Originally published May 7, 1984, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
Today’s question: Are the Red Sox really as bad as they have looked so far? Today’s answer: certainly not.
They are much, much worse. All we have to do is give them the chance to prove it. “You really believe that?” Peter Itrato asked.
“Absolutely,” I told him.
“But they’ve got a couple of good players,” he said.
“Sure they do,” he was told. “But a couple isn’t enough. They’re going to wallow in mediocrity through the end of June and then drop out of sight. And I couldn’t be happier.”
“I thought you were a big Sox fan?”
“I used to be; now I’m just a big baseball fan.” “How come you’re happy they’re doing bad?”
“Because I won’t be wasting my time this summer. Having a root canal is more enjoyable than watching the Red Sox.”
“C’mon. Another three, four weeks and you’ll be right back out there,” he said. “Rice, Hurst, Boggs . . .”
“Stop right there,” he was told. “Where?”
“With Boggs.” “How come?”
“He’s just Billy Goodman with a mustache,” I told Itrato. “He plays the corner as if his glove were made by the McNamara Cement Co. He never hits behind a runner; he can’t move a guy from first to third. Trade him.”
“Trade a guy who can hit like that?”
“That’s right. Get a good frontline pitcher for him. They need pitching.”
“They got all these kids, though . . .”
“The kids,” I interrupted. “You sound like that old sap of a manager, “Mary Sunshine” Houk. “He obviously has lost his marbles. Look at the poor guy; he still thinks Eckersley can pitch. All winter they were saying Eckersley would be a great pitcher in a bigger ball park. How about sending him to Yosemite? That’s a pretty big park.”
“What about Hurst?” Itrato asked.
“He might be all right, but before the season is over, he’s going to sue that infield for nonsupport.” “The infield does leave something to be desired . . .”
“That’s not all they leave,” he was told. “Don Buddin and Dick Stuart looked like Hall of Famers next to these guys. There’s no first baseman; they should just go with a STOP sign. The third baseman has no range at all. The shortstop reminds me of Terry Sawchuck; and the second baseman comes in on a ball as if he were tripping over a threshold. Add that to the fact that there’s nothing behind the plate except an umpire and the screen, put it all together and you have baseball’s equivalent of the Callahan Tunnel.”
“The Callahan Tunnel?”
“Right; everything goes through.”
“Yeah, but we’ve always got Jim Rice,” Itrato pointed out.
“Correct. And by the time August rolls around, poor Rice is going to look like the poster child for the World Hunger Crusade. He’ll be down to about 95 pounds. Besides, he can’t carry that club by himself.”
“He doesn’t have to. There’s Armas, Evans . . .”
“Hold it,” I said. “Armas is like an ad for Medicaid. His middle name is Johnson & Johnson. The poor guy’s always hurt. And Evans is the only middle aged ballplayer I know of whom people are always saying, “Wait until he reaches his potential.” When’s he gonna get there? When he’s 53, and playing in a SloPitch league?”
“Boy, you’re really bummed out.”
“No, I’m not. I’m glad. I hope those turkeys keep right on rolling downhill so the fans will realize what stiffs they are and stay away in droves this summer.”
“Think that will happen?”
“I pray for it every morning. We have a club that can’t afford to go out and get legitimate ballplayers; won’t spend anything and is afraid to trade anybody. It’s baseball by MasterCard. Why aggravate yourself over a pack of cheapskates?”
“Yeh, but once they get the front office thing straightend out, things’ll be better,” Peter Itrato said. “Sure. They’ll probably make a deal for a lawyer instead of a pitcher,” I told him. “If they can’t figure out who owns the club, how do you expect them to figure out how to win the American League East?”
“I never thought of that.” “Neither have they.”
“Don’t you see anything good about them?” he asked.
“Sure I do; they have great uniforms. They just don’t have much to put in them.”
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