The 2004 Boston Red Sox were a magical team, insofar as they transformed the psyche of an entire region. They even reached out to touch the lives of non-Sox fans like myself. A true story: October 16, 2004, the date of Game 3 of that year's American League Championship Series, was when my wife and I became engaged to be married on the platform of an Orange Line MBTA station. The game drifted in and out of our evening out in Boston, score updates coming from restaurant televisions and bus drivers and strangers on the street. The highly improbable final score, 19-8, corresponds to the dates in May upon which we were both born. Of course, it was the last game the 2004 Red Sox would lose, and we felt like we had tapped into the mythology, curse or no curse.
The 2007 Boston Red Sox are not a magical team. It is a soulless, grim-faced monster-machine that leaves its victims crushed to death, impressed with deep tank-tracks. This version reminds me of all the reasons I hated the Red Sox growing up, even more so than the Yankees. Even though I spent my first baseball-aware year in what's known now as Red Sox Nation, back when Jerry Remy was a mediocre second baseman, I chose the Minnesota Twins in 1983 and have never looked elsewhere. I knew at 11 years old that being a Red Sox fan was bad.
Hardcore baseball fans take on the characteristics of their team -- they have to, since they spend six months living with it every year. It's like having another parent. For decades, the defining characteristic of Red Sox fans was their ability to absorb and deal with loserdom. Embedded in every Red Sox fan's brain was the nagging fear that every small battle won was simply a prelude to a heart-crushing, choking failure that was lurking right around the corner. I didn't want anything to do with that, and chose a Fake Baseball Dad that taught me to quietly do my job the right way, not draw attention to myself and concentrate on the fundamentals. In 1987, I convinced my real father to join me. Even after the 2004 breakthrough, neither of us switched sides.
But things are different now than they were in 2004, and I see them up close from my home in Pawtucket, R.I. -- otherwise known as Red Sox Nation's Second City. Now, there are Yankee-like championship expectations where the poetry and romanticism used to be. Without a paranoid lovable-loser image and a Bambino-ghost to rail at, Red Sox fans have nothing. Less than nothing. Now, it's fan-club membership cards, pink caps, green monster dolls and Dane Cook.
There are some holdovers from that team, of course: Manny Ramirez, the baggy clown, and David Ortiz, who proved to gregarious and selfish for the Twins' system. But the 2007 Boston Red Sox is a team stocked with players that even the card-carriers have trouble rooting for, and it's a Fake Baseball Dad that is teaching its children all sorts of bad lessons.
There's shortstop Julio Lugo, the light-hitting violent criminal. In the bullpen, there's Eric Gagne, the faded and broken pitcher who sticks around and keeps getting shots at glory presumably because of great performances in his distant past, for other teams. If Gagne is like the doddering old executive who hangs around the company for years past his prime because firing him isn't the right business thing to do, outfielder J.D. Drew is the lazy cubicle-dweller who takes naps during meetings and surfs for internet porn all day, then says something really interesting in the final presentation to a client. Sure, he hit a grand slam in ALCS Game 7 after sleepwalking through the 2007 season, but just how little does one have to do at the right time to be validated as a conquering hero?
The 2007 Boston Red Sox are as empty as they are inevitable. But I hope that there are a few 11-year olds out there in New England who recognize this team and way of life for what it is, reject it, and choose another, better path. And if they need some suggestions, we're getting Francisco Liriano back next year.
