Cringe Sox.

A partial and ever-evolving list of things about the Red Sox that make me cringe in 2014:

1. Allen Craig in the lineup.

2. Anyone in the starting rotation not named Joe Kelly (and that only barely).

3. When talk starts about Clay Buccholz having a particularly filthy outing.

4. Fly balls that look like they will hit off the Monster when Cespedes is in left field.

5. Any of the infield youth attempting to throw out a runner at first.

6. Koji warming in the pen.

7. Mujica coming in to make a save.

8. JBJ coming up to the plate with bases loaded.

9. Any mention of Mookie or Vazquez being trade bait.

10. A Red Sox lead of fewer than five runs.

11. The other team scoring first.

12. Games that go into extra innings.

13. A glance at the standings.

14. Rumors about where Jon Lester will sign as a free agent.

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Lost for words.

Over the last three weeks, I have tried and tried to wrap my head around the 2013 Red Sox season, to find the words, to make sense of what happened. I keep going over the three different World Championship seasons, each with their own individual flavor and personality.

2004: The ineffable season. Emotional, in a way only 86 years of not winning it all could be. Awe-inspiring. Washing over us like a tidal wave. "Why not us?"

2007: Sleek, smooth, almost effortless. The consummate professionals. Going about their business and their business is winning. "Why not us again?"

2013: Shock. Unexpected. Redemption. Fear the beards. Every lil thing gonna be all right. "Why not us again in 2013?"

One common thread though: magical.

I don't think I could pick a favorite! 2004 was the year of breaking the curse, surreal and deeply emotional. 2007 felt so...easy, like that team was just so smooth and polished. 2013 was been fun and redemption and joyful, in a way it hasn't felt in years, a shock to the system in its complete reversal of 2012, like a photo and a negative. However 2013 ultimately played out (and of course, I wanted them to win it all!), it already felt like the high of success, long before the trophy was hoisted above heads and champagne sprayed through the air.

I think, in the end, it is best done justice by the snippets of my immediate reactions on social media:

"This team has defied every expectation I had of them this season. I wanted them to just be likable and play hard, regardless of outcome. This? Has been redemption on a level for which I never dared to hope."

"Redemption complete. Tears. Goosebumps. Laughter. Profound joy. So very proud of this Red Sox team. 2013 Champions. I'll be savoring this moment, this feeling, this season, this group of players for a long, long time. Every little thing is indeed all right."

"Turns out there *is* crying in baseball. It happened last night, on my couch, as I watched my Red Sox celebrate everything they accomplished in 2013. And that gorgeous Commissioner's Trophy is just one thing on a long and redemptive list."

"This team is pure magic."

What a wild and fabulous ride the 2013 Red Sox provided. Even weeks later, I am still astounded. And it feels good. I'm really only sorry it's over because I miss them already.

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The Great Post-Season Double Standard Dismissal.

Here's the thing: Every fan will react as they see fit, but I am just not personally buying the doom-and-gloom. Sometimes I get whiplash from the shift in attitude among my fellow Sox fans, it is so abrupt.

After the first two games of the ALCS, Boston made its way to Detroit with the same "series tied at one" record. Somehow that was ok. We were collectively pumped. cheering and chanting and dreaming big. But one-and-one, heading to St Louis, spells the demise of the Red Sox? The demeanor gives the impression that the Sox are facing elimination Saturday and it's already the ninth inning with a 25-run deficit.

I stand here, bewildered.

I'm not sure how this is so diametrically different from the same point in the ALCS with two games on the books. What I'm saying is: The Tigers were no slouches. Sure, their bullpen was suspect, but to reach that chink in the armor, you had to battle through arguably this season's most terrifying starting rotation in Major League Baseball, all while holding off a lineup that could put a hurting on an opposing pitcher faster than Jacoby Ellsbury can move from first base to second. When you consider that, even operating at fifty percent, Miguel Cabrera is still in the top three most dangerous hitters, Prince Fielder is as capable of a timely monster hit as Victorino showed himself to be, Victor Martinez is never a guaranteed out, and Jose Iglesias is proving to be a real pest, well, the task at hand was no smaller then than it is for the Sox right now.

So then...why is the sky falling *this* time?

I don't expect either team will have another game this series as sloppy as the Cardinals were in Game One or the Sox in Game Two. Which leaves two teams capable of pitching, both at the start of the game and the end, and certainly capable of putting baserunners on basepaths and plating runs. Two teams that had precisely the same regular season record--the only difference being the Cardinals won one more game at home and the Sox were one better on the road. So. Even-Steven then, yes?

All that to say: I never expected a sweep by either team. What I expected was for it to be a bitter fight to the end. Six games minimum. We're two games in. Truth be told, the Red Sox have nothing more to prove to me. They haven't since well before the regular season ended. The fact that they are playing deep into October, in the World Series, is a thick layer of sweet, sweet icing on the best cake ever. Do I *want* them to walk away the champions? Well *yeah*! But if they don't? This will be the furthest thing from demoralizing. I've endured "demoralizing" with a hefty side of "soul-crushing" (see: September 2011 through September 2012), and this season has dazzled me, left me awestruck and supremely grateful. I am so proud of what they've done this year, I may actually be giving off a glow.

Kenny Chesney sings a song, and it's about high school football, but a piece of the chorus rings through my head every time I watch the 2013 version of the Red Sox:
It's turn and face the stars and stripes
It's fightin' back them butterflies...
It's I got your number, got your back
When your back's against the wall
You mess with one man, you got us all
The boys of fall

Play on, boys. "Find a way," "win today," "Boston strong" and all that. This isn't over until someone manages to win three more and right now this is anyone's series!

If anyone needs me, I'll be front and center, believing my little heart out.

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Promises made and kept.

This image was part of a Spring Training PR move by the Red Sox, but it spoke to me. I screen-capped it and it's been the wallpaper on my laptop all season. What started as a bandaid for my wounded spirit turned into a glimmer of hope, then became a declaration, spoken with assurance, as the season marched on through the summer: What's broken can be fixed. I think I can finally say "Mission accomplished, Red Sox. You've restored my faith with your hard work, your determination, the joy with which you've played this game. October baseball is a gift I didn't dare to dream of in February and I look forward to every last inning you have left in you. Thank you, for fixing yourselves and my Sox fan heart."

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They will exit the way they entered.

Every sports media outlet is talking about The Blockbuster Trade. Why wouldn't they? Three members of the Red Sox, toting contracts with obscenely large numbers, are on the brink of exiting stage west, destination Los Angeles. The buzz is deafening. And the opinions come down on both ends of the spectrum, though rest assured, everyone has an opinion. I've yet to see someone invested in Boston's baseball franchise (emotionally, that is) simply shrug in disinterest.

Two of The Big Three can be difficult to swallow, given the talents they possess. As much as it was nice to think of Carl Crawford no longer running willy-nilly all over us, it was even more appealing to have him actually doing it *for* us. Adrian Gonzalez brings both a bat and glove to a team that are difficult not to desire. Though I was far more excited for the latter, I could see the pieces both could bring to the organization. They arrived with much fanfare and a loud cha-ching. We speculated. We salivated. We wanted the zeroes on the paychecks to make us cheer, though we cringed a little. 

Here's the thing though. The money was tempting, too tempting to pass up, so they came. But I believe they came with some quiet reservations tucked in their back pockets. They came from low-pressure, minimal-attention ball clubs. Maybe they thought they knew what they were getting into in Boston. Maybe they had a clearer idea of the reality they were accepting, but thought they could handle it anyway. But those quiet concerns have a way of whispering loud in our ears, and louder still, when things don't play out to the best outcome. For all the talents they can offer, a place like Boston demands that a player not just tolerate the environment, but thrive in it. Thriving seems to manifest in two ways: you have the guys, the Mike Lowells, who seem to tune out most of the noise with some kind of Zen immunity, and you have the Dustin Pedroias, who seem to fuel themselves on the swirl of energy and emotion, motivating themselves with the pressure and even challenging it to bring more. But for a player who suddenly feels scrutinized down to the cellular level, who feels chased down, misunderstood, claustrophobic from the crush, no matter how much they can bring to the table, those talents won't benefit the team, the potential will go unrecognized. It just stands to reason that a player who is neither happy nor comfortable will be able to reliably produce. I don't believe it was for lack of *wanting* it to work. If you can't thrive, you simply wither. And what a waste at what a price.

And then the final piece. One Mr Joshua Beckett, who arrived amid the gorilla-clad drama of Theo Epstein's first exit from Yawkey Place, a deal placed under "temporary management" and eyeballed skeptically by Theo upon his return. Beckett descended at the heart of drama, he pitched with post-season drama, he appears to have been a ringleader in the beer-and-fried-chicken drama, and now, he departs with as much drama as ever. Is he a good pitcher? I know he once was. I know he pitched us to a second championship. I know his swagger was once a quality over which we grinned and in which we trusted. But there comes a time when you dig a hole so deep, there's no climbing back out. He could not have righted this ship. And his attitude was poisonous. I don't think the Red Sox could have survived another two years of this anger and arrogance.

There was a lot of money tied up in these three players. Money that no longer yielded much promise of a return. It was time. Time for them-- two for whom the environment was hostile, one who made the environment unhealthy--and time for us. They exit as they entered: amid breaking news voices, high-dollar contracts, and top prospects changing hands. Only this time, instead of raising what is already a ridiculously overblown payroll, the Red Sox are paring things down.

It's no secret I've had little to say about my second beloved this season. Things have been volatile, sometimes ugly, and entirely disappointing. Not in the record as much as the drama and the rumors and the constant barrage of off-field jockeying for the camera to throw a new character under the bus at every other turn. Maybe this will be a fresh start for more than just those exiting, but for those staying as well.

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And the Ortiz stands alone.

And so it came to pass that only one David Ortiz remains from the Red Sox 2004 Championship roster now that Youk has been given new Sox to wear.

I am conflicted. It's hard to say goodbye, because even gruff and mostly unlikable, he was ours. From that bald, sweaty head from which the helmet to be slammed to the ground following a strikeout to that crazy, twitchy batting stance that every non-NESN announcer made mention of. But on the other hand, we simply cannot mortgage the future every time this situation presents itself. It was going to have to be Middlebrooks or Youk. A choice had to be made. Middlebrooks would have only stagnated, whether left on the Boston bench or shuttled back to Pawtucket. His time is now. He is younger, cheaper, healthier...and let's face it: carries none of the baggage of 2011's collapse or the ruffled feathers with Valentine (not that I don't heartily sympathize with that).

Sometimes it happens. The young kid, so much glowing promise, pushes out the veteran fan favorite. It's the nature of this game, which is designed to break your heart over and over. (Truth be told, I lived in fear of this very scenario playing itself out with Mike Lowell a couple of years ago. It brought me immense relief when he retired instead.) We couldn't have scripted a better farewell: playing dirt-dog hard, smacking a loud triple, and being lifted for a pinch runner to a roaring ovation from a curtain-call-demanding crowd. I hope those cheers ring long in his memory.

Youk will get a fresh start, away from the nagging fishbowl media of Boston and their hunger for dredging up drama. He will get more playing time without wondering who will be penciled into the lineup at which position tonight, and who will spend the game on the bench, hoping for a late game pinch hitting opportunity. And thought it will be weird to see him in another uniform, I will gladly cheer him with a hearty YOOOOOOUK every time he returns to the friendly confines of Fenway Park.

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This is how I feel.

In the short time that has passed between my annual Sox season end post and this one, something that can only can classified as a stunning turn of events has taken place, leaving with me with messy pile of emotions to sort through.

Disappointed - It was a lost season with a team that should have--could have--been so much better.

Heartbroken - For Pedey, who plays the game the right way. For Tito, who should never have been forced to feel he owed anyone in Boston an apology for anything, much less "failure," or that the only answer was to leave. For the real fans who truly care.

Betrayed - By some of the players I praised not three days ago, who have been arrogant, ugly and disrespectful, and whom I know look at with a suspicious eye, unsure of what I will learn next about yet another player I thought was worthy of loyalty.

Disgusted - By an ownership that is more interested in its collection of business investments and touting sell-out crowds than in supporting & maintaining what should be the crown jewel, not the after thought. An ownership not caring about the Red Sox until there is some bad press. An ownership that is shocked to learn of a troubling clubhouse culture TWO YEARS in the making. Not to mention an ownership so clearly out of touch with what the true fans find important.

Conflicted - How do I root for a team that has been intertwined in my personal history for three generations that I currently find deplorable. How to separate the good guys from the problem children. Howto remain loyal without condoning this kind of behavior. I wish I could boycott the Sox to drive home a point, but I suspect that will only hurt me.

Fed up - With being personally insulted by "fans" of other teams who not only openly admit that they don't start watching baseball until August, but are proud of it. Who feel fandom gives them free license to be mean, in the name of "friendly banter." This is not even something I can gain distance from by turning off the television or disconnecting from the internet, because the worst of the assault is coming from actual people I deal with face to face. Let me be the first to tell you, Rays fans and "fans" alike: Do not be so vain as to think this is about you. What I am feeling right now has NOTHING to do with you or your ball club, where you are right now or how you got there. It is turned completely inward. It has to do with the disillusionment and disenchantment that comes from loyalty to a team you love that is run by people who sicken you, who pander to the type of "fan" that any *true* fan cannot stand, whether they wear the colors of your biggest rival, a team you only really think about when your schedules cross one another, or--the very worst of all--embarrass you by pretending to be one of you, sporting the same logos but nowhere near the same heart, and a team that fields self-absorbed, entitled cry babies intermingled with players who deserve the cheers & support of their fanbase now more than ever, for continuing to play the game the right way, to the bitter end, despite the terrible attitude creeping like a virus through the clubhouse.

I don't know what fixes this. I don't know where the healing comes from. I...just don't know.

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And so it goes.

I woke early this morning after dreaming I bit Joe Girardi. (It helped. I endorse this method of therapy.)

Here's the thing. So many pontificate on "good on paper isn't worth any more than the paper it's written on," but this team? Actually *was* as good as they looked on paper. And we saw it from May through August. It's so easy to focus on how horrifically the wheels came off as the calendar flipped to September. The September and April versions of this team were tragic underachievers. We expected more of them, not because they looked good on paper, but because they *showed* us their collective worth for the bulk of the season. This stings so much today, not because they disappointed us all season, but because they *were* exactly who we thought they were, when we grew hoarse cheering them on through the heart of Summer.

I wish I could put my finger on what went wrong, if only to understand how a team turned from light to dark as easily as we flip a switch. They were awesome...until they weren't. It is the seemingly inexplicable change that confounds, that leaves us slack-jawed in bewilderment, wondering how it all comes unglued without warning--no cascading scroll of damaged players, no clubhouse drama to distract, no glaring hole left unaddressed. There are many demanding a scapegoat, some kind of symbolic head on a stake, but there isn't any one person to blame here. (This "Fire Tito" talk defies logic. Do you have a list of managers you'd like better? I don't.) They were fabulous as a team...and they crumbled as a whole. In the end, they simply beat themselves. Truth be told, after the way September went, last night's season ending didn't really come as that much of a shock as the media is portraying, if you're deep-down honest with yourself.

Maybe this is all just a cyclical molting, a shedding of the bandwagon, culling out the half-hearted & the "pink." Those who remain are those who have always remained, arms encircling the newly initiated. This is their rite of passage, for, it seems, we all must have our hearts crushed & persevere to prove we bleed Red. Those of us who have survived our heartbreaks in seasons long since archived nod knowingly to one another. We've been there. And here we are still. Because we don't love our team less. Instead, we love them more. As a friend of mine so aptly stated, "Dear Red Sox, my heart was yours to break." Was and still is.

What the fresh-faced class of 2011 does not yet know is the unique thrill of victory following this kind of staggering loss. But for the 85 years of defeat, culminating in the agony of 2003, we were rewarded with the exhilaration of 2004, something that can never be replicated, let alone exceeded. (Truly, *nothing*, will ever top that, but for those who were not yet one of us, find yourself a copy of Faith Rewarded, you'll still appreciate it now, I assure you.) For the broken team of 2006, we received the glory days of 2007. I thought, perhaps, injury-plagued 2010 would be paid off by the team assembled in 2011, but, in retrospect, 2010 wasn't really painful enough (for us--definitely painful for those physically involved) to warrant the spoils. There really is nothing like suffering the end of your season not once, but twice, in under three minutes, though. (That's a new one. Consider us old-timers freshly renewed in our credentials.) What we do now is cling to the belief that better days are within sight. That's just how it works here, in the post-2004 times -- cynical, but with a healthy dose of hope the previous generations of Sox fans never had.


To my 2011 Red Sox:

Josh Beckett: I've had such a love-hate relationship with you since you arrived in Boston. You're like that high school boy I know I shouldn't date, but every time we fight, I still find myself wanting to make up. Right now, we're securely in the love-side of things.

Jon Lester: I know there are some doubters. I wear your jersey with pride.

Clay Buchholz: You were sorely missed. Rest up. Heal well. I wish we could have seen you healthy for this entire season, because you were pure joy to watch while we had the opportunity.

Tim Wakefield: I've known no greater joy than a knuckleball dancing merrily, eluding even the most potent of bats, swatting madly at the butterfly. I don't have words for how much I wanted you to have number 200 and I am so glad that you do.

John Lackey: [unsuitable for print] ps. I know, I know. You wanted that pitch, he could have caught that if he'd really tried, and no one better dare emerge from that dugout with the intention of taking the ball from your hand, even if they have to collect it from your arm, which came unhinged and is lying somewhere in the vicinity of the visiting team's on-deck circle.

Diasuke Matsuzaka: I hope your shoulder is ready for 2013. After your contract expires.

Erik Bedard: I've always had a little soft spot for you. I don't know where 2012 will find you, but if it's somewhere in our organization, I'm ok with that.

Dan Wheeler: I hope we pick up your option. I don't think we saw enough of you to fully appreciate what you bring to the pen.

Rich Hill: I hope we haven't seen the last of you. I was heartily saddened when the news of your season-ending surgery was released. Reliable lefties are like unicorns, it often seems.

Daniel Bard: We all struggle. Let it make you stronger for having survived it. Don't let it rot your brain. You're better than the last month.

Jonathan Papelbon: It's no secret you've never been my favorite. They're going to try to pin this on you, because you held the ball last. I don't. It was a team loss.

Scott Atchison: You are such a quietly dependable guy. It didn't go totally unnoticed. On the other side of a television screen, somewhere in the middle of Florida, a girl squealed "Atch!!" every time you started warming.

Alfredo Aceves: I am afraid I lack the words to express what I feel. For someone deemed a health risk, you were a horse. You went the distance several times over, you immersed yourself in what it means to be a Sock from day one, and if I get to laugh at your antics in the coming seasons, I promise I won't forget how much you gave this team. You are not human, with that gargantuan effort--it sure felt like you pitched in all 162 games. I'm not sure *what* you are, other than bat poo crazy. But you're a welcome addition to my 2012 team if that's the deal that shakes out.

Franklin Morales: Your pick-off move to first base is sweet, sweet music. Like Mr Miyagi with the chopsticks and the fly.

Tek: I don't know what the future holds, but you will always be the Captain. I really hope you retire one of us, where you belong.

Salty: I didn't know what to think of you when you arrived in 2010. I remained skeptical as the team gathered at The Fort. You're one of us now.

Ryan Lavarnway: I look forward to the day you take your final Pawtucket shuttle to the Fens, whenever that may be.

Papi: I don't know what magician's hat you pulled your 2011 bat out of, but thank you for that.

JD Drew: You had a lot of detractors. I was one of them. I haven't been for a long time. I never forgot what you did in 2007. I know, better than most, that quiet doesn't mean apathetic.

Youk: Ouch, buddy. Feel better. We missed you all season long.

Mike Aviles: I appreciate your enthusiasm. I'm sorry we showed you something far more ugly than what you had in Kansas City. I'm sure you weren't expecting that. I hope you get to stick around on our bench to see something more in line with what you thought your trade here would bring.

Josh Reddick: I don't know if we'll see you or Ryan Kalish, someone yet unknown, or some combination thereof patrolling right field, but you've come a long way kid.

Mumbles: I know everyone is screaming viciously about your contract. I wasn't at the top of the list of people who were tickled when it happened. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm rooting for you. I haven't given up. Boston is nothing like the Juice Box, is it? It's a lot to take in. A lot of pressure to have fans who actually show up and care. You get a hall pass for 2011. Let's see the real Carl Crawford in 2012, ok?

Scoot: If ever there was an unsung hero on this team, among all the glittery big names, the loud mouths and the overpowering personalities... I'm all for your club option being taken.

Adrian Gonzalez: If 2011 was you at eighty percent, still recovering from shoulder surgery, man, oh man. I can't wait to see what you have in store for us.

Ells: I have *never* been so wrong. I wrote you off as just another diva outfielder made of glass. You came out swinging to the tune of a career year, showing MVP-caliber play (whether you get it or not), slinging yourself around centerfield like you were coated in titanium and wearing a super hero cape. I will eat my 2010 criticism with pleasure. I'm sorry you chose Scott Bor@$$ to represent you, but I hope there's a way we can keep you right here in Boston, even if that number comes with a luxury tax and an obscene number of zeros.

Pedey: Everyone talks about your stature. What I want to know is how a body that miniature holds that much heart. I picture you kind of like Atlas, but with Fenway Park hoisted on your shoulders. You talk the talk, and then you walk the walk even better than you say you will. You make plays in the field that defy physics, logic and belief, even when I see them in replay from six different angles *and* in slow motion. On the day Tek passes off his C, whether you wear one there or not, I will see it burned over your heart.

I don't know what 2012 will bring (though I pray it includes Tito at the helm and Don Orsillo's cracking voice & giggle fits), but I know this:

I will be ready. 162 games is never enough. Nevah evah.

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Bring it!

Time to wrap it up. The 2010 season is officially in the books when the boys roll into Ft Myers. Truth be told, it seems like nearly half the team has found their way to the fort in advance of their mandatory report date. As if I'm not already crawling out of my skin for a baseball fix, just knowing that the boys are as hungry as I am pushes me right around the bend.

I am always excited for a new baseball season. I think the anticipation of the next season is even stronger when the one before it came with excessive challenges that ended in a degree of disappointment. I don't know if it's the new hope brought by a fresh slate or the curiosity to meet the new faces or just the glaring hole left in one's routine when the daily ritual of settling down to a game most evenings comes to a sudden halt. There's no way of knowing how this season will play out, if the positive projections will pan out or if we're heading down a road we all pretend, for the sake of sanity, isn't possible. It's that delicious unknown and all the promise of triumph that comes with the arrival of Spring Training.

What I *do* know is that I'm ready. It's time for 2011, Red Sox style.

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Wishin' & Hopin'

Wishes on October 3, 2010
**To see this team, as constructed, play 2010 actually healthy.
**For the rotation to remain intact & see what they've *really* got because I have to believe that wasn't it.
**For Beltre & Victor to be back in 2011.
**One more contract for Papi. But not with a lot of years on it.
**Speedy & complete recoveries for Youk, Pedey, Scoot, JD, Ellsbury, Tek...and ummmm, yeah, how about just everyone.
**Jed Lowrie, Super Utility.
**A totally revamped bullpen, save for Bard, Wakey & Atch.
**Tek in a back-up role, with the opportunity to retire while he's still ours.

Hopes on February 10, 2011
**Health for the team & happiness for the fans.
**For the off-season wheelin' & dealin' to make Theo look like a rockstar genius.
**A less lukewarm start for Papi because I just can't take the drama another year. It starts my season on such a sour note.
**An auspicious start to the Adrian Gonzalez years in Boston. (And the discovery of a good nickname for him! He is not AGon--we already had one of those.)
**Jed Lowrie, Super Utility.
**Success from a reinvented bullpen.
**A real look at what Tek can do as a backup backstop.
**We've figured out how to slow down the running game of our opponents.
**Dice is less of an enigma.
**We get to see the realization of how awesome the 2011 team looks on paper.

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Taking No Prisoners

I cannot remember the last time the Hot Stove sizzled like this in Boston. Sure, we've picked up new guys each off-season, but it seemed like every time I checked my sources, a new blockbuster-type deal was being revealed. Every big free agent name that hit the market had word of Theo sniffing around, kicking the tires, sending up question marks. The dust wouldn't even begin to settle around one name when another would hit the headlines.

There were a total of four big signings (some certainly bigger than others). I have feelings on each of them. You're shocked, I know.

Bobby Jenks: This may be my least favorite of the four. Not even so much because he slumped a bit in Chicago last season, but his attitude. He kind of reminds me of another Papelbon in personality and I feel like we've already exceeded our limit of that with the one we've already got in the house. Yes, I know Papelbon has his apologists fans, but he's grated my nerves one too many times, leaving me a bit gun shy--both when he opens his mouth and when he gets called in to close. I had been hoping that another year might bring some maturity, along with the "contract season" encouraging some immediate turnaround on Papelbon's performance, and now the presence of Jenks (and his God awful beard) has me a little worried the attitudes might just feed off one another. I hope I'm wrong.

Dan Wheeler: So, we've established that the Jenks signing leaves me casting a wary eye in its general direction. The Wheeler deal has me dancing a jig. This guy is a horse. He's competed in the AL East. He's a rather unassuming fellow (reminds me a bit of Wakey, in a way, maybe?)(remember I've seen a lot more of him, his old stomping grounds being in my local media coverage area). I feel like we made our bullpen considerably more solid by his addition...and I am even willing to tolerate The Bobble Glove (TM) as long as he remains as reliable as he has been.

Carl Crawford: Our second new former-Ray (funny how they picked up two former-Sox as well, though it appears Tampa is hoping for a time machine headed back to 2004 with their choices) created a huge stir in Red Sox Nation. I am of split mind on this. Yes, he's got some talent (though I don't necessarily subscribe to the local media's turning him into their Sunshine State version of Derek Jeter, complete with slobbering all over him, nor do I think I shall ever refer to him as The Fastest Man Alive). I am not disputing the talent. And I am relieved (borderline giddy) that he won't be stealing two and three bases at a clip off of our battery, because very little was as painful as watching him swipe bases like Danny Ocean stole millions from Terry Kennedy's casino vault. But heaven help my sanity when NESN sticks a microphone in front of him. My skin is already crawling at the recollection of his mumbling, which is a pet peeve of mine that runs deep to my core. Short of hiring a speech coach & learning to properly pronounce his words, he'll never fully grow on me because I cannot get past his (or anyone's) lack of enunciation.

Adrian Gonzalez: Ah, the crown jewel of the Winter! My defense-loving baseball heart is all a-flutter at the acquisition of a Gold Glove first baseman to pair with our Gold Glove former-first-returned-to-third-baseman. In fact, the whole Boston infield is about as defensively glorious as I could possibly dream up. (Scoot or Lowrie at short may not provide Alex Gonzalez-style defense but they are still a far cry better than some of the cardboard cutouts we've had playing there, so yes, I'm still happy about the state of the infield.) Add to that, the coaches all gush about a swing that is built for Fenway Park & the Monstah, and I just can't wait to see all the hype play out to the roar of a home crowd.

I'd be lying if I said I'm anything short of turning inside out to see Red Sox v.2011 take the field and show us what they've got.

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Red Sox Retrospective 2010: Knee Bomb Confessions

I'm just about to ruin my credibility when it comes to staunch proclamations that I do not like a particular player. Before you point your finger accusingly, I refer you to Julio Lugo, who, to this very day, remains one of my least favorite players of all time to have never donned pinstripes. So there.

I spent a good portion of 2010 insisting that I did not like Adrian Beltre. I would like to state, for the record, that when the announcement came last off-season, this was as a true a statement as could possibly be made. It had nothing to do with the position he was taking over; I just didn't like what I knew of him and I was less than thrilled that I would have to root for him to do well. (Lest there be any question, I *always* root for the laundry, even if the guy filling it is otherwise known as E6.) (For the love of Jobu, please let's never revisit that little experiment though.)

I heartily maintained my position on Beltre in Boston, but... I suppose I should come clean. There came a point--I'm not even sure exactly when--that I had to admit that he'd kinda-sorta-maybe grown on me. Despite an inordinate number of errors, it may have been his defense--my ultimate baseball weakness--that lured me over to the dark side. What he contributed with misplays, he more than made up for with face-in-the-dirt effort and some fairly spectacular fielding, though I was loathe to admit it even to myself. I pointed to the error column in his stats, my Angry Eyes firmly in place.

He chiseled away at my cold shoulder in other ways as well: The infamous head-rubbing escapades. Gritty displays of effort, often playing through various aches & pains that have been known to sideline certain other former members of the Red Sox. And quite possibly one of my very favorite qualities, the Knee Bomb. While many fans are drawn to the hitting aspect of the game, relishing the glorious arc of a ball bound for the moon, that is rarely what catches the eye of this defense-oriented girl. However, with each trip he made to the plate, I found myself hoping he would send one sailing into the Monster with his back knee resting in the dirt. I don't even have solid explanation for why that appealed to me so much, except that perhaps it just seemed another instance of all-or-nothing effort--quite easily my second favorite aspect of the game.

A fellow Sox fan or two *may* have approached me with their suspicions that my heart had warmed a bit in regard to the third baseman. I brushed off any inquiry with a disdainful sniff. Not out of shame, but because as he grew on me, I started to worry that Theo would send him the way of other players I had liked. (It is entirely possible that Theo caught on as well, come to think of it.) So I kept my mouth clamped shut and continued holding my ground: I liked what Beltre brought to the table, but it would go no further.

Now that the Fates have dealt their hand & we know he will be swinging his bat in Arlington in 2011 (and beyond), I feel it's finally safe to give him a long overdue nod of respect. And maybe a little apology for keeping it under wraps while he was still one of ours. I'll be among those fans who will applaud his return to Fenway as the opponent now, because he put on a heck of a show during his brief pass through Boston, the proof being my 180-degree change of heart.

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Pain & Agony

No matter how much sunshine I try to flood over the 2010 season, it doesn't light some of the deepest shadows that clung relentlessly to the Red Sox. Like cat hair on black pants--you try to brush it away, but no matter what you do, you always find another cat hair...and another.

It started with the injuries, right out of the gate, and went from frustrating to worrisome to downright ludicrous. It got to the point that even on off-days, we would find new names on the DL. And not even with mundane reports of sore hamstrings & tweaked obliques. Really bizarre stuff like not one but *two* players out with broken feet, not one but *two* guys out with torn tendons in their thumbs, multiple sets of broken ribs. It just would not let up. It made 2006's Curse of the Gimpy Crow seem like child's play, as 2010's crew not only dropped but didn't get back up again.

On top of the injuries, we dealt with drama (are Ellsbury's ribs *really* THAT broken?), curious inability to pitch effectively (namely Mr Beckett and Mr Lackey--and I'm looking at you both and your big fat contracts, and let's not be having this same discussion a year from now, hmmm?), nothing even remotely close to consistency in the world of Tim Wakefield (both out of his hand and in what the team asked of him on seemingly a daily basis: he's a starter, no wait a reliever, oops we need a starter, can you pitch some mop-up today actually?), another controversial start to the season for Papi, and the smoking crater of a bullpen that made my stomach ache just seeing the phone hanging on the dugout wall in the background, doubly so on nights I knew it wouldn't be Atch or Bard who got up from the bench to warm).

How was that for a run-on sentence? It's like I'm Joe Morgan, only slightly less hung up on talking about myself.

And through it all, the albatross hanging over all the entire season was the terror of waking up some morning to learn Mike Lowell had been traded to the Royals for a six-piece Chicken McNuggets and a program from the 1987 season. Or even worse, to the Yankees, and I wish I were kidding. The thing is, I knew we would be saying goodbye to my favorite player. He was very clear on the fact that this would be his final season. I just wanted, more than anything, to see him go out still "ours." And it seemed Theo was hell-bent on preventing this from happening, if it was his last act on Earth. (I'm still fairly convinced that Theo has a personal mission to torment me by finding out who my favorite player is & then batting him around like a cat with a half-mangled bug, my sanity being the bug in question.) The constant turmoil kept me from fully relishing the last days of Mikey as a Red Sock, which had been high on my wishlist for 2010.

For every high, there was a low. For every triumph, a cleat in the gut. You couldn't turn your face to the sun without catching sight of clouds gathering on the horizon. Or, you know, imminent doom. My hope? Following each of the most painful seasons we've been handed in recent history (2003, 2006) came a season filled with the kind of joy you can't fully capture in words. They say no pain, no gain. So it stands to reason, 2011 is going to bring a brand of awesome that leaves me reeling with delight, right?

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Riding High

It would be easy to look back on the 2010 season & see only the low points. They come to mind in a steady stream, a demented parade, one after the other. Tending toward optimism most of the time, I would rather recall the fun, the joy, the pure awesome, if given the chance. Because really? There was so much to love about 2010.

I remember this time last year, wishing mightily that Mike Lowell would enter retirement in Boston whites with the roar of the Fenway crowd echoing in his ears. I couldn't have foretold it any more accurately.

I got to see my favorite starting pitcher in the All Star game and he had his name mentioned in association with the Cy Young Award. I have taken immense pleasure in watching the maturation of Jon Lester. I love his straight-faced concentration, his head-down trips from dugout to mound and back again, his silent execution of pitch after pitch. Even when he struggles, you can sense the fierce drive to win boiling beneath that stone-faced surface, willing himself to snap out of it. And the sunshine of his beaming smile, rare in its occurrence but no less filled with sheer joy.

I was pleasantly surprised by the switch that clicked on in Clay Buchholz. I don't know what happened between last season and the one that preceded it, but he went from one of the most frustrating pitchers to endure to one that I looked forward to with great anticipation. There is something to be said for watching these green young boys come up from Pawtucket and Portland, wet behind the ears and wide-eyed, and become competitors filled with confidence and swagger. (Not too much swagger though.)

I remember hearing the names of players being invited to Ft Myers, names that were has-beens, and some, names I'd never heard at all. Scott Atchison was one of those names. He struck me immediately as a little bit awkward--the running joke at home, over the course of the season, was that he looked like he belonged more in an orange Home Depot apron than getting the ball handed to him in the late innings of a game--but less than a third of the season had passed before he was affectionately known as Atch (a "word" my cell phone recognizes & suggests while I type out texts to this day--it's amusing the "words" my phone "knows" now: YOOOOUK, Pedey, Tek) and outside of Daniel Bard, he became the safest face I would see peering out of the pen, waiting for the phone to ring.

There was my introduction to Ryan Kalish. He who appears to have Dirt Dog coursing naturally through his veins. I love his intensity. I love that he seems to be born of the same stuff as Youk & Pedey, a deep-seeded need to finish the game covered in dirt and grass stains and pine tar. I love that he throws himself headlong at the ball in play. I love that he looks like a puppy about to wag its tail clear off his backside just to be sitting on the bench as a Red Sock. His enthusiasm is contagious and I look forward to the day that he is permanently and officially a member of the big-league roster.

I got to see Tito show what he was made of. Sure, he came in here & gave us what we had been lacking for most of a century. He did it with the rag tag Idiots in 2004 and again with a somewhat more reserved team in 2007. But those seasons seemed to just unfold before our eyes like a dream. We clicked, and not only that, but we clicked on all cylinders, and the baseball gods smiled upon those seasons. 2010 did not play out to the same end nor with the same harmonious tune of those Championship years. Even though he was not awarded a plaque with the title, to me, he was Manager of the Year, navigating a sea of misfortune and orchestrating a lineup that seemed to be a new variation on a theme every night. And despite the speed bumps and the pot holes, this team never took a downward spiral into the abyss, even when it was clinging to the edge with its fingernails. They were close enough to taste contention.

Which brings me to the most amazing fact: somehow the 2010 Red Sox were not eliminated from the playoffs until the final week of the season. I am still not sure how that was possible, because it sure felt like the fates had been decided a long long time earlier. And yet there we were, in the fading weeks of 2010, praying for a miracle of numbers to nudge the Sox just a wee bit higher on the standings board.

Ultimately, the highest point of 2010 for me was the heart this team brought to the field. It didn't matter which names were penciled into the lineup, only to be scratched through and replaced with other names. It didn't matter what news fell on our apprehensive ears. It didn't matter how many teams they stared up at in the standings. None of it mattered. They came to play, as if every game was an elimination game. They played hard. They played hurt. They played until the schedule ran out. And I will never forget that about Red Sox 2010.

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Red Sox Retrospect 2010: Putting It Into Words

We've finally counted down to those final few weeks before baseball players make their annual Grapefruit-or-Cactus-League-direction trek to begin the process of stretching out those sleepy Winter muscles and dusting off of leather & maple equipment that was tucked away a long three months ago.

Everyone else reflected on the past season in the days & weeks immediately following its abrupt close. I took a different approach, opting instead to digest the 2010 season quietly. And now that we're almost to the starting line of a fresh new season, I am ready to lay my thoughts to rest as a baseball warm-up of my own.

Last season, as a Red Sox fan, was an exercise in extremes. For every incredible high, there was a counter-balancing low. No moment of wonder was allowed to sit for too long without a crushing blow to follow in its wake. It was a season of "almost" and "if only" and yet I loved it as much as every other season. Every frustrating, fearful, fantastic play of it, from the team taking the field for the first time on Opening Day, full of fire & anticipation, to the final war-weary limp off grass and clay in early October, spent & disappointed, but still loving the game with every fiber.

Injuries have healed. Old friends have moved along to the next phase of their stories. An off-season with new names & dramatic unveilings around every corner had fans on their toes, speculating, curious & filled with excitement. I've passed the days watching football, episodes of new television programs and movies, but I am so ready for the comfort of my familiar evening companion: the sights & sounds of Red Sox baseball.

Periodically over the next 18 days, I intend to wax poetic about the 2010 highs, weigh in on the lows, capture my reactions to the Hot Stove acquisitions and record my wishes for 2011. And by the time I have crossed each item off my list, Tek's catcher's mask will be perched atop his head, Jon Lester will be rolling his shoulders in preparation for a game of catch, Pedey will arrive early to get a head start on heckling his teammates and Papelbon will be practicing his "Face of Intimidation" in the mirror.

Two and a half weeks are all that remain between me & my favorite addiction companion.

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Credit where credit is due.

How very 2007 of you last night, Papelbon. It is *always* a pleasure to see *that*.



Also? Daniel Nava? You have been an absolute joy to root for this year.


(photo from the Boston Globe)

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Monday Stream of Consciousness: August 9, 2010

This makes me deeply happy. It also makes me want to hug Tito:


Well, I got my wish: on Friday evening, the Sox ensured that we would not get swept. The next two games were...ummm... Yeah. But here's the thing: I love this team. I am baffled by the people who reach this point in the season and declare "Time for football, I guess!" I cannot wrap my brain around a) opting for glorified football practice purely for the sake of revenue over, you know, *actual* regular season baseball, and b) acting like watching your team, in any sport, only matters when it looks like you might get to the post-season. Maybe I'm just more addicted than your average fan, but I thought being a true fan came with the understanding that you stick with your team from Opening Day til final pitch of the season, no matter the outcome. Sure, I want us to win it all. (Duh.) But even if we don't? (And with the 2010 version of this team, the reasons go beyond excuses, given the rash of *key* players to spend time on the DL.) I want every last second of baseball that's left before the dry leaves whirl around empty ballparks, and I am left with nothing but counting days til February, while I wait for Sunday to roll around again with another dose of football. I want to enjoy the fleeting moments of my favorite baseball player's career. I want to cheer with the Sox when they win. I want to be able to say "well, there's always tomorrow" when they don't, while this season still *has* a baseball tomorrow. I want to marvel at the fact that this team has done what it has with the slapped together stew of half-broken veterans, walking wounded, inexperienced kids and the random journeyman. (I also really want Pedey back, like, yesterday.) I understand the frustration, because if willing a team to win & yelling at the tv made any difference? We'd be World Series winners every year,and I could manage that singlehandedly. But I won't ever understand a "fan" who rolls their eyes at me for not changing the channel or giving up on the season, on this team*. I hope I am never so spoiled that I only want to watch winning seasons & not take immense joy in the game being played today. Even if the only thing worth enjoying is watching Mike Lowell manning first base--thankfully in Boston laundry--or Tim Wakefield make Nick Swisher (hee! Swish-a-licious!) look foolish with a relief-inning knuckleball. Because Lord knows that tie Jon Miller wore meant my eyes bled for that entire ESPN Sunday Night Baseball broadcast in addition to my ears, and there is never anything enjoyable about that.

*Just to clarify, I do not include those who rail in frustration during a specific game, swearing that they can't take anymore, wondering why they bother, but are always right back again the next game, hoping & pulling for their team.

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The fact that they aren't duking it out with Baltimore for last place in the AL East is nothing short of astounding.

And it wouldn't hurt if the bullpen started putting out fires rather than causing them.
(Chad Finn, Touching All the Bases: Survive, stay alive, 'til I see you again)

I can't help but feel like this is a summary of the entire 2010 Red Sox season. That and "The Red Sox Clown Car: How Many Players Can We Stuff Into the DL."

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Passionate.

Unless you're just finding yourself here for the very first time ever, it stands to reason that you know I am over the moon about the return of Mike Lowell to my Red Sox last night. (Even if you're not a baseball fan, I'm pretty sure my feelings on him have been made clear. Abundantly.)

I've had some *very* strong feelings on the way he has been treated this season. So strong, in fact, that I had composed & tucked away precisely what my response would be, come the day that he was traded, forced into retirement, released or otherwise relieved of his duties on Yawkey Way:

I am completely disenchanted by the handling of my most favorite baseball player's departure. And judging by the length of time it took me to recover from the Unceremonious Dismissal of Trot Nixon, it will be considerably longer that the mere mention of Theo Epstein leaves me with the burning desire to deploy an atomic wedgie so violent it registers a new high on the Richter Scale called Mike Lowell, Level 25.

See? I wasn't kidding. I was prepared & ready to fire. I would never joke around when it comes to something about which I am so passionate. One of those things being: I think Mike Lowell walks on baseball water. He isn't the best at everything. He isn't Hall of Fame bound. But he is the classiest of the classy, he plays with incredible heart & enthusiasm, he's given it all & broken his body for this team, and, fine, he's easy on the eyes. (So sue me. It's not the only reason I like him though.)

Don't get me wrong. I feel *awful* about Youk. I would never wish anything bad on Youk (or any player), not even to get my favorite baseball player a spot in the lineup. But imagine if Lowell *had* been traded or dismissed. Especially when the word on the street was that some sort of resolution was coming on Tuesday. What better insurance, what better timing, than to have him there in the eleventh hour, when we needed him most.

I was ecstatic just to see him back on the field. You can't imagine the jumping that took place in my apartment when the first pitch he saw sailed over the Monster. My Twitter stream lit up with Red Sox pals knowing I was through the roof with glee. It was like a made-for-Dawn script. The swing of a bat, later the flashing of leather. I couldn't think of a better way for him to tell the front office what he thinks. I simply sneer in Theo's general direction.

I love it. The ovations every time he came up to the plate & they announced his name. The cheers when he sparkled on defense (once we stopped gasping in fear for his hip). The roar when he clubbed that homer. I could have watched NESN replay that home run all night, and just like Lowell said when asked in an interview how he'd been treated in Pawtucket, replying that he is cheered everywhere & a player who says it isn't awesome is lying: it never gets old. The passion with which he wants to play, *in Boston*, is evident, and it is matched by the passion of fan support raining down on him.

I just recall thinking to myself that I'd already seen his last days in Boston. I was sad. I had resigned myself to just wanting him to get a chance to play out the season *somewhere* at this point. I only implored the baseball gods that it not be in New York or Tampa. (There is only so much a girl should be asked to endure.) It was a punch in the gut on Monday, still hanging in the post-Deadline balance, *still* waiting for the boom to be lowered, to learn that the Sox had tried to work a three-way trade that would have sent my beloved Lowell to the Bronx by way of Texas. Now they're saying it was New York that backed out, skeptical of his health (this, the man who hit .500 on his Pawtucket Rehab Tour, with four homers, four doubles and ten runs batted in). But I'm choosing to believe the first rendition: the one that said Lowell blocked the trade. Either way, he was disgruntled to think that they would have sent him to New York, and that there was a good chance he was planning to announce his retirement some time this week. Oh Mikey, to hear that you would rather retire than play in pinstripes? I didn't think it was possible to love you more until that very moment.

Last night's game was full of drama, what with hit batters & bench-clearing brawls & a classic fiery Beckett, but that all paled in comparison as I watched my favorite ball player's eyes light up when he took the field. As I heard the resounding crack of an unmistakable home run ball leaving the bat in a hurry, and saw him meet his teammates on the dugout steps. As I soaked in the joy he so obviously felt, stepping out onto the Fenway field. As I reveled in his patented slow burn smile as he victoriously high-fived his teammates at the end of the game, his welcome-back long ball the game-winning runs.

I've quite enjoyed prospect Ryan Kalish making his debut with the team, so much so that I shouldn't have been surprised when Tito compared him to another Sox favorite of mine, Trot Nixon. It's brought me a little joy in the shadow of what I anticipated happening this week. Though admittedly, I've been hesitant to like him *too* much, lest he end up packaged in some mega-deal Theo has cooked up. (I can't be imagining how intent he seems to be at trying to systematically send away every one of my most favorite players in his tenure, can I?) I really never thought I'd get to see a night like this happen again, unfolding around Mike Lowell.

I can't help but wonder if maybe he'll be playing first base on August 25, a stone's throw from where I'll be sitting, three rows behind the camera well. It makes me just a little giddy to think that maybe I'll get one last shot to have him hear my passionate cheers combine & rise with the rest of the Fenway Faithful one last time.

I am on a Mike Lowell high. I can't imagine how he feels.

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A Picture's Worth: All Star Game Edition.

I wish I could put into words how awesome it was to see the All Star Game live, but I just can't. So I'm just going to share some of my very favorite photos that I took there.

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