The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Once again, the New York Yankees are steamrolling, or more accurately, buying their way to a world championship. The team drops the World Series in 2003, and owner George Steinbrenner brings in A-Rod, MVP candidate Gary Sheffield and Kevin Brown to fix the problem. And once again, Boston is the butt of Steinbrenner and manager Joe Torre’s sick joke. Up 3-0, ready to sweep. What a team, what a dynasty!
Wait … what’s that, you say? The Red Sox came back? They beat the Yankees four straight times? Ha ha, ho ho, … man, you’re so witty.
Oh, wow, you’re serious.
Two weeks ago, I was coiled and ready to unleash my fury on the Red Sox for making things so easy on baseball’s Evil Empire. As always, the Red Sox were going to fold like a poker player with deuce, seven off-suit. Then, they would let out cries of “Curse! Curse!” when it happened.
After all, nobody had ever come back from a 3-0 deficit to even tie a series in MLB history. So to expect the Red Sox, historic Yankee whipping boys, to come back and win the whole thing … well, you get the picture.
The problem I’ve always had with the Red Sox is this notion their fans have that their team is cursed. A team cannot be cursed; the only “curse” these teams carry is a belief that they are cursed. Everyone waits for another guy on the team to make “the big mistake.” Any bad break spells doom.
This describes the historic Red Sox to a tee, and the Yankees are the yin to their yang. The Yankees expect to overcome adversity. They’d never accept losing until the final out.
But the Red Sox showed me a few things that I didn’t expect: Heart. Determination. Instead of folding, they went into Yankee Stadium, Steinbrenner’s fortress, and made themselves at home.
The best examples of 2004 being Bizarro Year are the situations involving Manny Ramirez and Nomar Garciaparra. Ramirez, long thought to be a malcontent, was put on waivers prior to the season. Nobody picked him up, and he returned to Boston.
Meanwhile, Garciaparra, team leader and the face of the Red Sox franchise, was on the trading block in the offseason. Most assumed Ramirez would sulk through the season, but that Nomar, ever the professional, would go out and do his thing for yet another campaign.
Ramirez delivered an MVP-caliber campaign; Garciaparra moped his way out of town.
And then there’s Curt Schilling, whose performance cannot be understated. Schilling may never pitch again after this series, a risk he undoubtedly understands. His ankle injury should have him watching on the sideline, yet instead, he mows down batters in propelling Boston to a 2-0 World Series lead over the St. Louis Cardinals. Meanwhile, his ankle tendon is surgically stapled to the bone in order to stop it from moving. He was visibly suffering between innings, yet came out time and time again and knew when he had to reach down for a big pitch.
Schilling has a World Series ring already, but this is a much bigger picture. He understands the game’s history – that Boston’s fans are a tortured, desperate bunch who have waited for years to finally break through.
He said that nothing could be more enjoyable for him than “shutting up 55,000 New Yorkers.” Many criticized, but it was exactly the attitude the franchise needed.
As I write this column, the Red Sox lead the World Series, 3-0. A cynic would point out that this sets up the quintessential Red Sox collapse, to make the first come back from a 3-0 deficit, only to give up the second in the next round.
Yet, these players seem different. They don’t believe in a curse. And even if you’d bet against 24 of the Red Sox 25 players, you’d be a fool to bet against that 25th player, Schilling, who shut up 55,000 New Yorkers.
He shut me up, too.
