I've never been an athlete. I've never known what it's like to have my body respond to me the way a ballplayer's body does to him. I've never run more than three steps without effort. I've never been able to do a single pullup. I've never gotten past five pushups. The few times I've ridden a bike up a steep hill near my parents' house (the only thing I've ever had resembling a workout regime), it has been with great pain, tooth gritting, a few times weeping, and truly pathetic joy when my last barely-moving cranks of the pedals got me to the top.
I have never been an athlete.
So I can imagine, but I can't know, what it's like for a man like Gabe Kapler, whose body has been his livelihood and his chief ally, to betray him on a run around second base.
Tonight is a bittersweet one. Even as another of our guys fell to the turf hurt, it's rapidly becoming clear that we are in the presence not of entertaining talent or even one-time heroism but true greatness in the person of David Ortiz.
man Red Sox since Carl Yazstremski to hit more than 40 home runs in three straight seasons. The best clutch hitter in the game. A new Sultan of Swat. The black Bambino.
True greatness. No.9 type greatness. I do not exaggerate.
Many people thought we'd see No.21 retired at Fenway. Then it was No.5. Then we thought we'd see No.45.
Now I'm putting my money on No.34. Hang on to those baseball cards.