Game 47: Entering Into History

Final Score: Boston Red Sox 7, Kansas City Royals 0

For my bachelor party almost two years ago, my friends brought me up to Cooperstown, NY, to the Baseball Hall of Fame. A couple of things come instantly to mind from that trip: the exhibit on Manny Ramirez's uniform and how he wears it at the largest size allowed by regulations to give him better freedom of movement when he hits; Robin finding Joe Morgan's picture and flipping it off in tribute to all of Morgan's "skills" as a broadcaster; seeing the championship ring display, finding the one from 2004 and reliving the good times all over again. But the section I always think of first, the place that really brings everything that the Hall of Fame is about home to me is the wall of no hitter and perfect game balls, each with the date, the score of the game, and the picture of the man on whom fortune smiled to deliver a night of truly devastating pitching. Pedro's up there, and Derek Lowe; Hideo Nomo back when he was good, A.J. Burnett when he was a Marlin and David Wells when he was a Yankee. Nolan Ryan has seven - more than anyone else - and now, after tonight, the Sox have 18 - or 26, if you believe ESPN - which seems to be more than anyone else [Edit: now that I'm awake, I've realized that 26 is for Boston teams as a whole, going back to the 1870s. Robin's got it right: the Sox have 18, the Dodgers have 20].

Many love baseball for the excitement of the big hit, the powerful smash over the wall, the crooked number inning with runners pilling across the plate so quickly you'd think the bases were on fire. I do not deny these moments their
ability to move us fans into transports of delight, but what I love most about baseball is the pitching: the strategy of pitch selection, the psychology of the guessing game between batter, pitcher, and catcher, the tension of a duel between the man on the mound and the man at the plate. The addition of the no hitter possibility makes these pitching moments that much more precious, adding in the dimension of necessarily superb defense, of a team uniting behind its pitcher to guarantee a moment in history.

Tonight's game had all of these rarefied elements, combined together into one noble gas that burned with a stark beauty upon the cold earth of the baseball field. At the plate, Manny battled Luke Hochevar with the bases loaded and home run number 499 looming large, fouling off pitch after pitch before settling for a walk, while every starter but Lugo found a way to get on base. In the field Jacoby Ellsbury saved the day with a second spectacular diving catch in as many days, delivered as effortlessly as his stolen base advance from first to second to third in two plays, channeling Rickey Henderson all the way. And astride the mound, befitting his stature as the star of the game, stood Jon Lester like a giant, flinging away the doubts about his abilities - doubts for which I now humbly apologize - and delivering strikeouts by the handful. It was one hell of a way to make an entrance into history.

Game 4: The Three Start Rule

Final Score: Boston Red Sox 5, Oakland Athletics 0

A bold statement, if you're willing: the Jon Lester on the mound today was the Jon Lester who danced into our consciousness in 2005 as Boston's top-rated prospect, the leader of the young guns movement that's revitalized the Red Sox pitching staff. To be sure, his control wasn't perfect - three walks remain, as ever, a sign of danger - and he had some help from his defense, most notably in the form of a fantastic catch by J.D. Drew, but it seemed today that like Matsuzaka yesterday, when Lester missed his spots, he didn't miss them by much. Equally as encouraging, his escapes by three (count 'em) double plays didn't have the heart-failure-inducing super tension of his usual flirtations with disaster; instead, Lester made each groundball-inducing pitch seem like a natural act, an intentional portion of the baseball canon that recalled Derek Lowe in his better days.

Here's the problem, though: I'm thrilled to death about Lester's pitching this afternoon. Absolutely thrilled. You know, like a complete reversal of how I felt a week ago. I can't help but worry that I'm setting myself up for disappointment, so I've made a momentous decision: Lester's getting the Three Start Rule. I'm pretty sure I originally developed this idea after watching the roller coaster ride that was David Wells, but I haven't documented it until now. The idea is simple: as a historically shaky pitcher, Jon Lester gets "real deal" tag after three quality starts, a measurement defined either by statistics (Baseball Reference's Game Score measurement, for example) or something more subjective, like the amount of vitriol in Robin's writeup. It all depends on how I'm feeling.

So, Jon: three quality starts in row. Impress me. I want to be proven wrong.

Happy Trails, Lenny

Buried behind the flurry of Dice Clay-related news springing up like springtime flowers of baseball in Fort Myers was the announcement by the Red Sox that the Oakland A's claimed Lenny "The Loneliest Lefty" DiNardo off of waivers yesterday. With a staff that went from embarrassingly devoid of southpaws last year to one that has an embarrassment of riches this year, DiNardo's presence on the waiver wire isn't particularly surprising. In his three years in the majors he's been wildly inconsistent in his abilities, had peripherals that fluctuated wildly and, in general, suffered from Derek Lowe's fatal flaw: he just can't keep his hands off the ladies. Wait, that was just Derek. Lenny has the other fatal Derek Lowe flaw: he can't keep his pitches down consistently.

Sometimes DiNardo had games like this one, where he seemed to have the command necessary to make him a vital part of the rotation. Most of the time the hopes started high but ended like this gem, with Francona bringing out the long relief to suffer through another round of artillery practice. Now he's off to Oakland, land of second chances, where he'll either harness the hidden potential of his ground ball pitches (or get a lot of lucky fly outs in that cavernous stadium), or he'll languish in the minors for the rest of his career. Either way, I wish him good luck.

The Drag

With the Giants picking up Zito (cue evil Boras laugh) almost all of the marquee free agents have been scooped up by one team or another. Now, as we wait for the Red Sox front office to find a doctor incompetent enough to say that wet noodle arm attached to J.D. Drew is gonna last through May (that contract isn’t signed and the check still hasn’t cleared! Run away! RUN!) my anticipation for the start of the season intensifies.

I miss the Red Sox… hell, I miss baseball in general. The “hotstove” is all well and good but it pales in comparison to a chance to catch a game after work, the brisk slap of leather as the infield turns a 6-4-3 and the screams of the fans as Manny gets caught daydreaming under the monster.

I must confess I took last season a bit for granted. By the time the Sox were slipping into 3rd place and half the team was injured, I was praying for the off-season so I could rest my weary soul. Now I take it all back. I should have enjoyed those games more while I had them (even if Javy Lopez was catching).

I’ve been watching old games to try and recapture some of that summer magic but it’s not the same. Sure I enjoy seeing the 2003 ALDS game 5 (Sox over A’s: Damon head injury, Lowe crotch grab), the Fight game of 2004 (won the fight AND the game) and anything from the World Series (the week New England stood still)… but that’s just the glory. I need the grind again. The 5 and 6 day stretches, the horrible West Coast trips and that little rivalry that gets too much coverage.

I need it back. I need April to come around again and lift my spirits. Winter seems like the longest season (even with the unseasonable warmth here in the Northeast) and I blame the lack of baseball for the grey skies and early sunsets.

Right now I have some time to kill. I still have to wait 3 more months, and I know they are just going to drag on.