton’s contract:

Burial expenses, including satin-lined casket with solid cherry exterior, wake at the Rose Bowl and burial plot on the moon for Helton… and the next 30 generations of his family.

• All teammates required to listen 20 times per season to his story about how he is named after Mary Todd Lincoln.
• All the foie gras he can eat.
• Literal gold parachute (note: plus gold airplane) in the event of second trade.
• One indoor parking spot on Beacon Hill.
• New England Patriots second round draft pick in 2009.
• $4 billion per year until 2035.

So yeah, he’s a great hitter and he can pick the ball, but we really need to hold on to that foie gras… er… draft pick.

3. The other big news in this, the slowest of slows sports months, is that Curt Euro has vowed to pitch beyond the 2007 conclusion of his current contract and has asked the Red Sox to extend his deal prior to the start of the season. This is a decision fraught with peril. On the one hand, with even Gil Meche pulling down $11 million per, signing even a diminished Euro to a $13-$15 million deal may be a pretty good risk. On the other hand, the guy is only one year removed from being almost completely useless due to ankle surgery, and the Sox control him this year regardless. It’s a tough call to be sure.

Jose’s proposal is that the Red Sox look to the DJ Dru contract for inspiration. The Dru contract allows the team to void the final years of the contract should Dru’s sketchy shoulder knock him out of action in the third year. Here’s what a similar deal would like for Curt: Two years but the second year is voided if Curt does not bleed through his hosiery at least twice in his first season.

It makes perfect sense. Euro has never pitched a bad game with blood coming through his hosiery, and every year where it has happened, he’s had a near Cy Young season and the Sox have won the World Series. And before you go complaining that it’s too restrictive, let Jose point out that he said “hosiery” not “sock.” In contracts, specific language is very important. If Curt wants to bleed through panty hose or silk stockings, that is contractually fine. There’s no need to dive into the man’s personal life.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Reality Check Please

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. In times of foment and struggle, in days of uncertainty and turmoil, now and throughout history, it is common, perhaps inevitable for governments, for the grasping assemblages of the powers that be to attempt to reassert their increasingly tenuous grip on power.

The leadership of Red Sox Nation is no different.

With the bowels of Red Sox Nation’s body politic rumbling after consuming the tainted shellfish of a third place season, the leadership, the terrible triumvirate of Henry, Lucchino and Werner, is attempting to clog the diarrhea of our discontent with the chalky Imodium of control.

They want to make us register.

They want to make us register because information is control.

It started out unassumingly enough didn’t it?

“Become a registered citizen of Red Sox Nation, and get a 10% discount at our store.” It seemed innocent, so innocent. But it always does doesn’t it? What slow sulk into totalitarianism hasn’t begun with a 10% discount?

And now there are tiers of registration, each with its own insidious set of inducements and price tag, designed not only to track us but to classify us, to divide us. What is the answer? Resistance.

In Marvel Comics today, there is a series called “Civil War” wherein the destruction of Stamford, Connecticut as the result of a battle on a super hero reality show leads to a push for the registration of all super heroes. (Note: Yes, Jose knows that the premise that the destruction of Stamford would get people all riled up is a bit far fetched, but remember, we’re talking about comic books here.) The world of super heroes is quickly divided into those who favor mandatory registration and those opposed. Well, this is no different… except there are no super heroes, it’s happening in the real world and no one cares, not even comic book reading geeks.

But still, Jose sounds the clarion call of resistance, bright and clear like a bell in the night. Burn your registration cards. Resist the machine. Today, they offer you discounts, tomorrow failure to register will make you ineligible for college loans.

People of Red Sox Nation, we have nothing to lose but our chain of sold out games.

2. A few days ago it was announced that NESN is developing a Red Sox reality dating show.

The concept is that a fan will spend two innings each with three lucky ladies (note: or gents, this is Massachusetts) and then decide who they will throw up on in the final three innings. While a lot of “real fans” condemn the project, entitled “Sox Appeal,” as mindless drivel for the pink hat crowd, the sort of project that is an affront to real fans who go to the game to, you know, drink beer and question Derek Jeter’s sexuality, Jose completely approves of this idea. Anything that contributes to the goal, our shared goal, of getting Red Sox fans laid is okay with him. In fact, Jose thinks the Red Sox need to take it much farther and concoct a whole series of Red Sox themed reality shows. A few ideas:

America’s Next Top Groupie: Skanks and star f*ckers compete in a series challenges like sexual gymnastics, shutting up and looking pretty, not getting pregnant and leaving after he’s done, for the right to spend one night with Kevin Youkilis.

Who Wants to be a Closer?: Real fans are brought in to close games for the Red Sox, until Tito gets fed up and moves Papelbon back into the role.

Average Joel: Watch as Joel Piniero struggles to reach his career averages. The catch? He doesn’t know it, but he’s pitching with a torn rotator cuff.

The Amazing Race: Manny Ramirez and a giant tortoise are placed side by side. Who will win the race to first on ground out?

Extreme Ballpark Makeovers: Watch as Janet Marie Smith and her team of experts completely revamp Fenway Park and do some much needed tightening on John W. Henry’s gaunt and creepily loose skin.

Manny 911: Got bratty disobedient kids? Manny Ramirez will come to your house to teach them about responsibility.

My Super Size 16: Which Red Sox will fill David Wells’ XXXXL number 16 jersey? Watch as hopefuls eat nothing but McDonalds in an effort to fill his shirt.

See? The possibilities are pretty much endless. Sure, Sox Appeal may be a stupid idea, but if it ultimately leads to Julienned Tavarez singing “Convoy” in front of a panel of finicky judges, how can it possibly be a bad thing?

3. The Red Sox have released word that additional single game tickets for the 2007 season will be released on Sunday, January 28. Many of you may have heard that the Red Sox will be releasing tickets on Saturday, January 27 in newspapers, on TV and on radio, but who are you going to trust, those “reputable media sources” or a blogger who is only trying to “clear the way” so he will have better access to tickets and less time in the “f*cking virtual waiting room,” where they don’t even have “virtual out of date magazines?”

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

The End of an Error

It’s time for Jose Melednez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. It’s over. It’s finally over.

More than thirteen years since the end of his brutal reign and more than 22 years since its beginning, the last vestiges of James G. "Lou" Gorman have been at long last expunged from the Boston Red Sox.

The temptation would be to slink into nostalgia. To sadly lament the departure of Christopher “Mosey” Nixon, the original Dirt Dog, and one time next Mickey Mantle. One could recall his 3-0 drive off the wall off of Jason Marquis in Game 4 of the 2004 Series, his home run off of Roger Clemens in the Rocket’s famous duel with Pedro or simply his reckless disregard for his own personal safety. But Jose will leave that to the eulogists, who plod their days away, writing doleful obituaries for the not yet dead. Rather than looking wistfully back at Nixon, Jose will view his departure as a cause for celebration, not so much for the end of his career, but for the end of the era he represented.

Nixon was a Cuba of a player, an enigmatic and poorly understood relic of a past age. While Cuba was left, after the fall of the Soviet Empire, as a strange anachronism, the last gasp of the Comintern, Nixon played the same role in the Gorman Empire, a final bulwark of a dead age.

Nixon, like Cuba, was a screen onto which observers projected their hopes or fears. Leftists see in Cuba a workers paradise of free healthcare, high literacy and unlimited ice cream, rightists a cruel dictatorship and kleptocracy. Similarly, some look at Nixon and see a “real baseball player,” a man who plays hard, gets his uniform dirty and keeps his mouth shut. Others see an oft injured, overrated outfielder who never learned to hit left handed pitching and never lived up to his promise, a player who was loved for the color of his skin far more than for the content of his game.

And the truth is Nixon, like Cuba, is both, a mix of good and bad. He did play hard and sacrifice his body for the team, but he was always injured and was impotent against lefties. This year, the time simply came when the negative side of the equation simply outweighed the positive, when Nixon’s hustle no longer compensated for aging legs and sore back. Perhaps the time is coming for Cuba as well. (Note: They could really benefit from a Presidente with a decent curveball.)

And that is the end of the Gorman era and it is time to move forward. Unless the Red Sox bring back Gorman acquisition Roger Clemens, in which case they might as well put Lou back in the GM seat and dig up Mrs. Yawkey.

2. This just in.

As he departs for Cleveland after spending his entire career in Boston, right fielder Mosey Nixon consented to give the Boston press corps one final interview.

When asked how it felt to be leaving Boston, Nixon responded “"As I leave you I want you to know--just think how much you're going to be losing--you won't have Nixon to kick around anymore, because, gentlemen, this is my last press conference."

(Note: Jose desperately wanted to add “Nixon will be replaced in right field by Lew Ford. But since the above comment was made following Nixon’s 1962 defeat for Governor of California, not his 1974 presidential resignation, it would have been historically inaccurate. Besides we all know that Nixon is leaving because he lost a race for the right field job to Ed Brown of the 1925 Brooklyn Dodgers.)

Cleveland's new outfielder show's his stuff.

3. Two days ago Rob Bradford wrote in the Eagle-Tribune, the Merrimack Valley’s Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper, that Mr. Matsu is unlikely to bring a windfall to the Red Sox. Bradford argues that because of league revenue sharing rules, very little of the funds from increased sales of Red Sox merchandise and the like in Japan will benefit the Red Sox.

But this is a shortsighted approach to the problem. So what if the League takes hat sale money. So what if the Red Sox can’t partner with Asahi beer because they are betrothed to Bud? The Red Sox just need to think outside of the box.

All Jose knows is that his favorite Indian restaurant in Boston, Kenmore Square’s India Quality Restaurant, had a review up in Japanese when he went there last week. Suffice it to say, this was new. The Sox don’t need to make the money in Japan to make this work. The Japanese will come here, and the Red Sox just need to take advantage of it. So here is Jose’s idea. If even local Indian restaurants (note: delicious as there food may be) are preparing for the Japanese Invasion, the Red Sox should start an ultra high end Japanese restaurant at the park. You know, the sort of placing selling Kobe steaks, the price of which could finance the next three years of Dustin Pedroia. Better yet, they could start a Karaoke Bar. The Japanese love karaoke!

Alternatively, the Red Sox could start selling pre-worn Red Sox thongs in vending machines at the park. Jose has heard the Japanese like that stuff. They could even through in a few thongs from KEYS, as KEYS is quite popular in Japan, except there it is called “Words in three of Jose Man who writes as if to open locks of bats of baseball.”

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Cold Showers

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. When Jose woke up this fine, clear morning, perhaps the coldest old Boston has seen this year, he was treated to the agony and… well… agony of a cold shower. There are times when a cold shower is appropriate, even enjoyable: outside after a long swim on a hot summer day, any time when one is a teenager. Eight in the morning when it is nine degrees out, however, is not one of them. No, in these circumstances, said type of shower is a classic example of taking a bad thing (note: being cold) and making it worse (note: becoming cold AND wet).

Which brings us to Roger Clemens. Jose’s relationship with Roger Clemens, the relationship of all of Red Sox nation with Roger Clemens is a lot waking up to nine degree weather. It is unpleasant, it is agitating, and it makes one think back on the past, not fondly about the good times when the sun was warm and the air was fragrant with dogwood blossoms, but about how those happy days, that comfort, were snatched away.

Think about it this way. If your boiler died, would you sit around happily recalling the good old days when you had heat, or would you be angry that it had left you cold and alone? At the same time, we humans are an adaptable species. We change, we adjust. If the warmth were truly gone forever, fur would again seem fashionable, we would huddle under wool blankets or perhaps build igloos. The new status quo would become manageable but not downright comfortable. But now imagine that your old boiler was going to get fixed. So you throw away your furs, they’re cruel you know, give your blankets to the homeless and hop in for a nice, hot shower. And then… ice water. Your lungs spasm; your heart twitches; you cry out. You feel fooled, deceived. Does it feel like closure? Like coming full circle? No, it feels like ice, like pain, like death.

And this is what we are in for if we sign Roger Clemens. We will turn the faucet of memory, expecting the heat to flow like honey. But instead it will flow like Martian rivers, which is to say not at all, the cold water of Clemens’ dotage will hit us square in the face chilling our bones and sending our private parts into humiliating retreat.

If this is this winter of our discontent, the January of our agitated griping, let us put up the weather stripping, stock up on blankets and burn IKEA catalogues and back issues of Pro Wrestling Illustrated for warmth. The boiler has belched its last hot water; it is dead and gone.

Or maybe it just needs to have the air drained out of it, and then it will work fine again. Either way, Jose really hates Roger Clemens.


2. In today’s New York Times, Manhattan area pinhead Murray Chass (note: not to be confused with the Matthew Perry character “Chazz” from early Fox sitcoms “Second Chance” and “Boys Will Be Boys”) suggested that if the Red Sox and DJ Dru are unable to meet terms, the Sox could look to Barry Bonds as an alternative. Under the Chass Doctrine, Bonds would play left and Manny would return to right field, where he played with the Indians.

While at first blush, this proposal appears to be “insane,” “unconscionable,” “grounds for impeachment” and “stunningly incompetent” maybe Chass is on to something. Despite being a lighting rod and appalling defensive liability, Bonds can still swing the bat, and Jose thinks there is a scenario wherein the Red Sox could play bonds and Manny in the corners without giving up too much in terms of ground covered. The key is for Rococo Crisp to be really, really fast. He’s already fast, but like way faster, like the Flash or Quicksilver or Carl Lewis with diarrhea. Of course, that may not be possible, but that’s where Bonds can contribute defensively. You know he could score Crisp some speed.

3. Buenos tardes, caballeros y senoras...
Jose llama...
Jose...
Melendez...

And that concludes
Jose’s entire performance in Spanish.

Where were you last night?
Someone accused Jose
Of being an illeist.
Do you know
What that means?
An illeist
Is one who,
Or that which,
Refers to itself in the third person.
In vulgar parlance...
An egomaniac
But Jose is not an egomaniac
[drum roll]
At these prices...
Jose is an illeist!

And that concludes today’s adaptation of Gypsy, with music by Jule Styne, book by Arthur Larrents and dictionary research by KEYS reader Jack Roy.

Truth be told, Jose is overjoyed to learn that such a word exists. Not for selfish reasons, of course. No, Jose likes having a word that describes him, but he doesn’t need it. Rather, Jose likes the word because for the first time, there seems to be a word grand enough, strange enough, funny enough, to describe Ricky Henderson, perhaps the greatest illeist of them all. When Ricky finally goes into the Hall of Fame, which given his penchant for not retiring will be five years after his death, Jose demands that the plaque read

RICKY HENLEY HENDERSON
MORE TEAMS THAN YOU COULD IMAGINE
STOLE 1,406 BASES TO BECOME MAJORS’ ALL-TIME STEALS KING.
1990 A.L MVP. ALL TIME RUNS SCORED LEADER.
ONCE WAVED TO THE MELENDEZETTE AFTER JOSE MELENDEZ SHOUTED OUT TO HIM. ILLEIST.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Jose Owes You

It’s time for Jose Melednez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. Today is Sam Melendez’s birthday. He is turning 27. He would be 29 if not for Ed King. Jose’s father was a Dukakis appointee and Ed King’s 1978 Democratic Gubernatorial primary victory put a dent in his family expansion plans. When Ed King died some months ago, Jose wrote a letter to his father, who lived in Kosovo at the time, suggesting that it might be time to have another baby. None is forthcoming. This is probably good news for Jose’s mother.

Sam is the youngest of the Melendez children after middle child Jose and older brother Jack, who, much like the 2007 Red Sox closer, does not technically exist. He was a fiction created by Jose’s father, after he read an article about how one should never make up older, missing siblings because it will feed into a child’s insecurities. Jose’s father saw this, noted it, and then decided that science, or possibly humor, demanded that he try it. Since then Jack became a cautionary tale of what happens to disobedient children. More recently, to continue the closer analogy, he has become a sort of rotating spot, to be filled by committee. The latest Jack was a 33 year old Kosovar Albanian named Isak, who is easily the best Jack to date. Among the advantages of having Isak fill the Jack role is that he is a Muslim. The Melendez family, which has both Jewish and Christian traditions, has long had a “feast but not fast” approach to holidays, celebrating Christmas, Chanukah, Easter and Passover, while ignoring inconveniences like Yom Kippur or Lent. With a Muslim in the family, we can at long last try doing the evening feasts during Ramadan without the annoyance of fasting all day.

But back to Jose’s real brother. It is his birthday today and Jose has not gotten him a gift yet. With only a few hours to go until the party, this might seem like the right time for Jose to flip out like Andy Yount at a grave site, but no, he’s keeping his cool. Thankfully, the Melendez family has a long tradition of IOUs.

Don’t have a gift for an important occasion? No problem, simply present a coupon for “something cool” at a later date. Or don’t present a coupon and offer a firm, binding hand shake. The reason Jose raises this tradition is not only because he plans to pass off this KEY, oh so thoughtfully written, as a birthday present. No, it’s because he believes that this offers the solution to the Red Sox increasingly complex situation with free agent outfielder and shoulder surgery candidate DJ Dru.

Everyone knows Dru will come to the Sox eventually. Now that Dru has failed a physical, he is unlikely to be able to match the three years $33 million he left on the table in Los Angeles anywhere else, and the Red Sox seem unlikely to walk away from such a long coveted trophy. And yet the two sides seem unable to agree on a final deal that will get Dru his money, while protecting the Red Sox from his seemingly inevitable physical breakdown. So here’s the solution—I-O-U. It’s simple, Theo should show up at the next negotiating session with a card—you need to have a card—in a nice envelope with “DJ” written on the front, maybe in calligraphy if there’s a Chinese woman in the office. Inside there should be a card that reads “I owe you one contract. Theo.” If he doesn’t have time to get a good card an index card will do. However, if he does go the index card route, he should use the coupon style of IOU. “This coupon good for one contract. Must be redeemed by 1/11/08.” Then everyone can stop worrying and stop making such a big deal out of it and figure it out later. Now, if you’ll excuse him, Jose has to go find an index card and a Chinese woman.

2. Jose watched as much of President Bush’s speech last night as he could stand. (Note: Remarkably, it was even more painful than the Celtics game.) As he watched, he wondered if Bush really understands what strategy is. Strategy is not just doing the same thing but more so. It almost made Jose wonder if Bush has been taking strategic advice from George Steinbrenner. Whereas Steinbrenner spends $200 million, fails and then assumes the problem is that he didn’t spend enough money on overpriced veterans, Bush responds to four years of a failed war strategy by deciding… eventually… that what he needs to do is the same thing but with more troops.

Actually, Jose is reevaluating this comparison even as he writes it. Sure, Steinbrenner might respond to his problem by doing more of the same, but at least Steinbrenner would have pumped more money in right away, rather than waiting four years, and he would have fired some people for failing to get the job done.

That’s right; we’ve come to the point in American history where George Steinbrenner seems like a better presidential option than the guy in the Oval Office. May God have mercy on us all.

3. Have you noticed that weeks after his acquisition, Jose still hasn’t said a word on reliever Brendan Donnelly? Do you know why? It’s because he’s been doing research, deep, muckraking research. And do you know what he’s learned? Well, Jose doesn’t want to concern you, but he’ not totally convinced that Donnelley can pitch, that he’s ever pitched.

During the course of his investigation Jose unearthed evidence that Donnelly used to be a Congressman for Massachusetts’ 11th district. But guess what? THERE IS NO 11th DISTRICT. It gets worse. Donnelly, while a “Congressman” and candidate for Governor claimed to have played football at Boston University where there is… ready for it? NO FOOTBALL PROGRAM. What’s next? Is he going to claim that he was Ambassador to some magical fantasy country called Trinidad and Tobago?

This brings us to today. Sure Donnelly changed his first name from Brian to Brendan and put on some nerdy glasses and, but he’s not fooling anyone, not anymore. Jose sees no more reason to believe that he’s a pitcher than he does to believe that he was a Congressman or a 1-AA college football star. (Note: Oxymoron.)

So as sad as it may be, Jose has to say count on Jor-El Piniero, count on J.C. Romero, hell, even count on Jullienned Tavarez, but count on B. Donnelly? Fool Jose once, shame on you. Fool Jose, twice? See the wit and wisdom of George Steinbrenner… er… President Bush.

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Rites of Passage, Lefts of Passage

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. In our society, as in every other, there are rites of passage, key points that mark major achievements or moments of transition in one’s life. Some are complex ceremonies marking specific accomplishments. A bar mitzvah marks the transition to adulthood as expressed in religious participation. First communion marks arrival at an age where one can choose salvation. Graduation marks the paying of tuition on time and not drinking oneself out of college. Other rites of passage are quieter, without formal pomp yet pregnant with a quiet importance: getting a driver’s license, signing a draft card, casting a first vote, attending a first Red Sox game. And yet there are other rites of passage that lack the ceremonial significance of a graduation and the silent dignity of pledging to kill and die for one’s country if called upon. It is a passage in this third category that Jose has made today. Yes, Jose’s soul is calm with solemnity, his chest expanded with pride… today Jose got his first subpoena.

Now, Jose does not want you, the little people, his faithful readers, to worry that he is going to think he’s better then you just because he has been subpoenaed and you have not. Sure, important government officials, after careful study, have determined that Jose may have information so critical, so important that it could take away a man’s freedom or his money, but that does not mean that Jose is any better than you. No, he is not better, just more important.

And so Jose will share something with you. Because most of you will never be important enough to be subpoenaed, Jose, from his experientially advanced positions will tell you what it’s like.

Being subpoenaed is a little like having a line drive hit directly at you. It is exciting, it makes one feel special and it is potentially dangerous, if one is not careful. Jose doesn’t know yet, but he expects the aftermath is comparable too. In both cases only two things can happen, either everything goes back to normal or one ends up facing serious bills for professional services. (note: legal or medical).

For those of you who are concerned about what Jose has gotten himself into, allow him to reassure you. Jose is not in any kind of trouble, yet he feels that it is best not to offer any specifics until the process is over. He will let you know this much, however. He has not been called in as a character witness against Karim Garcia from his bullpen brawl of some years back. He will not comment on whether it has anything to do with Ugueth Urbina’s machete incident.

2. Jose was originally going to fill this key with all kind of quipy headlines about Randy Johnson’s departure from New York. But then Jose thought better of it and realized that Jose’s readers are sophisticated, worldly sorts. The kind of folks who would get little pleasure from a series of one-liners like “Yanks No Longer Randy, Yet Still Unsatisfied” and other puns concerning states of sexual arousal and male genitalia and, as a last resort, tall jokes.

Instead, Jose will offer some keen analysis on what the Yankees get from this deal. Unfortunately it looks good for the pinstriped pea brains. First, it instantly makes their locker room less ugly. Second, in minor leaguer Alberto Gonzales they pick up a sitting Attorney General who has authorized the use of torture. You know, Steinbrenner has longed for the authority to waterboard for decades (note: how many times did he express a desire to strip Dave Winfield naked and point at his genitals?), and now he has it. A-Rod should be feeling very, very uncomfortable. Third, the Yankees pick up another quality relief arm in Jose Vizcaino and a promising your arm in Ross Ohlendorf. Finally, the acquisition of minor leaguer pitcher Steven Jackson gives the Yankees a prospect who, in addition to having a mean streak, a nasty three point shot, and gun charges pending against him, is also the owner of the role playing game company which produces Car Wars, which is a lot of fun if you are a nerd. Though on the downside, when all of the Yankees are in the clubhouse pregame rolling die to determine whether their turreted recoilless rifles have inflicted any damage on the Killer Kart opposite them during their autoduel at Double Drum in Waco Texas, Jose strongly suspects that everyone will gang up on A-Rod and spray his make-believe car with machine gun fire and flechettes.

Between the torture and the role playing games, it looks like a good trade for the Yankees and a bad trade for Alex Rodriguez.

3. Last week, the Red Sox signed former Mariner’s starter Jor-El Piniero to a $4 million, one-year deal, with the hope that he could be converted into a closer. There’s been a lot of skepticism about this move, but let Jose go on record as saying he loves this deal. Loves it!

Sure his ERA has gone up in every year since 2001. Yes, his K-Rate is way down, and his performance has never really recovered since he suffered an elbow injury. But, if you want to focus on all of these sabermetricy, moneyball, statistical stuff, you aren’t really getting the full picture. Let’s look at the facts:

FACT: The guy is Superman’s father
FACT: He will be the first Red Sox ever to be played in a film by Marlon Brando, though Brando has been rumored as a potential lead in “The El Guapo Story.” (Note: Much like Rich Garces, just because no one’s seen Brando for a while, it doesn’t mean he’s dead.)
FACT: As long as the sun doesn’t turn red, it’s a good bet that he’ll recover from his injuries.

So why shouldn’t the Sox take a chance on him. Would you take a chance on a pitcher named Peter Parker? Or Bruce Banner? Of course you would. In fact the Red Sox can sign any comic book character they want as a closer and Jose will be happy. Unless, it’s Matt Murdoch. Daredevil sucks.













It's like Jose's seeing double.


I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Call H&R Block, Because It's Time for Some Accountability

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. One of the funny things about writing a blog is the accountability involved. Jose knows that sounds weird. After all, the entire point of a blog is that it offers every nimrod with a post-Commodore 64 computer the opportunity to be part of the new media, to pat himself on the back and say “My opinion matters” while remaining untraceable, anonymous hiding from the cleansing, illuminating light of day like so many MIT undergrads. (Note: Being stereotypical about smart people is cool right?)

But the accountability is real, even if the influence is not. Things said long ago remain in print. Even if they disappear from the public realm, victims of a surprise change of domain name, somewhere perhaps, someone still has the incriminating prose on a hard drive, waiting. Which brings us to Julio Lugo. When it comes to Julio, Jose has some accountability problems. But rather than hide it, rather than spend every day hoping and praying that none of the 7 owners of a 2006 KEYS book come’s forward with the incriminating evidence, Jose will lay it on the table now.

On Wednesday, December 2005, as part of a discussion of the Red Sox efforts to bring back members of the 2004 World Series champions, Jose wrote

The solution is to identify new talent, new faces and to fit them into the equation. But not Julio Lugo. No matter how much fun as it would be to hear “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard, four or five times per game next year, Jose would rather pray that ER’s 30 errors was a one year anomaly, than hope that Julio’s 20 plus errors every year is anything other than a simple fact.

Can you see the problem? Now, that the Red Sox have actually signed Lugo, this leaves Jose with a lot of backtracking to do, if he is to return to the comforting bosom of Red Sox fandom and not only say he loves Julio Lugo, but truly mean it. How can it be done? The record is right there in breathtaking black and white. He could try the Big Brother method and change the old record to insist that he has always loved Julio Lugo, loves Julio Lugo today, and always will love Julio Lugo. Perhaps his lament of last December could be… reconceptualized… to read

The solution is to identify new talent, new faces and to fit them into the equation. Specifically, Julio Lugo. And it would be great to hear “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard,” four or five times per game next year. Jose would rather not pray that ER’s 30 errors was a one year anomaly, and be absolutely certain that Julio’s 20 plus errors every year is something other than a simple fact. P.S. Jose adores you Theo. Seriously, you’re great. And no, this didn’t used to say something else.

See it’s a little clumsy. So Jose will go to his other option which is to cloud his past comments with the iron obfuscation of statistical certainty cloaked in impenetrable verbiage. Thus, Jose wishes to issue the following statement for immediate release:

Noted baseball analyst, statistician, pneumismatist and phrenologist, Jose Melendez, is pleased to announce that tertiary and quaternary statistical analysis of the play and performance of new Red Sox shortstop Julio Lugo has reversed, contraindicated and deconstructed the findings of primary and secondary analysis. It has thus been revealed as if my divine intervention as seen in Genesis, Exodus, Kings and Romans that Julio Lugo is a stupendous, astonishing, magnificent, splendiferous, effervescent and ebullient defender and Jose it is in the warmest tradition of hospitality and graciousness that Jose welcomes him to the Boston Red Sox..

While using venerable, heirloom, legacy scientific tools such as error counting and unsubstantiated anecdotal evidence had indicated that Lugo was a bad to dreadful to criminal fielder, more sophisticated analyses done by some other guys, namely range factor and zone rating, paint a portrait of a Julio Lugo who is not only superior to the league average but lords above Alex Gonzales. Jose suspects that further analysis (note: quintenary?) will reveal that Julio Lugo has range that is superior to The Flash, girthier pecs than Fabio and a heart than eclipses even that of our Savior Jesus Christ.

Jose apologies and remonstrates himself for any pain or injury his earlier discourses may have caused Mr. Lugo and his family, excluding his ex-wife, who is a liar and a skank.

Phew… Jose feels better already.

Look, the man
is literally leaps and bounds
better than Orlando Cabrerra



2. CORRECTION: In his previous entry, Jose told the story of a six year old wheeler dealer who held Jose hostage over a 1993 Jose Melendez baseball card. Regrettably, the story omitted one critical detail that changes the context. In the story, Jose described his stone faced bravery in staring down the wheeler dealer and cutting a favorable deal. Missing was the fact that immediately after the transaction was complete, the wheeler dealer offered to trade/sell Jose another card, a Jeff Suppan card. As no one would buy a Jeff Suppan card, not even the Milwaukee Brewers, who recently paid $40 million for the actual Jeff Suppan, Jose can only assume that the Melendez card transaction left the wheeler dealer with the impression that Jose was a sucker. The publishers of this feature apologize for the omission of this critical detail.

3. Have you seen the Globe today? Go ahead and get one. Jose will wait. Got it? Now throw away the front section, the business section, and the arts. Keep Metro if you want, Brian McGrory has another great column today. Jose thinks he calls the people of Hingham douchebags. (Note: Actually, the column is about violence in Boston and is well worth a read.) Okay now, you’re at Sports. Take a quick look. Notice anything weird. Take your time, look at Page E1 all the way through E8. Done? So what did you notice? Yup, that’s right mark it down 1/2/07 there is not a single word about the Red Sox in the Globe Sports section. (Note: When Jose was writing this in his head, he somehow got the idea that it was February 2, so his line was going to be “That’s right, mark it down and call Marla Gibbs and Jackee, because on 2/2/7 there is not a single word about the Red Sox in the Globe Sports section.” Too bad.)

Unbelievably we now have a Boston Globe with more on Boise State football, hell with more on Vanderbilt women’s basketball than on the sun, the moon and the stars that are the Boston Red Sox. Okay, maybe technically Shaughnessy mentions the Red Sox in his column about how Bill Belichick hates Eric Mangini, but god damn it, that’s a football column, and Jose had already written this key when he noticed the mention, so it doesn’t count.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Wheeling and Dealing

THE 2006 KEYS BOOK: THE PERFECT BAYRAM PRESENT FOR MUSLIM FRIENDS, IF THEY DO PRESENTS FOR BAYRAM, JOSE ISN'T SURE
It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. It was a few strokes before four when the wheeler dealer rolled into town, poised, cocky and with an almost disdainful indifference to the fact that he was playing with the real lives of real people. He sat down across from Jose, and deigned not even to look at him, lest he portray any sign of weakness. With a shock of hair red as the fires of hell, he was the sort of dealmaker who demanded attention, even as one desperately tried to keep his focus elsewhere.

He surveyed Jose’s office for a moment, before spying a mélange of coreboard pie charts in the corner, and dismissing Jose’s work, his livelihood, with a contemptuous “What’s that?”

Then the time for positioning, for the subtle pre-deal maneuvering of a negotiator unfamiliar with “Getting to Yes” was over, and it was time to get down to business. Nonchalantly, almost carelessly, he tossed the merchandise onto Jose’s desk. THUD. There was Bruce Hurst. Here’s Rob Murphy. And over there, we’ve got Tim VanEgmmond. Fifty Sox cards acquired for $10, and each and everyone available to interested clients… for a price.

But Jose is no one’s fool, not some sucker to be rolled. And he would not be the mark for this particular P.T. Barnum. He immediately set about deriding the merchandise.

“Bob Stanley? Jose gets an ulcer just looking at him. And Luis Rivera? Never trust a shortstop with glasses.”

But then came a problem… and an opportunity. As the wheeler dealer flipped over a Mike Greenwell card, sending it crashing into the adjacent Ellis Burks card, there it was. Jose Melendez Leaf Card 1993. There was Jose, slim and sexy, his arm cocked and ready to unleash a fastball on an unsuspecting batter. On the opposite side, a defiant Jose sneered as he delivered a pitch before an image of the Old State House and One Exchange Place.

Jose tried to control his emotions, to keep his tells under lock and key, lest the slightest show of weakness drive up the price. But this was a Jose Melendez Red Sox card. Jose had a San Diego card, but not one of Jose in his Boston red and blues.

“Jose will give you a dollar for it,” he blurted out, already negotiating against himself like Tom Hicks on greenies.

“No,” replied the wheeler-dealer cagily, betraying nothing.

“You should just give it to him,” replied an advisor who went by the pseudonym Uncle Mark. “It’s his nom de blog.”
But no misuse of French by a trusted consigliore would dissuade the wheeler dealer, he remained resolute.

Then Jose had an idea.

“We’ll do business in the old style,” said Jose without emotion. “We will trade. Jose will go home tonight and retrieve a superior card from his private, vintage collection. Tomorrow he will bring it in and exchange it for the Melendez card. We can run the deal through one of your people. Perhaps the one you call ‘Mom.’”

“Uuuhhhhhhhh,” he was biding his time, using verbal clutter as a tool to thwart Jose, to give himself time to contemplate the deal before him. “Uh, no.”

He was tough; Jose would give him that.

“Then Jose has one final offer. He will trade you another card or give you a dollar. Choose.”

And then Jose saw it. The faintest glimmer of doubt. The slightest trembling of hand. He was going to blink.

“The dollar,” he said, hesitantly at first, but then enthusiastically, as if it had all been a feint designed to lure Jose into overpaying.

Jose coughed up the green, the wheeler dealer offered up the card and the transaction was complete. Jose had what he wanted, a symbol in paper of his past, of the man he had always wanted to be, and the wheeler dealer had what he wanted, a dollar he could taunt his six year old twin brother with.

Perhaps, we did get to yes, after all.

And Jose didn't even need to give up a Phil Plantier card to get it!

2. The best baseball story of 2006 was the news that Tigers phenom Joel Zumaya was sidelined for the ALCS due to an injury sustained while playing Guitar Hero on his PlayStation. Jose recently received this game for Christmas from his brother, and expects that soon enough, his efforts to recreate the Keith Foulke era by rocking out to “Mother” by Danzig will put him on the shelf. Still, this seemed like a good opportunity to recount some of the strangest injuries in Major League history. While a fuller list can be found here, Jose would like to highlight a few of his favorites from this list.

• Jose Cardenal missed a game in 1974 because he couldn’t blink. (Note: Ironically, sore eyes from not blinking is also a Guitar Hero related injury).


• In 1985 Vince Coleman got rolled up by the tarp machine and missed the World Series as a result.
  
  
• Glenallen Hill fell out of bed and through a glass table while dreaming that spiders were attacking him. He then proceeded to crawl through the shards of glass. Presumably, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was way too scary for Hill.

But the funniest of all baseball injuries remains, of course, Derek Jeter dislocating his shoulder in a collision with Toronto catcher Ken Huckabee. That cracks Jose up every time!

While all of these are fun and funny, Jose would remind you that in each of these cases and every other one linked to in the above site, the true cause of injury is almost definitely the player being attacked by mistress, wife or girlfriend, which is also funny but not quite as much so. (Note: Jose in no way endorses domestic violence by or against professional athletes. He is only saying that if someone can’t blink, it is more likely that it is because his mistress did some weird Clockwork Orange type stuff to him, than due to some functional disease. Similarly, Guitar Hero is the perfect misdirection stunt, a story so hysterical, so neat, that it totally distracts us from the reality that Zumaya probably injured his wrist through chronic, compulsive masturbation.)

3. The latest speculation out of the Bronx is that the Yankees are looking to trade lefty Randy Johnson, sending him back to Arizona from whence he came. Should the Yankees trade the 6’10’’ Johnson after two expensive and underwhelming seasons at $16 million per, Johnson will go down as the biggest bust in New York, both literally and figuratively since King Kong on Broadway.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

'Twas the Night

It’s time for Jose Melendez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1.
'Twas the night before Christmas, I was hanging with Manny,
And all he kept doing was rubbing his hammy;
“I got to get traded this year,” he complained.
“Cause otherwise, I will not play through the pain.”

“They say that I’m lazy, that I just don’t care,
That I’m more concerned ‘bout the length of my hair,
But on Christmas, when I’m all at home in my bed,
I just dream about hitting and swinging the head,

Of the bat, knock a homer, give a tip of my cap,
And then into the field, where I’ll catch a quick nap.
When down in the lobby there was such a noise,
I thought Enrique Wilson had arrived with his boys.

And Manny jumped up and headed downstairs,
Though he felt like crap, it’s not like he cares
When Enrique’s in town, and he wants to hang out,
It don’t matter if Manny’s got shingles or gout.

But it wasn’t Enrique on down at the bar,
But a jolly old fat guy with a sweet, tricked out car,
With rims that did spin and dice in the mirror,
A present for Manny, it seemed rather clear.

“Yo Manny,” he shouted with gusto and verve,
“You dig on this ride? Do you think you deserve
It for Christmas, or should I be giving you coal,
Cause you sat, left the four spot a horrible hole.

Use Nixon, Use Lowell, Use Pena, Use Tek?
Or, Youkilis! Or Kapler or some other drek?
Did you quit on your team, when you could have played ball?
Or was that knee gimpy in fact after all?"

And Manny he stood there and wrinkled his nose,
At the site of the fat man in comical clothes,
And he thought bout his knee, how it hurt when he ran,
So he spoke to St. Nick, and said “Whatever, man.”

Then he looked at the ceiling, then looked at his shoes
Then he sat down, and ordered a glass with some booze.
And then, said to St. Nick, “Hey, man what do you think?”
While awaiting, an answer he bought him a drink

“Well, Manny,” the elf said while lifting his glass,
“My thought is that this year I’ll give you a pass.
You hit the ball well, and you helped out your team,
And they need you back next year it certainly seems.

So you wear your pants long, so they cover your feet,
So you slide for a ball, but then you catch a cleat,
In the turf and then tumble and fumble the ball,
Before leaving the field to go pee in the wall.

So what if you sit out just once in a while?
Cause watching you play, well it makes me smile
Your swing is so perfect, the best that I’ve seen,
Who cares if your intellect isn’t so keen.

You play like a kid with a smile and a wave,
Like a kid who simply cannot always behave;
But the team needs you now, despite all of that stuff,
They can’t just replace you with, say, Aubrey Huff.

As long as it’s Papi and you back to back,
I think that the Sox every year have a crack
At taking the series and winning it all,
At getting some back up, the World Series ball.

So this car is for you, it’s a nice Christmas ride.
You like Caddies right? So drive this one with pride.”
Then he stood, and gave Manny the keys to the car,
And then walked to the door at the end of the bar,

And he handed a number, to the waiting valet
Who brought over the reindeer, and Santa Claus sleigh
But I heard him exclaim, “Yeah it’s kind of uncanny,
But you can’t do much better than Manny being Manny.”

2. While there has been plenty of focus on DJ Dru’s disposition, his constitution and his shoulder, there has been precious little examination of his prowess as a spinner of discs. The man is a DJ for crying out loud and has there been a single article, a blurb even about what kind of music he plays? We all knew that Balki Arroyo played the guitar and that Johnny Damon can bang a tambourine (note: though probably only on the one and the three like a square). Hell, we even know that Lenny DiNardo has the most interesting and eclectic musical tastes on the 40 man roster. But still we know nothing about the DJ to whom the team is prepared to make a five year commitment.

So Jose did a little bit of reporting and learned that Dru is into mashups. You know what a mashup is right? It’s not what Mike Greenwell would do to Ellis Burks in the outfield, rather it’s when a DJ takes two different songs and mixes them together to create a hip new sound. For instance “Spanish Bombs Over Bagdad” is a mashup of Bombs Over Baghdad by Outkast and, presumably, “Spanish Flea” by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.

So what are the favorite mashups of DJ Dru?

• A mashup of “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails and “Sunshine on My Shoulder” by John Denver called “Hurt My Shoulder”
• A mashup of “Hustle” by Van McCoy and the Soul City Symphony and “I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself” by the White Stripes called “I Just Don’t Hustle”
• A mashup of “Hold on, Hold Out by Jackson Browne and “Secret Agent Man by Johnny Rivers called “Agent: Hold Out”

The only question is which one will become his theme music.

3. According to the Boston Herald, public health groups have targeted a number of stores for selling drinking games, arguing that they encourage recklessness and are, in effect, a threat to public health.

See, it’s happened. neopuritanism has finally crossed the line. First, they ban smoking. Jose is okay with this. Smoking is not only bad for you but bad for everyone around you and is really only worth doing if it causes one to choke in front of one’s gorgeous Albanian interpreter who finds one’s inability to smoke properly charming. Then came the New York City ban on trans fats (note: presumably guaranteeing that David Wells will never pitch there again). And now, they’re going after drinking games. What scourge of public health will they focus on next?

Here’s what Jose’s afraid of. The next target will be baseball. It fits the profile. Do people derive pleasure from it? Yes. Does it cause people to spend money that could better be spent on shoes for their children? Check. Does it cause high blood pressure, heart attacks and stroke? Of course. You remember both Rudy Seanez eras. Does it destroy families? It goes without saying.

So what, oh what, will keep the neopuritans from trying to ban baseball next? Remember if beer pong is a crime only criminal will play beer pong.

I’m Jose Melendez, and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

Saving Souls, Saving Games

Buy the KEYS 2006 Book Or Anger J.C. Romero

It’s time for Jose Melednez’s KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.

1. Lets’ talk about God. Lots of other people are talking about him/her/it these days. Yes, with wars of religion on the rise, with madmen claiming to know the word of God and taking lives, there is more and more discussion of the nature of the big G. Sadly, there is still little review of the question circuitously raise by XTC in the song Dear God—What is God’s impact on the price of beer. Instead the question posed far more often is whether, with so much evil being done in the name of the Deity, so much violence, so much intolerance, is God even worth having?

The answer is yes. See, theology is easy.

The problem is not that there is a God, rather it is that we simply haven’t found the right God yet, a chill, down to Earth God to whom we can relate. (Note: Sacrilege ahead.) Yahweh is too vengeful, Vishnu is too much like Dr. Octopus, Jesus is too skinny, Buddha is too fat (note: and too not technically a God), Thor’s comic book is too boring, the Scientology God is too vague and too silly, and Allah is… well Jose has nothing bad to say about Allah, and Jobu is too weak against the curveball.

Yet despite their weaknesses, all of these God’s have great strengths as well. The solution to the God problem is to combine them, to create sort of Frankenstein’s monster of a God, combining the best aspects of other gods and reanimated from the death proclaimed by Nietzsche.

After carefully weighing all of the gods out there, Jose has concluded that the best possible God would be a human man walking the Earth among us who merged the infinite love, grace and forgiveness of Jesus Christ with the competent utility play, and gentle, non-threatening bat of Ed Romero. Thus, the right God for the post modern world, the best God, if you will, is new Red Sox reliever J.C. Romero.

Rather than hanging from a cross like the old J.C., the new J.C. will be hanging curveballs, which while still painful, we can all agree, is a marginal improvement. Progress!

As for the credible infield play, J.C. Romero is a pitcher, so it is not quite the same, but let’s be honest, the name brand matters and J.C. Romero’s got it. Like you wouldn’t worship Charlie Zeus or seek wisdom in the teachings of Jimmy Buddha? (Note: Apologies to Father Guido Sarducci for sort of imitating his legendary “Billy Christ” bit.)

Yes, we have our new savior in J.C. Romero, and Jose, for one, looks forward to watching him end wars and save souls, if not end games and save wins.


See, you didn't buy the book, and now he's pissed.

2. Jose loves unwrapping presents, and nearly without exception, Jose is able to be gracious and show enthusiasm upon opening even the most absurd, kitschy and useless of gifts. But some gifts, even the magnanimous Jose could not abide. For a few, he could not muster a forced smile or cock his head towards the light to contrive a twinkle in his eye.

One such gift was advertised in the Boston Globe this morning. Imagine waking up on Christmas morning, slinking into a robe, shuffling into a pair of slippers and thumping down the stairs to sit before a Christmas tree, fragrant and blinking. You unstuff your stocking, finding delights one after another among whimsical little do-dads and sweet Christmas chocolate, perhaps even with a nip of brandy hidden for later. Your stocking empty, you move on to the gifts. Your mother opens a waffle iron, your father also opens a waffle iron, and your wife opens something shiny. Perhaps you even have children, in which case this all happens five hours earlier. Then it is your turn. Your wife, your loving, loyal, affectionate wife hands you a box. You peel off the paper, crinkling the delicate snowflakes that decorate it, and tear back the tissue paper to reveal—a Boston Dirt Dogs long sleeve t-shirt as seen in the Boston Globe.

“Don’t you love it?” a voice asks. You don’t know whose it is; you don’t want to know. “I know you love the Red Sox, and I heard this is the best Red Sox blog, so I thought it would be perfect.”

And your smile wilts into a frown. You choke back the tears and clamp down on your tongue drawing salty Christmas blood.

You were ready for disappointment. You really were. You could have lived with a vintage Carl Everett jersey, a framed copy of the Margot Adams Penthouse spread or even an album of standards recorded by Michelle Damon.

But Dirt Dogs gear? It is the lump of coal, the cold carbon reminder that you are wicked and sinful.

And then, suddenly, the Calvinist impulses take over, you remember that you are sinful, you are fallen.

You recall that really, all self-delusion aside, you are a borderline racist who is prone to boasting and fabrication and who loves Trot Nixon completely out of proportion to his OPS, and quickly but oh so surely, the Dirt Dogs shirt starts to seem like an awfully good gift.

3. Who the hell does Jimmy Carter think he is?

What in the name of J.C. Romero gives him the right to rip off Jose? Sure, he was President, but only for like one term. That’s only one term more than Jose. And Jose doesn’t go to bed every night with nightmares of stagflation.

And yet Carter goes ahead and writes an op-ed about his new book Palestine: Peace not Apartheid in today’s Boston Globe called “Reiterating the keys to peace”.

Carter will probably hide behind the old “I didn’t write the headline” excuse, but come on, that’s like refusing to blame Grady Little for Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS just because he didn’t pitch, catch or hit. Both Carter and Little created the context for bad things, and thus are responsible.

So let’s make a deal Mr. Carter. You stop ripping off Jose, and Jose will pull publication of his new book Pal ‘a’ Stein: Peace not Apartheid, a story of the interracial collaboration between George Steinbrenner and Yankee GM Bob Watson that brought the Yankees back to the top, before Watson got sick of George and left for a cushy MLB job giving disproportionate suspensions to Red Sox players.

I’m Jose Melendez and those are my KEYS TO THE HOT STOVE.