Cursed To First - Sox and Pats forever.

Wake

The first memory that springs to mind when I think of Tim Wakefield is of him weeping in the Yankee Stadium clubhouse late in the night of October 16, 2003. I remember how Trot Nixon stood over him, trying to comfort him, but he was inconsolable. 

It may seem inappropriate to think first of such a sad moment, but it sums up who Tim Wakefield is, and is to us. Wake wept because he was afraid he'd take a place in Red Sox history alongside Bill Buckner -- not responsible for the team's loss, but the last face associated with it, as Aaron Boone's homer sailed off into the night. 

Whether it was that sense of history, or that sensitivity to the feelings of fans, Tim Wakefield has been such a rarity in the modern world of sports as to be unheard of. The phrase "coach on the field" is often used to describe athletes with an uncanny knowledge and instinct for their game; Wakefield has been, instead, a kind of fan on the field. He has stepped up to carry the mantle of his connection to our collective history, even when, as on that night nearly ten years ago, it was unbearably heavy.

The next thing I think of when I think of Tim Wakefield is this: 

As Mike Timlin pointed out, for Wakefield to take himself out of the picture at a moment of glory -- to sacrifice himself for the team, as he always seemed to do -- is a tremendous act of unselfishness. Rare indeed is the modern athlete who contributes to his team's victory by graciously stepping aside.

There's so much history that goes with Wakefield that I know I'm glossing over some major moments just by narrowing things down to a top 3, but I have to go with my gut, and my gut fast-forwards, at this point, to a memory and a night I witnessed in person, rather than through the TV: Wake's 200th win. 

Seven times before, he'd tried and failed to earn the milestone W. Time and time again, he'd been let down by the bats or a member of the bullpen, but this time, the bats exploded, plating 18 runs to put an emphatic stamp on his ultimate win. 

Fenway Park was pandemonium as we all waited for Wake to emerge to take his curtain call. When he did come into view, he made sure to salute every part of the ballpark. When he made his remarks, he made sure to mention how happy he was to have earned this milestone win at home, in front of the Fenway fans. 

Rare is the pitcher who earns 200 wins; so rare among Red Sox pitchers that it puts Wake third on the all-time list, behind two guys you may have heard of named Cy Young and Roger Clemens. But even among such rarified company, Wake is his own exotic species -- no commanding fireballer he, but a yeoman worker, his accomplishment that much richer and sweeter for all its struggles. 

"Rare." That word keeps coming back.

To be an athlete who spends 17 seasons with one team, and then retires as a member of that team, is a rarity today. To be a knuckleballer is and always has been a rarity. To be all of these things and an amazing person besides? Rarity upon rarity. Even while he's been playing, these last few years, we've known: we shall not see his like again. 

Thank you, Tim Wakefield, for what you have meant to Red Sox fans. Thank you for your heart, your skill, your dedication and devotion, for all these years. It won't be the same team without you. 

Scenes from Wake's 200th

Something to take your mind off the pain of the last two contests for the now-officially-flailing Red Sox.

Embiggen slideshow

200th win eludes Wakefield again

Look, I know we're not supposed to care who gets the win, as long as the team wins, and we don't root for the players individually, necessarily, we root for the laundry. Last night, the Red Sox won in Minnesota, keeping them 1.5 games up on the Yankees, and that's really all that should matter.

But if ever there was a player that warranted at least a momentary diversion from those higher priorities, it's Tim Wakefield. When he says in that NESN commercial, "I am a part of Fenway Park," it's a hairs' breadth away from being literal. His longevity alone has made him not just a favorite but a symbol, a link to history -- a walking, talking, knuckleballing heirloom for Red Sox fans. If there is an exception to most rules, it seems, Tim Wakefield is it.

So watching him try yet a third time for his 200th win in a Red Sox uniform, and watching him, this time, get so close and still fall short -- the Sox went up 6-5 in the top of the eighth while Wake was still the pitcher of record, but in the bottom of that inning Alfredo Aceves surrendered the tying run, then went on to vulture the win -- was terrifically frustrating. What, at long last, is it going to take?

Yet that frustration, and his ever-present graciousness in the face of it -- are just another part of the Legend of Wakefield (and I say 'legend' without sarcasm). He's seen everyone from Roger Clemens to Mike Aviles pass through the Red Sox clubhouse. He's seen 199 victories, and he's seen Aaron Boone touch 'em all. He's been victorious and a failure, both well-loved and battered, and above all, he has endured. And so, if he has to wait another turn of the rotation to mark this milestone, it won't be the first or worst such thing he has had to accept.

Sweeping up Seattle

On the seventh anniversary of the unforgettable game of July 24, 2004, The Red Sox posted 12 runs against the Mariners and completed the sweep, handing Seattle their 15th straight loss, a franchise record for Eric Wedge's team.

Some people felt a little sorry for the Mariners. They are probably nice people. I, on the other hand, am not feeling like a particularly nice person right about now, baseball-wise, as the Red Sox head into the stretch up three games on the Yankees and playing miserable teams. Frankly, I'd have been disappointed if the best offense in baseball hadn't swept these fools.

Once again, the Mariners weren't utterly humiliated offensively speaking, posting 8 runs, only the second time this season they've scored more than 7. This time, it was Mariners pitching that was made the Red Sox' primary victim -- in the first and fifth inning, especially, just when the Mariners had pushed some runs across, the Red Sox came back in the next half inning and stomped the crap out of them. I can only speak for myself, but I found this an enjoyable pattern.

Ultimately, though, today belongs to Tim Wakefield, our city's historic treasure, who collected his 199th career win and 2000th strikeout in a Red Sox uniform. It came in the top of the 6th, a swinging K for Mike Carp, after which Wakefield was summoned for a curtain call by the Fenway Faithful. Wake would even give up a grand slam in the next inning to make it 11-7 Red Sox where it had been 11-3, and still left to a rousing ovation from the crowd.

In how many other ballparks would this kind of happen? Several people asked on Twitter. Me, I wonder, to how many other Red Sox players would this kind of thing happen?

I know it seems impossible, but someday, and sooner rather than later, Old No. 49 will no longer take the field in home whites. And it will probably have me doing double-takes and feeling strange for years afterwards.

P.S. Jerry Remy was once again the subject of conversation today, as Don Orsillo solicited suggestions for a hobby for him. The longer they talked about Remy's life (or lack thereof), though, the fact that he remains pretty seriously depressed became clear -- uncomfortably so. And then there was the story about Don being attacked by a sea turtle, which...I can't even...either you heard it, or you missed out. That's all I can say.

Disconcerting pattern developing for the Red Sox

 

(Screencap from ESPN's Red Sox clubhouse)

Twice now, in the late weeks of April and the early weeks of May, we've felt the stomach-churning drops of this hope / despair roller coaster. The Red Sox claw their way to a place where they can just brush the tips of their fingers against .500, and then they stumble in painful fashion. Then, no sooner does depression set in, than they play an inspired series of games that puts us on the edge of our seats again.

Still, it's getting to be about time to acknowledge at least a bit of stark reality. It's now a little over a month into the season, and we're not talking about flirting with a winning record, or improved standings in the division. We're talking about flirting with .500. Sidling up to mediocrity. Aiming for lukewarm. And still not getting anywhere quite yet.

"It's a tribute to just never giving up"

Tonight, Tim Wakefield surpassed Roger Clemens in innings pitched for the Red Sox. As SG has pointed out in the past, Wakefield is a bridge to the actual teams Clemens played for and the one taking the field in 2010, decades after the Rocket's first callup to the bigs. If baseball as a whole connects us with the past, Wakefield as an individual connects us with his former teammates.

You just can't replace an old friend -- someone who has known you through all your phases, someone who doesn't need to be caught up on the salient events of the past to know the significance of the present, someone whose face you can remember nearby during other milestone moments. The kind of person it's impossible to imagine being without. Tim Wakefield's presence with the Sox is like that.

Intellectually, I understand that there will come a time when Wakefield is no longer on the roster. But on a deeper, more irrational level, I can't comprehend it.

From the Projo Sox Blog:

If there's anything Wakefield wanted others to take away from this moment, it was the lesson that one should never give up on their dream, because goals can be reached in unexpected way.

"It's a tribute to just never giving up," he said. If I can pass on to somebody, that maybe is one of those people that is on the bubble, [to] never quit. I've never done that, regardless of how good I've pitched or how bad I've pitched. It's just keep striving to be better."

Screaming at the Shortstop takes an amusing look at just what a long damn time 16 years really is:

Sixteen seasons. Do you know how old I was when Tim joined the Red Sox? Nine. Since then, I've gone on to graduate high school and college, plodded my way almost through a master's degree (only a few months to go before I'm done!), had three different jobs, two different cars, and countless different friends. I've gone from listening to a cassette player, to a CD player, to an iPod. The walls in my room have been painted five times. When Tim started pitching, my TV weighed about 500 pounds (rough estimate), and the picture was grainy. Now it weighs about 20 pounds and we have HD. All these things have changed, and yet Tim stays the same. On he goes, with his 66 mph knuckleball dancing down the lane, and his 70 mph fastball somehow still confusing people.

I suppose this happens to everyone as they get older, but it still sometimes strikes me how utterly different my perception of time is from when I was a kid. Sometimes I suspect my brain is still stuck on an axis set at 1990, and it sometimes needs reminders that that was really 20 years ago. Before 1990, as a kid with an age in a single digits, waiting for an hour seemed like a truly barbaric idea. An hour was such a long time. Now two decades have come and gone and my adult brain is still going, "huh?" I can only imagine what it'll be like by the time Wake actually retires...

Splitsville

On Friday, I wound up with unexpected tickets to the second  of this weekend's four-game series against the Kansas City Royals. The Sox dropped this one in sloppily dramatic fashion, beginning with a Tim Wakefield meltdown.

In the plus column, we had good seats that a friend of mine had lucked into earlier that afternoon, in a field box on the first base side. The night was mild and clear, and I got to spend several hours taking a veritable flip book of Dustin Pedroia's every move.

Some of my preferred shots from that game set: 

Okay, REALLY sure the human body isn't supposed to bend like that.

The Celtics were winning the Eastern Conference Finals vs. the Orlando Magic that night.

"Look at him doing pitcher things!" -- Sam's reaction to super-utility man Bill Hall pitching a perfect ninth. Pretty much the best thing that happened in that whole game.

Yes, the "Bride" here has a "Youuuuuuk!" sticker slapped across her ass.

***

The Sox had lost the night before this, too, and it wouldn't be until the next night that they'd flash some leather behind a dominant Clay Buchholz to win 1-0, and another day before they'd finally get the bats in gear in support of an equally authoritative Jon Lester.

A split series. Mezza-mezz. Half empty or half full?

It's otherwise been a gloriously lazy, sun-drenched Memorial Day weekend, spent catching up with friends and on my sleep in equal portions, interspersed with baseball at Fenway Park. I think I'll go with half full.

______________________

P.S. We were told we were on TV in certain NESN camera shots with runners on first base, so we watched a bit of the replay when we got home. We didn't see ourselves, but we did come across this keeper:

Cinco de Nomar

On a night drenched in honey-gold sunset at Fenway Park, a familiar figure crossed the warning track, in a white jersey with a scarlet number 5 on the back.

Am I being manipulated as a fan, for whatever reason? I guess. Is the whole thing a little awkward, like seeing an ex while out somewhere, and making polite conversation even as you remember how bitterly things ended? Sure.

And honestly, I thought I was over it. I really thought I was over the schmaltz of welcoming Nomar back, when trading him was what led to the championship in 2004.

But from the schmoopy commercial spot to photos like this, tonight it really got me. Seeing Nomar like that, back out on the field in a white jersey again...I actually had a lump in my throat. 

The thing that made the whole Nomar situation so painful was the lack of closure. The last time we saw him, he was walking out of the clubhouse in Minnesota in that white dress shirt. The next time, he was in an Oakland uniform, and by then it was all water under the bridge. The fans of Fenway never had a chance to know they were embracing Nomar for the last time. We can try to re-create that moment, and have in the years since, but it won't ever be quite the same. 

And it wasn't just Nomar, it was Trot, it was Wake and Tek, it was all those guys of approx. 2003 - 2004 back together again on the field. We'll never go through what we went through with those players again, and I suspect those faces will always have direct access to my heartstrings. And I guess tonight stirred all that up. Which was probably the idea. Sigh.

Meanwhile...

Dustin Pedroia continues to fling himself around the field like his ass is on fire. And like his teammates' asses are on fire, and he's launching himself over there to single-handedly save the day. He's just a ball of furious, relentless energy, and I absolutely adore him. 

John Lackey was brilliant tonight, surrendering just one run against his former team.

David Ortiz hit an opposite-field home run that was greeted with an audible gasp from the crowd, followed by a thundering standing ovation.

Daniel Bard was FILTHY.

Adrian Beltre hit a bomba gigante to dead center, his second homer in three nights and made a nifty play at third. Scooter made another nice pick at short.

Also, vintage Papelbon was in the house tonight. 

I really, really hope May is going to be "The Red Sox Make Us All Look Like Assholes for Ever Worrying" Month.

Red Sox Spring Training 2010: Spring Chickens

I've noticed a bit of a pattern to the Sox news this Spring Training; it seems like each player either does one day of press meetings during camp, or something similar, because each day the focus of news stories, videos and other commentary seems to be on one particular player or another.

Take the day that the news was all about Mike Lowell and what a good, non-whining guy he is. Or the day that was all about Beckett's contract. 

Yesterday, apparently, was Jacoby Ellsbury day. Two videos have made the rounds, one from Nike and one on RedSox.com, both of which showed Ellsbury performing feats of athletic prowess in fetching UnderArmour.

That he has so many different "tools", as they say -- speed, agility, strength -- is impressive in itself, but the effect of Jacoby running will always be the most startling -- even after a couple of seasons watching him speed around the basepaths, he moves faster than my eyes anticipate. There's another story that's made the rounds this spring of Ellsbury outrunning a deer. Sounds like a tall tale to me, but he's fast enough that I'm sure the story will persist.

Then there was another video of a trip around the bases with Jacoby. NESN showed an edited version on Red Sox Spring Break on Saturday, but the full version is worth watching. Ellsbury goes through and demonstrates everything from the "muscle memory" that helps him take the same precise lead off first base, the crucial 'crossover' step as he takes that lead, to the way he senses and watches the fielders around him at each base.

Yesterday I couldn't find it, but now it appears there's video of the other player featured as a sidebar in yesterday's buzz about Jacoby: Josh Beckett, throwing three hitless innings in his start vs. St. Louis.

Well. Hardly the same gratuitous eye-candy treatment Ellsbury got -- these highlights show precisely one pitch from Beckett. It's a good one, but I need more. There's been a surprising dearth of Beckett video so far, sadly.

In fact, much more of the video is dedicated to David Ortiz rumbling around the bases on a Josh Reddick triple to right center. As usual whenever Papi runs the bases, even in Spring Training, you hold your breath -- especially when he slides into home in the end.

Speaking of Reddick, CSNNE's Joe Haggerty has Tweeted some high praise for the youngster from camp:

Today, even Old Man Wakefield was looking like a spring chicken -- two hits, 22 of 30 pitches for strikes.

It's a wonderful time of year. The more seasons I watch, the more I've come to appreciate Spring Training -- bright and hopeful, full of every possibility, before the bumps and pulls and strains and grind of the season, before the division standings and the pennant race, when you start to fantasize about Lackey, Beckett, Lester, Buchholz, Wakefield, and hell, Matsuzaka too, putting in monster years, when you can picture Reddick lacing hits off the wall in right like he did today consistently, against major league pitching, when you picture Jacoby Ellsbury flying, a white streak, toward a steal of home again, as if that happens every week instead of just once in a lifetime.