Schilling Records 200th Win

Last night, in an 8-6 win over the Devil Rays, Curt Schilling became just the ninth active pitcher and 104th overall to notch 200 career victories. Two seasons after helping lead the '04 team to it's first world championship and one season after trying to come back too early and be the team's closer in '05, Schilling is once again showing that he still has ace stuff. While his velocity i nowhere near what it was when he was younger, he has consistently remained in the low 90's, and has reached back on a number of occasions for gas somewhere around 96. He's 8-2 this year with the Sox, filling the first starter's role nicely. Congratulations, Curt.

Boston 4, Tampa Bay 1

The past couple days have taught me 3 things:

1. When Josh Beckett hits his spots, he's absolutely filthy.
2. You can't leave 13 runners on base and expect to win a game.
3. If your life were in danger, Matt Clement would not be the one to save it.

Best. Essay. Ever.

After having mentioned this piece in my last post, I decided to post it here in it's entirety. I had nothing to do with it's inception or completion, it was written by the late Bart Giamatti who I believe, after some research and reading Zimbalist's book on Bud Selig, would have been one of the best commissioners in the game. He wasn't just the commissioner, he was a fan.

"The Green Fields of the Mind "

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.

Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.

But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.

Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.

New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.

Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.

The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.

That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

From A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of A. Bartlett
Giamatti, © 1998 by A. Bartlett Giamatti.

The Evil of Johnny Damon (And It's Not Because He's A Yankee)

Johnny Damon, the legendary center fielder from the Curse breaking Red Sox, is a Yankee. We know that. We've all been clobbered to death with this fact since his signing in December. Is it that big a deal?

In my opinion, not really. Logically.

Would it have been nice to keep him in Boston? Yes. Was he worth what the Yankees gave him? I dunno. I was one of the few who believed he should have been cheered during his first at bat at Fenway, and booed every appearance thereafter. I booed him on Monday, and I'll boo him later in the summer. I boo him because he's a Yankee and because he can now hurt the Red Sox. But like Monday, and from now on, I boo him because of who he is.

Johnny loves to shoot his mouth off. He did it here in Boston, and though entertaining in the beginning (a certain 'naked pull-ups' interview with Dan Patrick springs to mind), it quickly got old. Why? Because in case you didn't notice, Johnny speaks because he loves the sound of his own voice.

Johnny, will you ever go to the Yankees?

"There's no way I can go play for the Yankees, but I know they are going to come after me hard," Damon said. "It's definitely not the most important thing to go out there for the top dollar, which the Yankees are going to offer me. It's not what I need." STORY

On May 5, 2005 Johnny Damon endeared himself to all of Red Sox Nation, saying exactly what they had hoped, needed to hear: that money was not his main goal, that it meant more to him where he was playing that what he was playing for. Yet still, he left, and for the top dollar no less.

Initially Johnny did nothing but express good will and gratitude towards the New England fans, even going so far as to take out a full-page ad in the Sports section of The Boston Globe. In print and on screen, he praised the Nation for it's dedication and intensity, certain that he would be held in the same high esteem he maintained while patrolling center field in the Fens. Unfortunately for him, he was wrong. He was soundly booed and continues to be so. Now, Johnny no longer speaks of the fans with contrived reverence and gratitude. Johnny is jaded.

“Getting these big hits against the Red Sox? Yeah, I love it,” he said after triggering the Yankees’ 7-5 win. “These fans?” Damon said with a shrug. “It’s their loss. They know it, and I know it.” STORY

Logic tells each one of us that baseball is a business. It is part of the entertainment industry, obligated to do nothing more than bedazzle us for a little while until the next flash comes along. Johnny goes to the Yankees for more money? I mean c'mon, can anyone blame him? Absolutely not. Why then should Sox fans be upset when he goes back on his word and pursues the future of his family?

Because to the fan, this is not just business.

Speaking from my own experience and the experiences of the people around me, baseball is not simply something to watch. In the middle of February, pitchers and catchers reporting is a sign that summer is not too far away. Hang on through the snow and biting winds and be rewarded with lazy evening warmth and the crackling radio. Baseball in the summer is something around which days are arranged. 7:05 PM becomes a sacred time, and checking out of more serious matters to check the score indicates an appreciation for the important things.

It's baseball.

We're raised with this game as children and many maintain it into adulthood. But as children baseball is devoid of logic. Players become inextricably linked to teams, money has no value, right and wrong, good and evil are the centerpieces of the drama that unfolds every night between the white lines. Your team is full of Good Guys, your opponent filled with Bad ones. Miracles happen, hope never truly dies. Be cold and heartless, go ahead. Say it's the money, wrap yourself in numbers. Deny the part of you that still lives on the neighborhood sandlot and the American ideals. Read Giamatti's Green Fields of the Mind and you'll see the extent to which baseball can affect even the most erudite adults.

Johnny is so despised because he's trying to play both sides: he claims it's a business but seeks the childlike loyalties of the fans. It's a difficult thing to accomplish, especially when you're a free agent and your constituents average $40,000 to $50,000 annual incomes. An extra $2 million? Please.

We may boo Derek Jeter for being a Yankee, we may boo him because he beats us, but we never boo him because he plays both sides. He keeps his mouth shut and stays away from the fence. Maybe it's because he has nothing to say, or maybe it's because he knows of the perils that await once he starts down that road. Either way, he doesn't need to hear his own voice to know how important he is to this child's game.

'Twas A Good Night

Boy, that was a fun one, huh? Great seats right under the Dunkin' Donuts sign on the aisle, overlooking everything, it was my buddy's (Yankee fan) first time ever at Fenway, a team-effort graduation present. You've all read the papers, you all watched the game, and you all know that the Sox (excepting Keith "Teeball" Foulke) brought their A-game. Even Willie Harris got a hit, that's how dialed in they were.

As much as one dislike's the Yankees, it's never quite as satisfying when you beat a wounded opponent, know that even the opposing fans posited a collective "Who?" when Terrence Long was announced as the starting left fielder. But as Curt Schilling pointed out, though these games may at times seem less intense than others, the Red Sox do need to make sure they open up a sizeable gap between themselves and the Bombers.

The biggest positive was without a doubt Schilling's dominance over 8 innings, limiting the Yankees to only a handful of hits, thanks in no small part to stellar infield defense by Cora and Loretta. The only questionable decision from last night's game, and it's a small one, was putting in someone with known performance issues when pitching with large leads. It could be argued that Foulke's development would be better served by not allowing 4 earned runs in the top of the 9th inning with 2 outs.

Oh yea, and I got a sweet lunchbox.

A Day Late, Still A Great Article

In yesterday's Washinton Post columnist Thomas Boswell wrote one of the most refreshing pieces on the Red Sox that I've read in some time. After three years of Kevin Millar and Johnny Damon, one year runs of 'The Idiots' and the 'Mental Midgets' (never really caught on), Sox fans finally have a reason to be proud of their boys:

They're Idiots no more.

Boswell's piece is fair and balanced in a legit way, and for once we don't hear about the embarassing antics of the recently departed. That whole 'Idiot' thing really bothered me after a while. Sure, it was fun in the beginning, when it was all about the 3-run homer and sweet handshakes in the dugout. But when the team was sticking with season-slumping loudmouth players (coughMillarcough) when they could've easily gotten more production out of putting a 5th starter at first base, the talking got old. Quick.

Tigers and Devil Rays Of A Feather?

We all know about Delmon Young and his 50 game suspension for tossing a bat at an umpire in a PawSox game several weeks back, but apparently his brother Dmitri, who is often referred to as being an incredibly friendly and outgoing personality, also has something of a temper. According to an article in the Detroit Free Press today the elder, 32 year old Young is being charged with domestic abuse by his *ahem* 21 year old girlfriend. They had been dating for several years, which is why it's domestic abuse and not assault.

This is clearly not something to joke about, as someone was hurt, buuuuut we love our jokes around here, and this seems to be the perfect time to tell the world about McSweeney's and their fantasy baseball columns. Hilarious. Here's a taste of what you can find at this glorious site, from the 2006 American League Projection piece written several weeks ago:

Detroit Tigers

An investigation will be launched into how a mediocre player like Dmitri Young could attain such a badass nickname as "Da Meat Hook." The result will tell the tale of young Dmitri and his impoverished upbringing. Abandoned when he was 6 months old, Young was taken in by a poor single butcher who fed the boy leftover fat and gristle from that day's sales. Years on this diet turned him into the muscular beast he is today. The butcher, on the other hand, suffered a whopping 13 heart attacks and finally succumbed to the 14th, from then on referred to as a "butcher's dozen." Young's nickname is a reminder of the time spent developing his powerful swing with bare cow bones, picked clean from that night's meal.

Da Meat Hook. There really is no way to put a price on such creativity. You can find that and other ingenius nuggets of écriture here. It won't disappoint.

Now We Know How L. B. Jefferies Felt...

I'm starting to feel like L. B. Jefferies (see: Jimmy Stuart, Alfred Hitchcock, and Rear Window): the furtive camera shots and photographs into the dugout immediately following the last several games have revealed things the party line spewed from high above 4 Yawkey way. Two nights ago, before Schilling got shelled, we saw Josh Beckett talk to Al Nipper while staring intently at his finger. Tonight, we saw Willie Harris get the evil eye from DeMarlo Hale... and boy, did he ever deserve it.

It's the bottom of the ninth. Two out. One on. One run deficit. The righty on the mound is throwing 97 mph gas, and up steps one of your best left-handed fastball hitters.

The pinch runner you inserted at first base has just been caught stealing.

End of rally. Game over.

We all felt the same thing when we saw Harris taking off for second. There's no way in hell Francona has the balls to pull a move like that. There was simply no need for it. The only comfort for the fans tonight was that we saw Harris get his come-uppance from the coaches when he got back to the dugout. Sure, it was unlikely he decided to steal on his own. Chances are he just got the signs crossed up. Still, that's one helluva painful way to end a ballgame.

What else did we learn from tonight? Tim Wakefield repels run support. He pitched pretty solidly, but the bats just couldn't muster anything more than a whisper against the up-and-coming Bedard. Eventually, Wake will get his W's. Three more games and then back home for the Yankees.

Natale Gets His Due

Official "Friend of the Hot Corner" Jeff Natale, an uber-late round pick by the Sox in the 2005 draft, is finally getting his due. After being picked as my wild card prospect back in February, Natale got some love today from The Hardball Times in an article by Chris Constancio.

Here's the link to his stats:

JEFF NATALE

And here's what Constancio had to say:

Natale was the 978th player taken in the 2005 draft, is much smaller than the average ballplayer, and he played college ball at a relatively unknown school in Connecticut. He's under the radar for obvious reasons, but his production is impressive. He rarely strikes out, gets on base at an outsanding rate, and has shown unexpected power:

YEAR LVL AB AVG OBP SLG HR XBH BB SO
2006 A 119 .345 .481 .563 6 14 27 14

Natale is already 23 years old, so most prospect analysts are quick to dismiss his numbers until he faces more age-appropriate competition. Natale is in the South Atlantic League so that he can work on his defense with Greenville manager Luis Alicea, but he should get a chance to show what he can do in Wilmington or Portland later this year.

I also don't think his performance in the South Atlantic League should be completely dismissed. I searched my database for 22- or 23-year-old middle infielders with comparable contact rates, walk rates, and isolated power (SLG-BA) against class-A pitchers. Here are the five most similar players:

Year Player K% BB% ISOP
2005-06 Jeff Natale 8.2% 14.9% .218
2005 Kevin Melillo 11.7% 15.5% .171
2004 Ian Kinsler 14.1% 9.8% .290
1998 David Eckstein 8.6% 14.7% .098
2002 Scott Hairston 15.8% 12.4% .231
2000 Nate Espy 18.7% 18.0% .219

In general, the comparison players seem relevant to Jeff Natale. Many of these players seem destined for productive major league careers even though they were not blessed with outstanding "tools." David Eckstein and Ian Kinsler in particular stand out as guys who were dismissed as undersized overachievers early in their careers. I suspect Natale will join those two players in the big leagues two or three years from now. And here's a fun fact: if Natale can earn a starting job in the big leagues, he could challenge a Craig Biggio record some day. Natale has been hit by a pitch 18 times through 80 games with Greenville.

Here's hoping Natale turns the necessary heads in Greenville and gets the call-up, so that maybe everybody here at THC can get a chance to see him without driving to South Carolina.

Beckett Strong, Peña Warm To The Touch

This is the kind of stuff we were hoping for, Josh Beckett stepping out onto the mound and dominating for seven strong innings, with an offense that picks its spots and punishes mistakes. Now if only we could manage something like this against an opponent that isn't the Orioles...

Beckett made the O's look foolish today, returning to the form in which he opened the season. All was not well, however, as the medical staff made a visit to the mound during the sixth inning. Though Beckett pitched through the seventh, allowing one run (a Tejada solo jack) on two hits, something raised an alarm in the dugout. The immediate thought is to Beckett's fingers, as he has a well-publicized blister history on his pitching hand. According to the postgame interview, the mound visit was just to check to see if he tweaked his back slipping on the mound.

Offensively, we saw Mike Lowell maintain his offensive momentum with a homer and a triple (the fourth of his career). Wily Mo Peña, who will henceforth be referred to (lovingly) as The Human Strikeout [THS], also had four RBI and continues to display the results of his work with Papa Jack and David Ortiz. If Peña can develop into a solid hitter with average patience, he will make the trade for Arroyo worthwhile. THS could certainly become a hitter of Ortiz's caliber with hard work and dedication, but it is unlikely that he will ever be capable of replacing a hitter of Ramirez's intelligence should Manny leave the team (for retirement or trade).

All in all, a good evening for Red Sox baseball.

Oh yea, and what's going on with Albert Pujols? God, I love that guy.

Back In Action

So you know what's not cool? When your hosting server decides to change their website and company name without telling you, and then makes all the hosting issues really complicated so that it looks like you haven't posted in like 3 weeks due to lack of interest. Well, we're back up. Unfortunately, the Sox aren't.

The rain over the last 4 days has made it nigh-impossible to get a game in, the only play coming, for some retarded reason, on Friday night. It should've been canceled, as it was very clearly only played to make it official and to avoid more doubleheaders. Matt Clement, fresh off his pouting about being skipped in the Yankees series, decided it was a great idea to go out again and be Mr. Inconsistent, giving Tito all the support he'd ever need to back up his decision to alter the rotation.

Since I've been unable to comment on the Yankee series until now, I thought it was all in all well done. The first two games were pretty boring in my opinion, as routs to either side made watching unnecessary. The last game, however was as close to playoff baseball as you get during the regular season. Low scoring, well-pitched, with late-inning excitement, you can't ask for more.

Suprising Start

Kevin Hench wrote an interesting and revealing piece today about the success of the Sox this year. Sitting tied atop the East at 20-13, they've proven themselves resilient, to say the least. The offense has been incredibly inconsistent, no doubt in part due to the absence of Coco since the final game in Baltimore at the beginning of April, and the middle relief (Seanez, Riske, Tavarez) has been throwing BP. It's the defense and the starting pitching, not to mention the emergence of Jonathan Papelbon as, apparently, an elite closer that has permitted the Sox to run with the leaders of the pack.

One of the more interesting developments of the last month or so has been the way Tony Francona... oh, wait, sorry.... I thought I was writing for the Post. Anyways, it's the the way Francona's been acting in front of the cameras: more confidently. Whereas last year it seemed as if Francona was just the unlucky chaperone of a motley crew, this year he seems to really be the captain of the ship. That's not to say that he's making amazing managerial decisions, but he is at least putting some confidence in them, declining offers to explain the unsuccessful ones before the media.
As a fan, this attitude breeds a little more confidence and even a little hope. Maybe he's not just our bumbling, bald, Ovaltine-and-tobacco downing manager. My one request is that he do something soon about Rudy Seanez and his spot in the rotation. I realize the guy pitched great last year, but it's coming to the time where he should be replaced with younger blood.