Chris Curtis

April 12, 2008. Think back for a minute to that moment in 2004 when the world turned in a new direction. Varitek was trying to squeeze the life out of Foulke as the rest of the team joined them on the mound in St Louis, and all of us wherever we were, in a rare moment of pure joy. I know you remember that moment clearly, where you were, who you were with, who spilled what on whom, all of it. The Earth moved, reality changed, teenagers hugged their parents, people smiled at strangers, drivers obeyed traffic laws…ok, maybe not that last one.

And after that many of us had a second moment, thanks to the generosity of the Red Sox, many, if not most of us had a chance to see that great gleaming trophy. To touch it, get a picture taken while standing beside it. I remember that moment too, being able to touch those little flags with my own fingers, to look down inside it and see that baseball design bowing up from the base. It was a perfect symbol of not just the Championship, but also of all that preceded it. 86 years. The joy of it was certainly magnified by the length and difficulty of the journey that led to it, and I certainly don’t need to list the stops of that journey again here. And now we have a second trophy. The world has changed. We are Champions, and we are favorites to win it again this year. I know we always have believed that we could win it every year, but now the rest of the world somehow seems to agree. We have accomplished what the Yankees used to accomplish, and for close to 75 million fewer dollars. And we have two trophies. But there is a problem here. We are not the Two-Time World Series Champion Boston Red Sox. No.
We are the SEVEN-TIME World Series Champion Boston Red Sox. For many years those first five Championships were like banished step children, to mention them was begging for someone to then pipe in with a rude comment about how long ago they were. The chants of ‘1918’ were chants of derision. And they shouldn’t have been, we won a Championship in 1918, and should be proud of that great team, and the other Champions before them. Now that the Great Drought is over, and 1918 is no longer valid as a derisive chant, those teams, those Championships can represent victory, not the defeats that followed.

And they deserve trophies. Something tangible, something we can touch, something more than the little banner thingies up on the press box at Fenway, or the admittedly nice tapestries hanging on Yawkey Way. At first I started to find out where the first five trophies were, and that search would go on for a very long time. It seems that there never were any trophies, the current ones have only been handed out since 1967, and it seems that there was no trophy awarded before then. In the late 1890’s the Royal Rooters apparently made one themselves to celebrate a Boston Braves title (the Sox weren’t around yet then), and from what I can tell that may have been the first actual baseball trophy ever awarded. (I’m still waiting to hear back from the Hall Of Fame on the issue). A World Series Championship deserves a trophy, not the Commissioner’s Trophy, but something appropriate and respectful to the game. Something we can visit at Fenway and see, take a picture of. Seven World Championship Trophies. Let the Yankees have their 26, they paid for them. But we deserve our seven. We earned them.

Beckett vs. Clemens. How perfect is that?
by Chris Curtis, FN Correspondent

August 29, 2007—Can anyone possibly ask for a game whose pitchers more perfectly represent each franchise? Beckett, the fireballer in his mid-twenties with the passion one normally expects from a ticked off linebacker; and Clemens, the fireballer from twenty years ago with the paycheck one might expect from an entire football team’s linebacker corps.

Beckett grew up idolizing Clemens, imagining himself as Clemens when he played around in his backyard as a kid. So did a lot of us, twenty or more years ago. Going to Fenway on a Clemens day was always special, the lower bleachers would be filled so we could see his warm-ups long before the game would begin. Back then Clemens was exciting, he represented the future; he represented hope for FenwayNation.

Now Clemens represents the past. All his glory days are well behind him, his last ever Series performance, with Houston, being the latest in a string of failures and middling performances. He represents the Yankees successes of years ago, and also the Red Sox failures of last century. But the calculus has changed. The Yankees are now the team enduring failure, and the Red Sox still enjoy the shiny rings from ’04.

But most importantly, we look forward to many more shiny rings in the years down the road. Beckett represents the future. With him, Dice-K, and Lester we have three starters in their mid 20’s ready to lead the rotation for the next decade or so, and Buchholz and Bowden could fill that rotation out in the next two years. Papel-papel Bon-bon gives us the same youth and excellence in the pen, and if you have great young pitching you will go a long way.

So, Clemens vs. Beckett. The old against the young. The old Yankee regime of overpaying for other teams' All Stars vs. the Red Sox regime of developing and holding onto young talent. (Yes, we traded young talent to get Beckett, but it was youth for youth, not youth for ancient history). The sinking Yankee Clipper against the steaming Red Sox Destroyer. Bring it on.

2007, A Look Back

by Chris Curtis, FN Columnist

January, 2007. Well, what a year that turned out to be! Remember how warm it was at New Year’s? And the Blizzards that followed? I think my arms still ache from all the time spent with my shovel. And remember all the angst over who would close games back then? Who could have guessed that Sox fans, and a certain young pitcher, would spur a fitness craze throughout New England? Or that Manny Ramirez himself would now be known as the Hardest Working Man In Baseball? So many odd things came together this year, let’s look back for a moment.

It was the day after our implosion during the home opener when the biggest moment of the year took place, and without a silly technical breakdown none of it would have happened at all. Tavarez turned into a fantastic set up man this season, perhaps one of the best in the AL, but on that first drizzly day at Fenway it seemed like a disaster in the making. He not only blew what should have been an easy save, and a chance to let Pedroia’s Grand Slam (!) be the story of the day, but also brought back fears that he was, indeed, the hot-headed nutjob we had all been warned about. His second pitch that inning clanged off of the batter’s helmet, and the third off of the next batter’s foot. After a tense mound conference and what seemed like some sort of a primal scream he threw two amazing fastballs, and then hit the third batter, loading the bases. The homers he then gave up may still be flying somewhere and the crowd left the park that damp afternoon thinking dark and awful thoughts.

But it was the dampness itself that turned things around. Somehow overnight some water leaked into the park’s internal phone system and the bullpen phones became inoperative after the third inning the next day. When in the ninth, after several members of the ‘pen had been warming up in case Dice-K needed some help, it seemed that our new Ace had hit the wall. Tito went to the mound and seemed unsure of who to go to as he looked out at the relief corps. That was when the signiture moment of the season took place. Manny DelCarmen, feeling primed and desperately wanting to come into the game, began waving his arms over his head, and jumping up and down to attract Tito’s attention. It looked like he was doing jumping jacks out there and Tito, not having a better idea at the time, simply pointed at him and waved him in. MDC all but bounded his way to the mound, that crazy and now famous grin of his leading the way, and a phenomenon was born. That he struck out the last two batters on seven pitches was fresh on the minds of the Nation the next day when Timlin faltered in the beginning of the ninth it was first the fans in standing room above the Green Monster, and soon then many others, who started doing jumping jacks. Hundreds of us, jumping and waving our arms like crazed idiots, telling Tito just who we wanted in the game. When the call went out for MDC to come in and he did a quick JJ himself in return the crowd went nuts. Within days other guys on the team were doing jumping jacks before games, while warming up between innings, whenever Dirty Water was played after another win.

We had become Exercise Nation. Now we have High School football teams doing jj’s, as they have come to be known, to psyche themselves up for games, Governor Patrick has been visiting schools and leading the kids in workouts to go along with his new Fitness Initiative, the jj is everywhere.

And then the other Manny, still hitting the ball and grinning his goofy grin and being as distant as ever, turned a bit of a corner himself. When he saw the courage of young Jon Lester, working as hard as he was in Spring Training, and his first two trips up to Boston from Pawtucket, to overcome his illness, he was stirred to find something new in himself. He has always been one of the hardest working players on the team, spending long hours working on his swing and studying his craft, but never got as much attention for his work off the field as he did for his lapses on it. It was when he approached Lester to tell him how much he admired his resolve to come back that Lester simply told him that everyone on this team works just as hard, but that leaders like Manny need to let the fans know it. Within a week Manny had allowed a camera crew to follow him around on his daily routine, and he even smiled and answered questions. Even to Dan Shaughnessy. When the piece aired on ESPN, and other bits on the local channels, and when he did a few jj’s after a nice catch up against the wall, the world seemed to turn for him. He even started tearing down the baseline to first on all grounders, even creating that famous error by Giambi that now has him suffering the ‘Here Comes Manny’ chant every time he takes the field at Fenway.

The rumors that Varitek had learned hypnosis during the winter continued to swirl, as he seemed able to suddenly focus pitchers on the job at hand, their body language changing abruptly after mound visits where he was rumored to use ‘trigger words’ to put pitchers into a form of trance. After a few months it even seemed to work on Tavarez, who would find his control and seemingly relax after so many mound visits from ‘Tek. More than a few took to calling him ‘The Strike Whisperer’. Whatever the truth was it seemed to work, as our staff had two 20 game winners and the best ERA in the league. Maybe Manny could hypnotize ‘Tek into rediscovering his power, but that’s just being greedy.

My favorite moment was being there on 9/25 to see us clinch the AL East and end the Yankee run of titles. Papi’s moon shot towards the Turnpike in the 4th, Dice-K’s 250th K of the season, MDC’s 37th save, and the news that Steinbrenner had announced the firing of Torre earlier in the day, combined to make it a wonderful time at the park.

I won’t even bother going into what happened in October, we all remember it clearly enough. Anyone else with a favorite moment? Feel free to add to the legendary tale. And raise a glass to 2008, here’s hoping it is just as much fun! (Does jumping jack to celebrate finishing this column)

May 28, 2006. Hello to everyone back home in Red Sox Nation. I am chasing tornadoes with Wally again right now; in fact I am in the van writing this as we burn East towards Kansas and a supercell storm with radar-indicated rotation right now. As we have made our way from southern New Mexico to northern South Dakota I have been able to keep up with most of the goings-on connected to our beloved nine. The continuing excellence of Papel-Papel Bon-Bon could turn out to be the most amazing (regular season) thing to happen to RSN since Rocket emerged in ’86; or perhaps Lynn and Rice in ’75.

While we have been tooling around the plains we had an interesting encounter. We visited Carlsbad Caverns in Carlsbad NM about a week ago and saw something truly terrifying. Each night at around sunset a swarm of perhaps hundreds of thousands of bats come sweeping up and out from this massive cave. We arrived just in time to see them fly the night we got there and then the next morning, after all the great swarm of bats had returned to sleep for the day, we headed down into the cave ourselves. The first part of the trek involves walking downhill for just over a mile, deeper and deeper below the earth. We pass by the side cavern where the bats hang from the ceiling, and go deeper still, daylight having disappeared long ago. (We just passed the Kansas state line and this storm is looking mighty ferocious….)

Upon reaching the lowest level of the cave the second trail goes for about another mile, through an ‘Enormous Room’ that is billed as 14 times the volume of the Astrodome. (I find the estimate to be a little high, but even one Astrodome is pretty darn huge for a cave..) As we made our way past boulders the size of trawlers we stumbled upon something that stopped me dead in my tracks.

Now, as an existentialist I’m not one to put much stock in religious mythology, but what I saw there on the floor of this cave, almost 800 feet below the surface of the Earth, was one of those times when the mind opens up to greater possibilities. If, indeed, great evil lies below the ground then what confronted us could well be a sign of just exactly that. There on the ground was a black Yankee cap. Just sitting there, smug in its ugliness. We carefully edged past the offending object and, shaken, continued on. If Wally and I do get to see another tornado, we’ll send a picture along, in the meantime try to stay out of caves. Something evil may well lurk below……..

April 18, 2006. Everyone, myself included, fully expects Manny to come out of his early funk and start mashing the ball with his regular savagery. But in the meantime, the more Manny looks like Ricky Williams, the more he seems to play like him. And if he doesn’t start mashing, he will do to the Sox what Williams did to the Dolphins, and there will be nothing we can do about it.

The new seats do look great up there on the roof, I’ll be there myself in mid September, hopefully for clinch night, and look forward to being back up on the roof. The new sound system is a bit disconcerting, with the sound now coming from behind, rather than from out by the flagpole. I always thought that the massive decibel levels from the old system were due to the struggle to reach everyone in the park; but now with speakers all over the place it is just as loud, and even in a loge box seat it is difficult to maintain conversation between innings with even the person seated next to you. Season ticket holders around me seemed to agree that the volume level was the most annoying feature of the park, unless you have the misfortune to both have grandstand seats and be over, say, 5’11”.

What a wonderful thing it is to be simply waiting in line at a concession stand for a snack and find yourself shaking hands with Luis Tiant. After all the times I saw him pitch, and joined in the chorus of ‘Looo-eeee’s’, to be able to simply say thanks is a rare treat. These new owners have made a point of allowing reasonable access to the players and facilities of our beloved team, from autograph alley to Fathers Day on the field, and it is appreciated.
Extra cup holders for the folks in the first row of the new EMC club might be a good idea, as the folks directly below them can now look forward to the occasional beer shower after foul balls are hit in that direction.
We acquired JT Snow as a defensive replacement at first base?? So far Youks has made even A-Gon look like Wily Mo. Remember last year when Millar kept fielding the ground ball instead of covering first? That won’t happen this year. As long as the brain trust is handing out contract extensions they should throw one over to the kid with the good eye at first.

We have the best record in the American League, and the complaining (Arroyo did what? Again? Did Wily Mo actually play outfield before? Do we need to play all the reserves on the same day?) has already hit mid season form. It’s nice to know that everyone still cares.

As this winter season of mass exodus on the part of the top stars on all our teams finally ends, the Sox may yet lead us back to the warm fuzzy thoughts of parades and duck boats. Dust off that picture of you and the Trophy, drink your Kool-aid, and get some baseball cards for the kids. Baseball is back, and just in time.

February 15, 2006—I am drinking the Kool-Aid. Great gobs of it. As if this has been a winter spent in the Sahara eating Saltine crackers and old beef jerky. And I believe. I believe all of it. I am coo-coo for Coco Crisp and loony for Loretta. Tavarez? A sweetheart. Adopts three-legged puppies and trains them himself to be companions to blind orphans. Beckett? His fist-pumping spirit and yankee killing performance will make us forget any talk of a Rocket return by early June. Lowell? A Kirk Gibson for a new century. His cancer-survivor all-star no-nonsense, no pranks allowed comeback story will be the stuff of gushing feature writers from here to Anaheim of Los Angeles California Disneyland City of Angels Big A Vladimir’s House. Lowell’s grit and focus will only be matched by the reborn Foulke, displacing the aging Rivera as the league’s dominant closer and also its biggest hockey fan.

I am drinking deeply. I see the plan, and understand that everything was planned from the beginning. Kevin Millar? Fun at parties, would love to ‘sip’ some Jack with the man, but the Orioles just took a torpedo broadside. That Devil Fish team may finally finish somewhere other than fifth this season. Piniella will shave his head again, wherever he is, just to celebrate. Then he’ll punch out a busboy somewhere near Tucumcari NM, but that’s a different article.

More Kool-Aid1 and sprinkle in some of that Bill James flavor enhancer. No, not two packets put about six in there. Give me OBP. Give me long at bats. Stolen bases? A complete waste of time; ask Lou Brock, or Dave Roberts. Quick, fill that glass up again. No more Doug Mirabulous? Not a problem, we’ve got three new backstops behind the Captain. A-Gone? The next Ozzie Smith, only with a season of Wall bashing instead of back flips. I believe. I drink deeply again, and I believe. Younger, cheaper, more athletic, better in the field, deeper and that doesn’t even take into account Papelbon, Hansen, or Lester. I believe.

And my hand trembles just a little bit as I fill the glass again. Fortunately Kool-Aid is vastly less expensive than the beer in Fenway. It could be a dry and thirsty summer. But I believe. Play ball!