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.

* * *

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.

Nine innings: 05.21.07

Playing nine innings while hunching that Manny is about to break out of it big-time in the Bronx . . .

1. Ten-and-a-half games? Nice, but not enough. Not nearly enough. When these three games are over, I want the Yankees reeling. I want the deficit at 13.5 games come Wednesday night. A month from now, I want it at 20-something, and by September, I want them chasing the Devil Rays. I want them blasted in the 120-point headlines on the back and front pages of the Post and Daily News. I want George "Weekend at Bernie's" Steinbrenner's publicist issuing harshly worded press releases chock-full of unintentional comedy. I want the newly unemployed Joe Torre sitting on his porch in Hawaii, wondering where it all went so wrong and if his legacy is irreparably damaged. I want the Rocket to have second thoughts and a convenient hamstring "tweak." I want Matt DeSalvo and Tyler Clippard to realize they aren't Aaron Small, 2005. I want Suzyn Waldman muted. I want Brian Cashman to wish he'd gone to nursing school like he secretly dreamed. I want A-Rod to bicker behind the scenes with Derek Jeter while counting the days until he escapes . . . er, opts out. I want Robinson Cano to continue his Chuck Knoblauch impression, I want Johnny Damon to continue hemorraging body parts, and I want Mariano Rivera to mournfully long for those golden days when no one could touch his cutter. Is that too much to ask? Well, yeah, probably. But you get the point. For once, the Sox have a chance to deliver an early-season blow that the Yankees may not be able to recover from; if the Sox can rough them up over the next three days, the aftermath in the Bronx is going to be gruesome. So why not daydream big? It might make it all the sweeter should it become reality.

2. All right, I'll admit it. My pre-Boston perception of Julian Tavarez couldn't have been more wrong. I thought he was a hothead, a lunatic, a selfish clubhouse cancer and unpopular teammate who didn't particularly care about winning. Oh, he's still a hothead and a lunatic, but it's become apparent that he's an endearing and extremely well-liked hothead/lunatic, one whose tantrums usually are the direct result of his frustration with letting his teammates down. It's funny, but he has many of the same characteristics, both positive and self-destructive, as Oil Can Boyd had back in the day. From his comical one-sided dugout chats with Dice-K to his part-time gig as Manny's unofficial spokesman to his willingness to pitch in any role and situation that the team requests of him, it's clear that Tavarez and the Red Sox are a good fit. Who knew? Surely not me.

3. Where have you gone, Dennis Eckersley? Maybe I've just had the coincidental misfortune of missing the Eck's NESN studio appearances recently, but it seems to me the likes of Dave McCarty, Jim Rice and Ken Macha have been getting more airtime lately. Even Jack Welch has been coming down from the Muppets balcony to throw his ill-informed two cents in. (Or two billion cents, given that's probably what he's paying for the privilege.) No Eck? This is not a good thing. With the Sox in the Bronx and the anticipation running high, I'd better see the original slickermaster on my TV tonight, offering the sharp insight and unfiltered opinions that make him the best baseball analyst there is, including everyone currently employed in Bristol, Conn. The Eck retired from pitching nine years ago, but in his second career, he's still the go-to guy in a big game.

4. It seems like every lefthander with a fastball that probably wouldn't earn a speeding ticket is labeled The Next Jamie Moyer, particularly if said lefty has a quality breaking pitch, a sneaky changeup, and the requisite savvy to make batters look foolish despite a limited repertoire. And while that probably does Moyer a disservice, given that he's pitched his way to 220 major-league wins while so many Kevin Mortons have come and gone, I must admit that they more I see of Kason Gabbard, the more I think he can be one of those shrewd, successful southpaws - yes, in the Moyer mold - who seems to find a way to win without ever overwhelming anyone. He couldn't have been more impressive Sunday, and he's been a consistently effective pitcher for over a full season now. Considering Terry Francona is an unabashed fan, I'm guessing we haven't seen the last of Gabbard in Boston.

5. Jason Giambi is in a 1-for-26 slump. And the Yankees, who curiously okayed his agent's request to omit all contract language regarding performance enhancing drugs when they originally signed him, are rumored to be looking for a way out of Juicin' G's deal after his mildly incriminating comments about steroid use this week. Hmmm . . . this cycle, so to speak, sounds vaguely familiar. I fully expect a miraculously rejuvenated Giambi to hit, say, 12 home runs next month, then tell us his sudden power surge is due to his decision to quit eating cheeseburgers for breakfast, or some other such nonsensical attempt to obscure the truth.

6. While the eminently likable Wily Mo Pena has occasionally mixed in a prodigious home run or two among his numerous strikeouts and fielding mishaps, it's fair to say he's probably not going to approach his potential until he escapes this growth-stunting bench role in Boston. He needs to get 550 at-bats for a team with no real postseason aspirations, one that can afford to let him learn certain hitting skills on the job, such as how to recognize a slider before it hits the dirt. Unless J.D. Drew runs into another wall or Manny's hamstring starts barking, there's little he can do to contribute to the cause here. I bet he's gone at the trade deadline for a better-fitting piece.

7. Saw this on the always insightful Fragile Freddy blog, and thought it was such a smart and original idea that I'd pilfer it for myself: If he hasn't already, Theo Epstein should contact the Braves about Jarrod Saltalamacchia, their outstanding catching prospect who is stuck behind Brian McCann, and see if perhaps the Sox can put together a package to bring the just-turned-22-year-old to Fenway. Saltalamacchia is rarity in that he's a legitimately elite prospect both behind and at the plate, and with Jason Varitek now 35, and George Kotteras struggling mightily at Pawtucket, the Sox are somewhat desperate for a legitimate catching successor. I doubt the Braves would trade their consensus top prospect unless they received a ransom in return . . . but you have to figure they will move him at some point, and the Sox are as reasonable a destination as any.

8. We like to break this out every now and then, just for the sake of good karma. (And also because it will never, ever get old.)

9. As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


Larry Wayne Jones is 35? Really? Geez, as if my rickety bones don't feel old enough these days. I suppose he has been around for a long time now, but seems like just yesterday the Braves were getting spindled and mutilated by the Baseball America types for choosing a Florida kid nicknamed Chipper over can't-miss Texas high school pitcher Todd Van Poppel . . . who, of course, did miss, spectacularly.

Chasing the headlines

Questions/I've got some questions . . .



• Feeling bad for A-Rod yet?

Considering ol' blue lips made more $$$$$$ in the time it took me to write that sentence than I'll make in the next 10 years, uh, no, I'm not feeling bad for Slappy McWhippingboy. The story is relentlessly fascinating, though. First, it's almost as if the soulless New York tabloid media (and to an extent, the Yankees' counterproductive fans) are on his case in part just to see how far they can push him. It's almost like they want to break him, want him to turn into another Knoblauch before their eyes, want him to feel unworthy, want to run perhaps the most talented player in baseball out of town for no other reason than because he is not Derek Jeter-McCarver, Captain of All Things Intangible. There's something voyeuristic and intensely cruel about what's happening here. I've always thought it was a matter of time before A-Rod seized the moment and carried the Yankees to a playoff series victory or two - and then I realized he'd already done it, against the Twins in '04, and everyone was too busy getting gauzy camera angles of Jeter's reactions to notice. Because of the burden of expectations, his monster contract and his calculated, insincere persona, A-Rod gets no leeway or credit for anything he has accomplished - it's what's expected of him, after all. So here is now, strangling the bat, grinding the damn thing into sawdust in his hands, trying to hit a five-run homer and wondering what the hell he's supposed to do. Here he is now, slinging air-mailed throws into the first base boxes, consulting one more quack psychologist, and spending sleepless nights asking why he ever agreed to change positions for that smirking jerk to the left, the alleged captain who defended Giambi but so tellingly refused to defend him. It's a colossal mess, and while as a Red Sox fan I hope he continues to submarine the Yankees, as a baseball fan I hope he gets his ---- straight, because it would be a shame for his talent to be devoured by the jackals. Let's just hope by the time he gets it together - if he gets it together - he's playing for the Phillies, or somewhere else far from this rivalry.


• What the hell did Harold Reynolds do to get fired by ESPN?

That's the question of the day. No one seems to know right now, but it must have been a doozy. Consider: This is the network that employs Mike Tirico, a serial sexual harasser if Mike Freeman's ESPN: An Uncensored History is to be believed. This is the network that employs Steve Phillips, who settled a sexual harassment suit while he was the general manager of the Mets in '98. This is the network that gave Rick Sutcliffe (bleep-faced on the air), Gary Miller (unleashed his bladder on a cop) and Michael Irvin (that's not my crack pipe, officer!) slaps on the wrist after particularly high-profile public embarassments. It's sort of a bummer, because while Reynolds wasn't exactly the most insighful analyst we've ever heard ("If you keep the ball down, you're going to pitch a no-hitter"), he was pleasant enough, clearly loves baseball, and wasn't an ignorant, screaming narcissist like, oh, I don't know, EVERYONE ELSE IN GOD-FORSAKEN BRISTOL! So he must have committed a pretty serious transgression to get canned. Probably refused to subscribe to ESPN Mobile or something.

• So who should "Baseball Tonight" hire to replace Reynolds?

Why, the Eck, of course. But considering they were stupid enough to hire Kruller Kruk over him in the first place, I imagine the best baseball analyst around will remain planted alongside Tom Caron for the foreseeable future. Hey, Sam Horn is available. And they can have Jim Rice, whom I'm pretty sure doesn't actually watch the games.

• Did you happen to catch Tony Gwynn's appearance on "The Best Damn Sports Show" a few days ago?

Yup, flipping channels, because I would never admit to watching that creepy, faux-camaraderie abomination on purpose. Man, it was shocking - Gwynn was pleasantly plump as a player, but now he looks like he swallowed the San Diego Chicken whole. Seriously, someone needs to say something to him before another beloved player of my generation goes the tragic way of Kirby Puckett. He's that fat.

• Why did Coco leap at the wall for Adrian Beltre's inside-the-park home run when it was five feet behind him?

Because Coco's GPS tracking system as a center fielder is severely defective. Does he ever take the proper route to a ball? It's like watching Bernie Williams before he turned completely to stone - his good speed usually makes up for atrocious instincts. But when it doesn't, it gets Hoseyesque.

• Were you surprised that Shea Hillenbrand napalmed his bridges in Toronto? He always seemed like a decent guy in Boston.

Let's put it this way. Someone I know who's around the Sox on a regular basis says Hillenbrand is the dumbest person he's ever met. Not professional athlete, mind you. Person. Even by the lowbrow standards of a baseball clubhouse, Hillenbrand has long been considered tactless and crude - you might recall him going on the radio and calling Theo a Guillen word for Mariotti upon his trade to Arizona in '03 - and even his friends (such as the dignified Vernon Wells) admit that it takes a long time knowing him to realize he's not a complete jerk. It's funny, when he made the Sox unexpectedly out of camp in 2001, he had sort of a wide-eyed, Opie-from-Mayberry persona. By most accounts, that lasted about a month, or as long as it took for all the scuzzbags on that team to convince him that real big leaguers were supposed to have a sense of entitlement and bitch about everything. Is it any wonder he still counts Carl Everett among his best friends in baseball? I don't know if Hillenbrand believes in dinosaurs. But I'm pretty sure he plays with toy ones.

• You claim to like Neyer and James a lot, but you don't use stats that often. Gimme a couple off the top of your head, Stat Boy.

Neyer and James - wasn't that a wine cooler back in the day? I think it's A-Rod's drink of choice if I recall correctly - Blue-Lippin' Blueberry, right? Anyway, got a couple:

1. "Light-hitting" Alex Gonzalez has two more home runs than Jeter (or, if you prefer, Trot Nixon. What was it that Trot was doing differently back when he had power, anyway?) And by the way, Sutcliffe blathered again last night that Jeter is the best defensive shortstop in the AL. Yup, I'm pretty sure he was drinking on their air again. You, me and A-Rod know that Gonzo is so much better than Jeter it's not even worth debating.

2. In his 13 wins, Josh Beckett has an ERA below 2.50 and a WHIP below 1. So while the 'EEI mouthbreathers and banshees can claim that he's been a bust, the fact is that when he's good - and he's been good enough to lead the majors in wins - he is dominating. (Of course, that also means he has been getting absolutely shellacked when he loses . . . but still, let me make my point, will ya?) As you've probably figured, I couldn't be happier with the three-year, $30 million dollar deal he signed last week. It locks up a talented young potential ace through his prime seasons at a very reasonable price (the less talented, less accomplished A.J. Burnett got two years and $25 million dollars more as a free agent), and Beckett gets a little bit of security and the comfort of knowing he's going to spend the next three seasons pitching in a place he enjoys. It's currently a win-win situation, with many more wins to come.

• The Sox are 2.5 up on the Yankees. Confident this is the year they win the East?

Confident, yes. Convinced . . . not quite. I think the Yankees will do something big before the deadline - my money is on a deal for Bobby Abreu, hopefully with Brian Cashman caving in and giving up prized Double A pitcher Philip Hughes. It would be a classic Yankees move - getting a big-name, big-money player who isn't entirely necessary and would detract from the already questionable chemistry (who sits when/if Sheffield and Matsui come back?) While Abreu is an on-base machine, he left his power at the 2005 Home Run Derby, and his nonchalance on the bases makes Manny look like Pete Rose. They can have him. As far as the Sox go, they obviously need to find a fifth starter, though I'm thinking there might be some validity in Jason Varitek's touting of Kyle Snyder. The stork version of Bronson Arroyo really does have good stuff - a legtimately above-average 12-to-6 curve, a tailing, sinking fastball, and enough command to spot his upper 80s heater. You can see the traces of the pitcher who was a high first-round pick a half-decade ago. If he could stay healthy and build up his stamina to get past the fifth inning once in a while, I think the Sox may have found something here. But if it doesn't work out, I wouldn't be surprised to see Theo make a trade for someone such as Jon Lieber, who's struggled for the Phillies this year but pitched very well for the Yankees in the '04 postseason. I never understood why the Yankees signed him after Tommy John surgery, paid for his year of rehab, then sent him on his way the season after they began reaping some rewards from their investment. But back to the main point, I think the Sox are the better team, and with a few minor tweaks here and there, that superiority will be reflected in the season's final standings.

• Finally . . . why is A-Rod holding that friggin' guitar?

Because, A-Rod rocks, yo! Actually, Bernie told him it would make him look sensitive. Also, he plans to smash it over Jeter's head when no one's looking. Then he can play shortstop again and everyone will love him, he just knows it.

Match game

It's time to step into the TATB Way-Back Machine for one more round of everybody's favorite game show . . . Guess That '70s Ballplayer!

And now, here's the host of your show . . . Gene Rayburn! . . .


The master of the malaprop (not to mention the mid-brawl cheap shot, according to Bill Lee), he once remarked to a certain egomaniacal teammate named Reginald Martinez Jackson, "Your first name is white, your middle name is Mexican, and your last name is black. No wonder you're so (bleeped) up."


Tied that Reginald Martinez Jackson guy for the AL lead in homers in 1980 with 41; came up with the Red Sox but lacked the can't-miss status the Gold Dust Twins and Dewey Evans and was traded after the '73 season.


Another young ballplayer the '70s Red Sox were too quick to swap - hmmm, there must be a common thread here - he batted .352 for the '80 Brewers, and still finished 38 points shy of the AL batting leader.


Beat out Eddie Murray for the 1977 AL Rookie of the Year award. And you know what? After batting .307 with 21 homers and 42 steals, he deserved it, even though Murray became a superstar while he fizzled out quickly.


All or nothing slugger once sent a dead rat in a gift-wrapped package to a female sports writer. Yeah, he was all chivalrous like that.


Two-time MVP in the early '80s who apparently had a bet with Jim Rice to see whose talent could erode faster. Let's call it a dead heat.


He jumped straight to the majors from Arizona St. and walloped 23 homers in little more than half a season for the Braves in '78. Contrary to his appearance, is not and has never been Amish.


Manages the Mets like he's still employed by the Yankees.


After a particularly painful loss during the '81 World Series, brought a George Steinbrenner locker room tirade to stunning halt by blurting "Shut the - - - - up, George." I wonder if any of the current Yankee "leaders" would have similarly large cojones. I think we can probably cross Giambi off this list for starters.


Won 25 games for the '80 Orioles; won four more the rest of his career.


"Terry Crowley's lucky he's in (bleepin') baseball . . . " (And if you don't know what I'm referencing here, well, our little PG-rated site can't link to it for NSFW reasons. But a Google search for "Terry Crowley" and "tirade" should lead you in the correct, and hilariously vulgar, direction.)


I never for a moment considered this curveballer a likely Hall of Famer when he played . . . but damn, his numbers make almost a foolproof case (just check out his Similar Pitchers list). Also, in a completely unrelated clue, his real first name is Rik and his middle name is Aalbert. Dork-in-wooden-shoes alert!


This underachieving fireballing lefty's son is currently an overachieving junkballing righty for the Mets. The karma gods have a sense of humor, you know.


Apparently had an irrational bias against marshmallow salesmen, but then he was open-minded enough to give . . .


. . . this speedster a tryout with the Tigers, despite his having been sentenced to 5 to 15 years in prison for armed robbery.


Nicknamed "The Mad Hungarian." Nope, I just can't see it. He looks like "The Friendly Armenian" to me.


Once hit three homers in a game at Fenway, an impressive feat for a jacked-and-pumped slugger, let alone a pipsqueak of a shortstop listed at 5-foot-5 and 148 pounds.


"Jeezus, just take the damn picture so I can finish smoking this cig, okay?"


I'm pretty much convinced that if he came out of retirement to play for his former team today, at age 53, he'd immediately become their best player. (And by the way, the fact that this superstar of my youth is fifty-freakin'-three makes me want to go swig a gallon of Metamucil mixed with lighter fluid. Damn, I feel ancient.)


One of the most obscure batting champions of all-time, he won the '74 NL title by hitting .354 for the Braves.


Married to golf legend Nancy Lopez. Just a hunch, but I'm guessing she didn't quite click with the rest of the baseball wives.


Three questions any sportswriter worth his mustard-stained shirt should ask him:
1) Does Krylon still guarantee no runs, no drips and no errors?
2) Do you still hang out at Little League fields with Tommy Lasorda and the San Diego Chicken?
3) Was Pete Rose always such a $&$*#&#&&@&?


This alleged genius hit .199 with no homers in 176 big-league at-bats. Too bad he didn't have teammate like Jose Canseco or Mark McGwire to give him some, uh, pointers.


The photo is hazy, but the clues should make his identity clear:
1) Scored major league baseball's 1,000,000th run. (No, wise guy, all 1 million did not come in the third inning today against Lenny DiNardo.)
2) Batted .337 for the '79 Sox after coming over in a deal with the Astros, then signed with the Yankees the following winter. (Hmm, I wonder if he got booed upon returning to Fenway.)
3) Has been sticking it to the Sox ever since, first as the Yankees GM (Jeter, Posada, Pettitte and Rivera developed on his watch) then as MLB's czar of discipline (even Terry Francona has questioned his motives when it comes to his particularly harsh punishments of the Sox).
4) "Let . . . them . . . play! . . . Let . . . them . . . play! . . . "


I mentioned to my wife the other day that this former relief ace and current Sox TV analyst looks great for his age. My best girl's reply: "He'd look better if he got a haircut and shaved off that mustache. Someone needs to tell him the '70s are over." Now, I can forgive her for this for many reasons - she's a thoughtful wife, a patient and loving mom, she brings home sandwiches sometimes without me asking, she puts up with my slobbering and blabbering about Pam from "The Office" . . . all sorts of sweet things, really. But mostly I let this comment pass because she simply does not understand the Essence of the Ec . . . well, hell, you know this is Eckersley. Who doesn't? I mean, c'mon - this is the look he had when he pitched a no-hitter for the '77 Indians, won 20 for the '78 Sox, helped pitch the '84 Cubs to the playoffs, and re-defined the closer role for the late-'80s A's. This is the look he had during his Studio 54 youth, when he was inventing his own lingo, throwing yakkers during the game, then drinking oil and licking beef and living the high life after one more inevitable victory, and it's damn sure the look he's going to have into his mid-50's if he can pull it off. Don't listen to the haters, Eck. You are pulling it off, and those of us with graying scalps and expanding bellies salute you. Now go lick some beef, kid.