And kingdoms rise/And kingdoms fall

If you came here this morning expecting some sort of semi-coherent preview on the Sox/Angels series, you can find my best attempt at that over here. Gotta push the paying gig first, peeps.

As for a brief elaboration . . . well, I guess it's just funny, considering how many words I spent the last few months of the season whining and worrying about the Sox' postseason prognosis, that I'm feeling strangely fine about their chances in this series.

The Angels' John Lackey is a legitimate ace with an accomplished postseason resume, but he's also 1-6 with a 6.27 ERA against the Sox in his career, and I don't think he's capable of matching Josh Beckett, who I get the sense is on a freakin' mission to duplicate his '03 heroics with the Marlins. This is his chance to cement a legacy as Boston's next great ace, and he knows it.

All things considered I've got a pretty good feeling about Dice-K in Game 2 (assuming Tito keeps him on a short leash to prevent his patented walk-walk-homer meltdown), and I think the Angels are the one team in the playoffs with an offense distinctly inferior to Boston's, especially with Vlad Guerrero apparently held together by athletic tape nowadays.

I say Papi adds another moment to his personal postseason highlight reel, Dustin Pedroia, J.D. Drew, and Jonathan Papelbon each take a turn in the hero's spotlight, and the Sox win the thing in 4.

(As far as that other AL series goes: Go, Tribe! . . . obviously. I know it's perhaps the greatest rivalry in sports, but I've had a enough Sox-Yankees playoff drama for one lifetime, thanks.)



And just for a touch of a good karma, here's a random YouTube video from a long-ago PawSox game that includes footage of Butch Hobson, Chico Walker, and a giddy Mark Fidrych. If a mention of that trio of TATB favorites can't bring good vibes to the Sox tonight, nothing will. (Oh, and Dave "Spaghetti" Righetti? Seriously, announcer guy?)

Random Red Sox games I attended

Pretty catchy title, eh? I figured that would draw you suckers in. In all seriousness, I've been intending and inspired to bang out this column/post/steaming heap of whimsy for awhile, for two reasons:

1. The idea came to me a year or so ago when Bob Ryan wrote about all the cool and obscure games and moments recorded in his scorebook. I thought it was an unusual piece for a famous columnist to write, an unabashedly and admirably dorky tribute to baseball and his job; I loved it. If anyone needs an example of how Ryan retains his passion and popularity after all these years in the business, here you go.

2. I took my daughter, age 3 1/2, to her first Sea Dogs game recently. She loved it as much as her old dad hoped she would, though for some reason she was more thrilled by the Trash Monster and the ice cream-in-a-helmet than she was by seeing Michael Bowden or Jed Lowrie. Go figure. I do think she is ready for her inaugural trip to Fenway next year, and the thought of watching her blue eyes widen as she comes up the ramp . . . well, can you blame me if that got me to reminiscing about my first visit to Fenway and the dozens to follow? Of course not, at least if you have a sentimental bone in your body. So it seems only appropriate to start this thing with . . .

April 21, 1978: Red Sox 9, Indians 7
. . . my first Fenway foray, and yes, all the sappy cliches about a kid's first visit to Updike's lyric little bandbox apply. The grass was the most gorgeous shade of green I'd ever seen. The Monster was so much more imposing and than it looked on TV. But the thing that really blew my 8-year-old mind was watching my baseball cards come to life. Holy crap, Butch Hobson is playing third base right in front of me! . . . Wow, Andre Thornton is a giant! . . . I can't believe that's really Jim Rice over there! . . . Hey, there's Rick Manning - he swiped the Eck's wife! Okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the gist. I went to the game with my parents and my Uncle Dennis and his kids, whom we were visiting for a week at their home near White Horse Beach in Plymouth, Mass. All these years later, I still remember that as one of the best times of my childhood.

Sept. 26, 1982: Yankees 6, Red Sox 2
My parents made the unfortunate decision to buy bleacher seats for this one, and you know how, er, "smoky" the bleachers could be in those days. Let's just say I'm pretty sure that was my first experience with a contact high, and coupled with that particular afternoon's stifling heat, it's really no surprise I barfed up my Klondike bar and coke sometime in the late innings. My deep-fried mind somehow retained a couple scattered snapshots from the game - the rifle-shot pop of the mitt as Goose Gossage warmed up in front of us, a fine catch by the otherwise forgettable Reid Nichols, the shocking improbability of seeing Dewey Evans drop a fly ball (maybe he got a whiff of what was going on in the bleachers behind him). But most of my memories came postgame, when, sufficiently recovered from the Klondike Incident (sounds like the name of a Guns 'N' Roses album), I talked my folks into letting me over around outside the players' parking lot in hopes of getting an autograph or two or, better yet, 20. How'd that go, you ask? About as well as the oppressive-heat-and-weed-smoke combo in the bleachers, thanks. Naive as I was at 12, I had these visions of Dewey, The Eck, Jim Ed, Yaz and so on shaking hands, signing endless autographs and generally acting like the larger-than-life, super-swell heroes I believed them to be. Instead, I got see Bob Stanley - who, much to my surprise, was as bald as a baseball without his cap on - sitting on the hood of his car drinking a beer and mockingly waving at the fans. I got to see all the fancy stars drive by obliviously by in their fancy cars, refusing even to make eye contact. I got to watch Mike Torrez, shirt unbuttoned to his waist and reeking of what must have been a prototype for Sex Panther, pull over and sign an old newspaper for a homeless-looking guy (probably a sports writer), but ignoring me and all the pleading, pestering kids. And I got my toes run over by Eckersley, which to that point was the highlight of my day since it didn't shatter any metatarsals, or even hurt, really. (Again, no doubt due to the lingering effects from the bleachers). So yeah, it wasn't quite what I'd imagined - hell, even Ed Jurak blew us off. But just as my parents were getting ready to drag my dejected, woozy butt home, one player, driving a considerably less flashy car than most of his teammates, pulled over. Since he didn't look like anyone I'd seen on a baseball card, I improvised, grabbing a blank piece of paper and pen my mom pulled from her purse and handed it through the driver's side window. The paper came back marked with a signature crisp and clear: Brian Denman. I had no clue who he was then, but you can be sure I was cheering him on the second-to-last day of the season, when he pitched a 5-0 shutout over those same Yankees. I was convinced he was going to be the Red Sox equivalent to the pitcher he beat that day, young New York ace Dave Righetti, but it turned out that shutout was Denman's last appearance in a big-league uniform. I hope he realizes that someone remembers him well.


April 17, 1983: Rangers 1, Red Sox 0, 14 innings
The Rangers had a young first baseman named Dave Hostetler, who'd had some success as a rookie in '82, hitting 22 homers and finishing sixth in the AL rookie of the year voting. But Sox starter John Tudor and the Sox bullpen exposed the kid's fatal flaw on this night, striking him out four times on nothing but breaking balls. (Somewhere, Wily Mo Pena nods knowingly.) Hostetler looked like he didn't belong in the big leagues, and after whiffing 103 times in 304 at-bats that season, his career was over with the exception of a cameo here and there. Other skewed recollections: Sox shortstop Glenn Hoffman proved he didn't have his kid brother's command, airmailing the catcher on a relay as the lone run scored in the 14th, and my mom spilled her annual beer on her purse, drenching my brand-new Topps '83 Red Sox team set. There may or may not have been a tantrum on the ride home.

April 11, 1996: Twins 6, Red Sox 5
This one might be the best time I've ever had at the ballpark, in part because of some weird scheduling circumstances and in part because of the crowd-pleasing antics of a goofball we all knew as "Greenie." The specifics about the scheduling stuff have escaped my memory and Google was of no help. I recall there being a huge snowstorm the day before and everyone assuming this game would be called off . . . and then Mother Nature pulling yet another a fast one on us New Englanders and delivering an absolutely glorious spring day. On a whim, me and a few buddies from Concord hopped in the car, headed the hour south, bought tix when we got there (yes, that used to be possible, kiddies), and joined about 4,000 other fans in watching Clemens duel Radke. The coolest part? Because the crowd was so sparse, the Sox let fans sit wherever they wanted. The four of us sat in the first row in the shadow of the Monster, where my leather-lunged buddy spent the early innings good-naturedly hassling Sox left fielder Mike Greenwell. Because we were so close and the park was so empty, Greenwell heard every word, smirking and glancing over with a bemused look every now and then, a great sport about the whole thing. Well, fast forward to the middle innings. Greenwell, whose power was mostly a rumor at this point, smacks a home run. Upon returning to his position at the end of the inning, he takes a detour toward our seats, where everyone in the vicinity is yelling "Greenie!" and giving him a standing ovation. Greenwell, without saying a thing, saunters up in front of my buddy, doffs his cap, and bows exaggeratedly like he's a Broadway star on opening night. Talk about getting the last word. After that day, Greenie was forever okay in my book.


June 16, 1996: Red Sox 10, Rangers 9
Reggie Jefferson wallops a walkoff off Mike Henneman over the Monster as the Sox come back from a 9-3 seventh-inning deficit. Jefferson couldn't hit lefties with Bea Arthur's bat, but he was a more productive stick than you probably remember (.347-19-74 in '97, for instance), and had he not left the team in a huff after he was left off the ALDS roster in '99, he might have made a difference in the ALCS against the Yankees. Hell, he couldn't have been worse than Huskey and Hatteberg. I wonder if he regrets how it all played out; after skipping out on the Sox, he never played in the majors again.

Sept. 21, 2000: Red Sox 9, Indians 8
By the time my girlfriend (now Mrs. TATB) and I found parking and made our way to our seats, the repulsive Rolando Arrojo had put the Sox in a 7-0 hole in the second inning. Little did we know that while we were futilely driving up and down Boylston, Darren Lewis was trying (and failing) to punch some sense into Carl Everett in the Sox clubhouse. God, those Sox teams were despicable, weren't they? Stunningly, Steve Ontiveros - Dan Duquette's most ill-conceived reclamation project, which is quite a legacy - pitched well in relief, the Sox rallied thanks to a Troy O'Leary homer (not the first time he tormented the Tribe), and they had one of their final feel-good moments of a lost season.

Sept. 16, 2002: Indians 7, Red Sox 1
Better known as Grady's White Flag. This was the second game of a doubleheader, and while the Sox still had a slim chance in the wild card race, Sox manager Grady Little decided this would be a fine time to make his surrender official. Check out this lineup Gump ran out there with the season hanging by a thread: Rickey Henderson, LF; Johnny Damon, CF; Benny Agbayani, RF; Carlos Baerga, DH; Shane Andrews, 3B; Doug Mirabelli, C; Tony Clark, 1B; Rey Sanchez, SS; Freddy Sanchez, 2B. By my accounting, he rested Nomar, Manny, Shea Hillenbrand, Cliff Floyd, Brian Daubach, Jason Varitek, and Trot Nixon in Game 2. Granted, a couple of the regulars (Floyd, Nixon, Dauber) sat because they were facing a lefty, Cleveland rookie Brian Tallet . . . but c'mon, it's hardly Guidry-in-'78 we were talking about here, it was Brian Freaking Tallet, winner of five games since. But facing Pawtucket's finest, he shut out the Sox on four hits in six innings. What a joke. Once it started raining (surely the work of the baseball gods infuriated by Grady's lineup card), I left, the first time I'd departed Fenway before a game had ended. If Grady could give up prematurely, hell, so could I.

Sept. 16, 2003: Red Sox 3, Devil Rays 2
This is the only time I saw Pedro pitch in person with my dad. I don't remember a whole lot about Pedro's performance except that it was somewhat meaningful given that the Sox were in the midst of a playoff push. But I won't forget this: After Pedro brought down the house and by whiffing a D-Ray (probably Lugo) to escape a late jam, my dad wore a look of pure joy, like there was no place he'd rather be. Just one of those things that sticks with a son, I guess.

Game 3, 2003 ALCS: Rich Harden delivers. Trot Nixon swings. Pandemonium. I'm assuming you need no further detail than that. I suppose it's worth noting that this is the only one on this list that I covered as a reporter. Me being me and all, I realized to my horror the next morning that I left the score out of my column. If not for that, the Pulitzer was mine, I just know it.

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Well, this ended up a little longer than I thought it would be. (That's what she said!) Thanks for reading this far and humoring me. My memory is pretty good for this stuff, I think, but it was obviously jogged with the assistance of baseball-reference.com, so I must tip my hat, Greenwell-style, to Sean Forman's truly invaluable creation. And, please, drop me an email or post your favorite random Fenway memories in the comments. I'd love to hear 'em, even if they also involve puking in the bleachers.

Three random 1983 Topps baseball cards

No wonder Terry Francona feels such a kinship with his bench coach. Not only was "Millsy" a fellow star at U of Arizona and a fellow scrub with the Montreal Expos, but like Tito, he also must dig out his old baseball card to convince people that, yes, there was a time when he wasn't as bald as a cue ball.


The Yankees? You, the Red Sox idol of my youth . . . you really wore the Pinstriped Jersey of Satan? How could you, Butch? How could you? (Sob.) Wait, what's that you say? You hit .172 with no homers while New York finished in fifth place? Umm . . . well nice job, then, Butch. Aw, I should have known you were an imbedded Red Sox all along.


He's never been teammates with Jason Grimsley, so I'm going tuck away any suspicions I might have about 47-year-old Julio Franco's discovery of the fountain of youth. Instead, I'll try to put his astounding longevity into perspective this way: Franco already had big-league service time when he was included by Philadelphia in the infamous 5-for-1 trade with Cleveland for Von Hayes in 1982. I'm not saying that was a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure Hayes died of polio.

And a special bonus card to commemorate the holiday . . .


Twenty-three years ago Tuesday, Dave Righetti pitched the Yankees' first no-hitter since Don Larsen's perfect game in the '56 World Series. The victim? The Red Sox, with Mr. Clutch Wade Boggs whiffing to end it. Yet as I recall it, the beverages were still cold, dad's grill was still sizzling, and the fireworks over the Kennebec River were appropriately dazzling. On the Fourth of July, even getting whupped by the Yankees couldn't spoil the day. Or maybe I was just more mature at 13. Either way, have a happy and safe holiday, everyone.

Fallen Angel

I think most columnists (and writers in general) are overly self-critical, often unsatisfied with their own work. I fall into that category much more often than not. Reading a column post-publication, I inevitably wish I'd changed a word here, made a tweak there, and suddenly, a piece I thought I liked is is source of nagging aggravation, a missed opportunity. Sometimes though, even us hacks do find the words we were looking for, and that swing for the fence pays off with a satisfying trot around the bases. This column, published in the Concord Monitor. Oct. 23, 2002, is one of those instances for me. Ostensibly about the "cursed" Angels' 2002 World Series run, it will become apparent as you read it that it was a roundabout way for me to write about a subject close to my heart - the late, coulda-been-great Lyman Bostock. Few columns I've written have meant more to me personally. - CF

* * *

I was 8 in the summer of '78, and in my small universe, there was baseball, and then there was the unimportant stuff. Jim Rice was Batman. Butch Hobson was diving noggin-first into bat racks. Luis Tiant whirled and twirled and fooled 'em all, and the Yankees were 25 pinstriped Darth Vaders.

Baseball, especially those obviously invincible Red Sox, was on my brain so much, I might as well have had 216 red stitches winding around my head. This obsession exasperated my mom. After one too many questions about why a curveball curved or how Oscar Gamble grew such a spectacular Afro, my folks instituted a rule: No talking about baseball at the dinner table. Dinner was family time, the hour to talk about more important matters.

I didn't understand it then - what could possibly be more important than baseball? - but as the summer faded into autumn, I learned that it indeed was not life and death after all. It took the latter to teach me so.

On Sept. 23, 1978, Angels outfielder Lyman Bostock was murdered. It is one of the most tragic chapters in baseball history.

On the final day of his life, a sunny Saturday afternoon, Bostock went 2-for-4 in an Angels' loss to the Chicago White Sox at Comiskey Park. After the game and with a rare night off, he made the short drive to Gary, Ind., to visit his uncle, Thomas Turner.

At approximately 10:30 p.m., Bostock was riding in a car with Turner and his godchildren, Joan Hawkins and Barbara Smith. Bostock had known the women for 20 minutes.

A car pulled alongside. Barbara Smith could see her estranged husband, Leonard Smith, was driving. She told Turner not to stop the car. He sped through two red lights, but was forced to stop at a busy intersection.

Leonard Smith jumped out of his car and walked toward Turner's Buick. He was carrying a 12-gauge shotgun. No words were exchanged. Smith opened fire through the back window. Bostock was hit in the right temple. He crumpled to the floor, blood gushing from his head.

Three hours later, one of baseball's most appealing young stars was dead. He was 27 years old.

Until the day Bostock died, I knew him only as a comically airbrushed picture in my baseball card collection. But as I absorbed the finality of it all - Dead? A major-league baseball player? Is that possible? - I was hit with emotions I was not completely familiar with.

I was curious and confused and stunned and frightened and angry. His death was beyond my naive comprehension. I recall staring at that '78 Topps card endlessly, trying to memorize his stats. At the dinner table, I asked questions about Bostock. Countless questions. They had nothing to do with baseball.

Now, I imagine you're asking: Why bring up this story now? Simple. Because the current Angels - these Amazin' Angels - have brought it back to me.

These are the good old days for the 41-year-old franchise. It is a joyous time of fresh October stars such as Garret Anderson and Francisco Rodriguez, and cuddly mascots such as the Rally Monkey and David Eckstein. This year, the Angels' laughter hasn't turned to tears.

But with good times come remembrances of the bad, and heaven knows the Angels have had more than their share.

The Angels' history is so hellish, the Red Sox look blessed by comparison. We are familiar with the suicide of Donnie Moore, and all the late-season collapses. We hear about the womanizing washout Bo Belinsky, and the untimely deaths of so many promising prospects in the '70s.

We hear about Bostock, too. But not as much as we should. He deserves to be more than a footnote, a name on a morbid list of Ballplayers Who Died During A Season. He deserves better, because he might have been among the best.

Bostock played just four major league seasons, three with Minnesota and his final one with the Angels. He died with a career .311 average - a number that pairs him with Jackie Robinson in the history books.

He batted .336 in 1977 and was the runner-up to teammate Rod Carew for the American League batting title. A lefty hitter with an elegant swing, he was so gifted and dedicated that his manager, Gene Mauch, compared him to Pete Rose.

Bostock could have been a great, if only that bright future had been a match for his darker fate. Maybe he would have grown up to be Tony Gwynn, a winner of multiple batting titles and a wonderful ambassador for the game. Or maybe he might have been Roberto Clemente, another doomed ballplayer whose talent was matched only by his generosity.

Kindness was among Bostock's dominant traits. After playing out his $20,000-a-year contract with the Twins - yes, that's 20 thousand, not 20 million - Bostock signed a five-year, $2.25 million deal with the Angels in November 1977. The deal, which came at the advent of big-bucks free agency, made him the third-highest-paid player in the game.

Bostock didn't intend to collect his riches. He intended to earn them. So when he began the '78 season in a 2-for-39 slump, he approached Angels owner Gene Autry and insisted on giving back his April salary.

Autry refused the offer, so Bostock decided he would give the money to charity. ("Charity The Big Winner in Bostock Slump," said the headline in The Sporting News.) Naturally, mailbags full of requests poured in, and Bostock sorted through them himself, trying to determine who needed the money the most.

A newspaper photo a few days after he died showed Bostock's jersey hanging in his locker. On the floor were several boxes of mail. His April salary was donated posthumously.

The tale of Bostock's philanthropy sounds like the stuff of fiction, particularly in the context of today's greed. The game has changed so much in the 24 years since he died, and much to its own detriment. But some things, they never change.

Baseball survives, even thrives, in spite of itself. The Red Sox crumble like a dried-up leaf in September, no matter how many promises they make in April. And much to my girlfriend's chagrin, I still babble on relentlessly about baseball at the dinner table.

Lately, the topic has been these admirable Angels, and their quest for their first World Championship. Often, I've found my windy monologues winding around to Bostock, and the summer of '78, and all that I learned about baseball, and life.

Bostock taught me that the world was cruel and unfair and unpredictable. That the good guy didn't always win, that ballplayers weren't superheroes even if they tried to be, that death can find you anywhere, anytime, even at a busy intersection on a laid-back Saturday night.

The Red Sox would stomp on my little heart later that summer, and damned if it hasn't become an annual tradition. But these Angels, the cursed Angels . . . they've kind of grown on us cynical New Englanders, haven't they? We can relate to them, appreciate what their franchise and its fans have gone through.

We are kindred spirits. They should give us hope. If the Angels can win it, well, hell, maybe the Red Sox can too.

Cheer them on, Red Sox fans. Shake those silly ThunderStix. Salute Glaus and Salmon and Percival and Spiezio. Appreciate them for doing what our hometown team could not. Applaud them for dethroning the Yankees, who are still 25 Darth Vaders, only with much larger bank accounts.

With the Angels just a couple wins away from a celebration unlike any they've ever seen, please, take a second to remember a fallen Angel from the franchise's terribly tragic past.

Remember Lyman Bostock, a wonderful ballplayer and a better man, one who had the green light to stardom, if only the red light had changed.