Glengarry Red Sox
Due to deadline pressure, I’m writing this column within hours of the Red Sox season coming to mind-blowing, spirit-crushing, soul-sucking end. So what’s probably old news to you is still a shock to my system as I sit down with some straight-up Gentleman Jack and a lousy frame of mind. They say it’s never a good idea to put anything in writing when you’re in an emotional state. But if people never wrote when they were drunk and angry, we wouldn’t have such world-changing works of literature as Hitler’s Mein Kampf, Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye or Going Rogue by Sarah Palin. Or Twitter feeds by anybody.
The damn thing of it is, I should probably be glad this Red Sox season is over. In recent memory, has there ever been a season with this much difficulty, tribulation and strife? From the very beginning of the season to the abrupt, stunning end, it was one struggle after another. It’s safe to say that the club was never once firing on all cylinders. Never once playing to their potential. From the disaster that was April Daisuke Matzusaka to David Ortiz’ horrible first half, from Dice-K’s bitching to Papi’s steroid bombshell, from Jason Bay’s slump to Jason Varitek’s, um… well Tek just hitting like he always does… from the failed Brad Penny experiment to the failed John Smoltz experiment and a thousand other lab tests that came back negative, nothing seemed to ever work. At least not for long.
When your best pitcher down the stretch spent half the year kicking around the minors and your No. 3 hitter was playing for someone else on July 30th, you probably weren’t put together right in the first place. A season so full of sturm and drang probably deserved to end with the best reliever the Sox have ever had having his first ever postseason blown lead when any of about 20 pitches could have sealed the deal. If the 2009 Red Sox season was a person, we’d miss it, but we’d be happy it’s finally out of its misery.
So while the corpse is still in that little drawer at the morgue and before we do the autopsy, I’m going to vent some. It’s also said that if you have to explain a joke, it’s not much of a joke to begin with. And while that’s true, sometimes a writer has to just write something for himself. About half the guys I know (the cool ones) will get what I’m about to say. And probably 10% of the women will too. To those who don’t, go on YouTube and search “Glengarry Glen Ross Alec Baldwin” or just bear with me while I self medicate:
[Scene: The Red Sox clubhouse. It’s pouring down rain outside the windows while the Sox players file in for a meeting. A tense Terry Francona stands at the front of the room with me.]
Me: Let me have your attention for a moment! So you're talking about what? You're talking about...(puts out cigar)...bitching about that series you blew, some son of a bitch that beat you, some broad you're trying to screw and so forth. Let's talk about something important … Put that Bud Light down!! You heard me. Take that 12 pack box off your head. Bud Light's for closers only. Do you think I'm fucking with you? I am not fucking with you. I'm here from upstairs. I'm here from Henry and Lucchino. And I'm here on a mission of mercy. Your name's Papelbon?
Papelbon: Yeah.
Blake: You call yourself a closer, you son of a bitch?
Drew: I don't have to listen to this shit.
Blake: You certainly don't pal. 'Cause the good news is -- you're fired. The bad news is you've got, all you got, just one year to regain your jobs, starting next season. Starting with next season’s playoff. Oh, have I got your attention now? Good. 'Cause we're adding a little something to next years’ competition. As you all know, first prize is a World Series Championship. Rings. Champagne. Adulation. Broads. A star on your baseball resume no one can ever take away. Anyone want to see second prize? Second prize is a pennant up on the façade at Fenway no one cares about. Third prize is you're fired. You get the picture? …You laughing now? You had a lead Sunday. Henry and Lucchino paid good money for that lead. You can't close the leads you're given, you can't close shit, you ARE shit, hit the bricks pal and beat it 'cause you are going out!!!
Papelbon: The lead was weak.
Me: 'The leads are weak.' Fucking leads are weak? You're weak. I've been following the Sox for 40 years.
Delcarmen: What's your name?
Me: FUCK YOU, that's my name!! You know why, Mister? I write for Barstool Sports. I speak for millions of Red Sox fans nationwide. That's my name!! And your name is "you're wanting." And you can't play in a man's game. You can't close them. And you go home and tell your wife your troubles. Because only one thing counts in this life. Winning championships! You hear me, you fucking faggots?
[I flip over a blackboard which reads “ABC.”]
Blake: A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-closing. Always be closing! Always be closing!! It’s fuck or walk. You close or you hit the bricks! Get out there!! You’ve got the talent! You got the prospects comin' in; you think they were brought in to get out of the rain? The rest of baseball is just sitting out there waiting to hand you a World Series! Are you gonna take it? Are you man enough to take it? What's the problem pal? You. Matsuzaka…
Dice-K: You're such a hero. Why you coming down here and waste your time on a bunch of bums?
[I throw him a newspaper.]
Me: You see this paper?
Dice-K: Yeah.
Me: That’s Barstool Sports. The most influential bi-weekly free smutty sports page in the city and the world’s fastest growing internet phenomenon. You see, pal, that's who I am. And you're nothing. Nice guy? I don't give a shit. Good father? Fuck you -- go home and play with your kids!! You wanna work here? Close!! You think this is abuse? You think this is abuse, you cocksucker? You can't take this -- how can you take the abuse you get on the field?! You don't like it -- leave. Get mad! You sons of bitches! Get mad!! You know what it takes to win championships?
[I pull two metal balls on a string from my briefcase.]
Me: It takes brass balls to win championships. Go and do likewise, gents. The trophy's out there, you pick it up, it's yours. You don't--I have no sympathy for you. You wanna go out there next time you’ve got a 3-run lead with 2 outs in the 9th and the season on the line and close, close, it's yours. If not you're going to be shining my shoes. Bunch of losers sitting around in a bar. "Oh yeah, I used to play in Boston, it's a tough city."
[I hold up a picture of Fenway Park on game night. The stands are filled to capacity.]
These are your fans. These are Red Sox fans. It’s a cliché to say they live and die with you, but it’s true. And to you, they should be gold. And you don’t deserve them. To give their loyalty to you is just throwing it away. Fan support is for closers. Going into the ALDS you were healthy, rested and had your rotation all set against a team that was totally intimidated. But you blew it. You scored 6 runs in the entire series and coughed up a 3 run lead with 2 out and nobody on in Game 3. I'd wish you good luck but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it.
And to answer your question, pal: why am I here? I came here because Henry and Lucchino asked me to. They asked me for a favor. I said, the real favor, follow my advice and fire your fucking ass because a loser is a loser.
[I grab my briefcase and Tito follows me back into his office and shuts the door. End of scene.]
Deep breath. Whoosh. OK, thanks for bearing with me. For the record, I’m not mad at the Sox players and I still like Papelbon and I don’t think they’re losers. But I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t therapeutic. And there’s no way I’m willing to face a 2010 season with this much turmoil. Now that this out of my system, let’s get started on that autopsy…