Originally published July 25, 1991, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
I was out there again yesterday, trying real hard, which is what I always do, but, in the end, the thing I thought I had went south so, toward dusk, I returned to my dingy little hole in the Globe newspaper building in order to sulk among people who simply would not understand my temporary depression, because missing out on a story seldom bothers more than a handful around here. Under normal circumstances at this location, coming up empty is no problem because the reporter simply waits for an editor to leave a meeting, rushes up and says: “My personal aerobics instructor was sick today and I had no exercise so therefore I cannot write for tomorrow.”
That always flies. However, due to the fact that genetics dealt me a bad hand when it comes to employeeemployer relations, I felt the need to plow on. You see, despite the bluster, being Irish and on the payroll of journalism’s equivalent of the Mayflower the boat, not the hotel there is always lurking in the background a slight tendency toward insecurity.
Thus, I arrived back at my office, one eye on the clock, the other on the door, waiting for a thought to tumble to the front of the carousel that revolves within my head. All I needed was a simple idea; something that stopped long enough for me to reach out, pluck it from my brain and put it down on paper.
I sat. I waited. I wasted time. I drank enough coffee to float the Fifth Marine Division. I read seven papers. Finally, I cried. It’s a terrible feeling to cry over nothing. Especially when you consider the fact that there is so much to legitimately cry about in life.
Then, the phone rang and my grief only increased. It was a friend of mine from Washington who wanted to know if I could send him the proceeds of a bet made in April.
The bet, of course, was that the Red Sox would do the whole thing in 1991. All of it: division, league and world titles.
The reality of my situation made me think about the marvelous line in one of the great Nelson Algren’s fabulous short stories about a gambler from St. Louis who went bustout betting the Cardinals. In the story, the guy’s wife is asked how things are going and she says: “Not so good. Our house took a bad hop over Red Schoendienst’s head last night.”
That’s how I feel. My whole baseball year bounced over Steve Lyons’ shoulder the other evening and the plight of the Olde Towne Team has truly gotten to me, more than at any other time in the four decades that I have been paying attention to the standings. What bothers me most is I think they’ve given up, surrendered to mediocrity.
You can’t do that. I can’t do that. Not many people can unless they want to risk a string of payless Thursdays. But these guys with their big salaries have thrown in the towel and it is only the end of July. They would be great at the Department of Public Works: We go home at noon. It has gotten me depressed. Seriously.
In the spring, I actually thought this was going to be the year. Really. I really did. On paper, they had hitting, pitching and defense, too. Now, they are heading toward last place in a division that is just a cut above the Cape League.
They can’t hit or run, have difficulty fielding and most of their pitchers throw like the overweight guys you see trying to knock over milk bottles while blindfolded at county fairs. Yet, the players appear as loose as sand and as untroubled as a career criminal would be by an arrest for double parking.
Actually, that’s what they are: felons. The charge, of course, is larceny over a thousand dollars. In addition to stealing our summer, they are playing with our money, too, because, in truth, we help finance their salaries.
And this absolute fact of baseball arithmetic has, for the first time, gotten me to the point where I am seriously considering whether to retain my season tickets next year. I’ve had them for years and they are about the best seats in the ballpark but, now, I am thinking that life just might go on without the Red Sox. That’s how low I’ve sunk.
What else can I do?
Yell? Scream? Rant? Rave? Boo? Call them bad names? Put Marshmallow Fluff in their shoes? Tell their wives they’re playing games on the road and it ain’t baseball?
We are nearly helpless, powerless in the face of huge money guaranteed to men who are without shame, pride or loyalty to any town or team. And if they do not care, why should we pay?
I mean, they don’t even play baseball. They don’t run the bases properly. They don’t know how to hit the cutoff man. They can’t hit behind a runner, bunt, take the extra base or score from second on a ball in the gap. The only thing they know how to do is steal; that’s what occurs when their checks clear. Like I told you, larceny over a thousand.
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