I feel like I wind up writing about Hanley Ramirez a lot. I don’t know when or if he became one of my “favorite” players — those select few who get cataloged and immortalized in t-shirts and stupid toys that surround my desk because I am, you see, an adult — but I damn sure find myself fascinated with him. I saw him play shortstop in Portland in 2005 and his trade just about sealed a World Series for the Red Sox two years later. And then he was the best player in the world for a couple of years. It’s quite a backstory.
That’s not how it gets told, though. It’s that he’s difficult, he can’t play in the field, he’s weird, he’s whatever.
What he’s been at his best, though, is a hitter with a flair for entertainment. And through the first seven games of the 2018 season, Ramirez — fully healthy and enjoying the moment — has spent most of his time delivering the Red Sox from possible early losses. Continue reading
I didn’t really think about baseball cards for a long time. They were an early obsession, but between the ages of about 12 to 26, they weren’t much of a thought. Sometimes I looked at the boxes I had stored in the closet, sometimes I flipped through the assembled binders and looked reverently on random images of Andre Dawson or Scott Cooper I’d accumulated. But otherwise, it was a past hobby, replaced by CDs and whatever else.
There were little flickers of that old impulse through that dormant period, though. I picked up a Pedro Martinez card in a cereal box while I was in college somehow, and I’ve hung onto that ever since. And one day while I was combing through a flea market looking for records, I came across two cards for a dollar each that caught my eye — Carl Yastrzemski’s 1981 card, and this one, of Jim Rice in 1977.
He’s smiling and happy to be posing for the photographer in this shot, likely before the Red Sox played the Yankees in some brutal division tilt. He looks like an easy going guy. And he was the most quietly terrifying dude in the game at the time. Continue reading
Yesterday afternoon, I went flipping through the channels in that first bit of post-Olympics viewing and landed on the Red Sox and Orioles in Spring Training. I know that happened because my primary memory of this was in seeing the Orioles’ hats with a full-bodied cartoon bird swinging a bat, which was cool. That cartoon bird is hard to mess up, and with the mostly leisurely and whimsical nature of Spring Training, that kind of graphic works nicely on a hat.
The other thing I remember is that the Red Sox apparently have three different guys wearing no. 18 in camp, which pretty much sums up where the two guys not named Mitch Moreland stand on the odds table to make the team.
But that’s about it. The game was on, but I was mostly waiting for the Boston Bruins’ pregame to start, since they’d swung a trade for the New York Rangers’ Rick Nash earlier that morning. It cost them two draft picks, Ryan Spooner, Matt Beleskey’s exiled contract and a college prospect, but they got it done and added a big, rough-and-tumble goal scorer to David Krejci’s line. It’s not the Ryan McDonagh trade I wanted them to swing with New York, but it’s pretty good. Continue reading
I feel like I spend a lot of time just looking for something I already know. At least, something familiar.
As baseball goes, that feeling is certainly rearing itself lately. Thanks to work commitments, especially busy weekends and the fact that the Celtics and Bruins are each chasing their own shot at postseason glory, I’ve probably watched the least Spring Training baseball as I have in years. I go to box scores, I look quickly to see who’s still on the roster and who’s been jettisoned back to the minor leagues and, sometimes, I watch highlights.
There have been a few memorable ones in there. A few guys, like Xander Bogaerts, have been off at the World Baseball Classic, and that’s been on a channel I don’t get. But there’s Pablo Sandoval, showing that he’s got something useful in the tank. There’s Mookie Betts, Jackie Bradley Jr. and Andrew Benintendi, looking like the second coming of the Evans-Lynn-Rice outfield. There’s plenty if you’re looking for it. Continue reading
My reaction was pretty typical. Travis Shaw hit that last fly ball into right field, it was caught and I turned off the TV. That was the end of the series, the end of the season and in that situation, I’m not typically into watching Cleveland celebrate the end of another year on the Fenway field.
Mostly, I wasn’t in the mood to watch others celebrate while David Ortiz’s career was now relegated to the past tense.
The last few weeks of the 2016 season have felt like a gauntlet, a “this is your life” played out every third or fourth day whenever Ortiz happened to be playing his final game in that particular stadium. And it was nice. Some of it was hokey, some of it was in pitch-perfect taste, some of it was overblown in that special way that every Red Sox ceremony is horrifically overblown. But they were all reminders that the clock was ticking. Sooner rather than later, Ortiz wouldn’t be in Boston’s lineup. Continue reading