INDEPTH: BOSTON RED SOX
The Curse lifts in a red October
by Martin O'Malley | Oct. 27, 2004
I wouldn't want to plays these guys, these Red Sox from Boston, with players who look like Jesus Christ or Charley Manson or that maniacal fellow on the porch trimming his nails with a Bowie knife. Hell, I wouldn't want to feed peanuts to these guys without wearing steel-tipped gloves.
The Red Sox once were the Yankees of their time. They won the World Series in 1903 and 1904. In 1912, a Red Sox team that won 105 regular-season games met the New York Giants, who had won 103. The Red Sox won the World Series in eight games, beating the Giants four games to three (one game called on account of darkness). The Sox won again in 1915, 1916 and 1918, when they downed the Chicago Cubs in six games.
That's it – until last night.
It's too bad the final out didn't go to David Ortiz, who was replaced at first base for defensive reasons. But his replacement, Doug Mientkiewicz, would do. One to three and 86 years of broken hearts are mended: Boston Red Sox 3, St. Louis Cardinals 0.
When Johnny Damon homered in the top of the first we knew this would do it. Often in sports, especially baseball, when an athlete under-performs as badly as Damon did earlier in the post-season, it's as if the pump's being primed for what surely will be the inevitable gusher.
And if Damon and David Ortiz are performing – as happened when the massive Ortiz smacked a double and later scored in the third – the crowd falls into a palpable silence and the St. Louis hitters grip their bats tighter, their gloves start getting brittle. The St. Louis pitchers throw more balls, a show of respect, which leads to more walks.
Boston starter Derek Lowe made it to the sixth inning with a two-hitter, and no walks. He gave up his first walk in the sixth, bringing up the power of Albert Pujols. Suddenly, a pulse was detected among the Cardinals, and among their followers in Busch Stadium.
Then a meek pop-up, and the pulse that flickered flat-lined for the rest of the evening.
Always watch for bases on balls in a crucial, tense game. Ron Taylor, the Canadian who relieved for the miracle New York Mets in 1969, once told me that half the walks score. "It may not bear out in pure statistics," he said, "but that's what's every pitcher thinks about – and that's what they should think about."
At this time of year baseball ceases to be the stately, pastoral and gentle pastime it was in July. It becomes a back-alley slugfest, a knife-fight, a duel to the death. If the alley fight is the apt metaphor for last night's game, Damon's leadoff homer in the first was the punch to the midsection that took the air out of the Cardinals and had them wobbling the rest of the game.
Even the rare display of passion on the part of the Cardinals was muted, shy, hidden away. That was when John Mabry was called out on a disputed third strike, after which he trudged off the field, found an anteroom behind the dugout, took off his batting helmet and hurled it against an unseen wall like an angry man throwing his cereal bowl against the kitchen floor.
But what a colossal performance for the Red Sox, coming back from a 3-0 deficit against the Yankees to win four in a row, then another four in a row against the Cardinals, the team with the best record in both leagues in 2004. If the Cardinals had done what the Red Sox had against the Yankees, come back from a 3-0 deficit, the Red Sox would not win until 2090 – another 86 years away.
It was their loosey-goosey attitude that did it for the Red Sox. The looser and goosier they got, starting with their operatic and improbable comeback against the Yankees, the tighter and tauter were their opponents.
Nothing works better than the lethal combination of being relaxed and alert, more so in baseball than any other major team sport.
There must have been a difficult time deciding who was the most valuable Red Sox – Ramirez, Ortiz, Damon? It went to Ramirez, but my vote would have gone to pitcher Curt Schilling for his excellence and heart. The close-up shot of the bloodstain on the white sock of his push-off ankle is burned into memory.
Now that the Red Sox have conquered their 86-year-old curse – all because the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees long ago – we can turn our attention to the darlings of the National League, the cuddly Chicago Cubs.
