Now that the Sawx have been hung out to dry, and all that’s left is, um, everything – signing half the team, the GM, the manager, the beermen, the scoreboard operators, the contracting crew to dismantle the 406 Club terrarium, Hazel Mae’s concubines – it’s the perfect opportunity to look back on what could have been. Right? What’s a baseball season in Boston without uncalled-for second-guessing? It’s a day without the Big Dig, that’s what.
In case you just got over your hangover from last October’s glorious Word Series run, here’s what happened: to reload and take aim at a second consecutive World Championship trophy, Boston doled out nearly twenty million dollars to fill forty million dollars’ worth of holes. Whether they be mercenarial check-cashing turds or bright-eyed pants-hitching gamers, the players Theo Epstein selected as His Guys contributed, for better or worse, to the fate of the 2005 Boston Red Sox. And there was no bang when the Red Sox fate was sealed. The White Sox strutted onto the baseball field much like the Sawx of last year did, and they reduced Boston’s idiot bluster to a faint, hollow whimper.
Never let it be said that these guys Theo inked to multi-million dollar deals weren’t His Guys – Theo let proven performers walk into greener, leafier pastures, because their self-valuations and his valuations of their worth didn’t see eye to eye. The thought behind these moves was simple, and certainly understandable to any poor kid forced to go to the grocery store with your mom: if you look hard enough and long enough, you can save yourself a couple bucks and find something of similar quality to the more expensive brand-name goods.
So goodbye to Pedro, D-Lowe, and Orlando. Fare thee well to the best pitcher of his generation, a misunderstood workhorse, and an unsung clubhouse leader. Say goodbye to over thirty wins, to amazing death-defying derring-do in the field, to players getting duct-taped to the dugout poles. Boston doesn’t need you anymore. We’re gonna shop smart. We’re gonna pay a 42-year-old to stab us in the back. We’re gonna sign a former Chicago Cub to pitch our barn-burners. What the hell, we’ll also sign a guy with oatmeal for a shoulder to toss a couple innings, too. And as for shortstop? Got it covered – there’s a former World Series stalwart, with a slow bat and footwork to match, just waiting to take our money and run. And swing and miss. And groundout. And throw into the first base boxseats. And so on.
Now, I’m not saying that anyone could have predicted that these things would have happened – if someone did, then I bet they also predicted that Griffey Junior wouldn’t get hurt, that the White Sox would be baseball’s best team, and that the Yankees’ season would be saved by two starters no one would touch with an A-Rod slap. Those folks – the ones that bend spoons and read minds – are rich. So are the Red Sox. And folks that have Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin at their disposal have no need to be frugal with the ducats. As the adage goes, you need to spend money to make money. In baseball, the adage should be changed to read, “you need to spend money to make playoff tickets.” The Red Sox didn’t spend. They aren’t making playoff tickets. Quod erat demonstrandum. That’s Latin for, “which was to be demonstrated.”
In other words: duh.