Autumn descends, the baseball playoffs begin, and America slows down yet again to see the car wreck that has become the Boston Red Sox.
At a certain point in the last two or three years, the Red Sox decided, tragically, that their key to success in excorcising the demons of the past lay in how “anti-Yankee” they could look and behave. The result has been a steady parade of synthetic rallying cries, perplexing quotes, and juvenile shifts in grooming behavior. Ironically, they resemble the “Bronx Zoo” Yankee teams of the late 70s and early 80s, with the notable exception of a championship ring.
Sometimes, people under pressure do odd things. Witness “Cowboy Up,” Kevin Millar’s pseudo-manly rallying cry of a year ago. The idea that a team from aristocratic New England (chock-full of millionaires who might own horses but most of whom never rode one) might re-define itself as some sort of humble, middle-America rodeo team was laughable. Millar, by most accounts a pretty level headed guy during his time with the Florida Marlins, had clearly been drinking the Epstein Kool Aid since signing with the Red Sox. America collectively rolled its eyes.
One might think that last year’s heartbreaking loss to the Yankees might have brought about a renewed emphasis on focus and discipline. No more corny themes, let’s try and be the best baseball team we can be. Apparently, though, the Sox decided that they simply hadn’t pushed the envelope enough. Johnny Damon, by all accounts a pretty level headed guy during his tour with the Oakland A’s, concluded that a “Cousin It” imitation was in order. Sadly, a guy who’s arguably the best leadoff hitter in baseball now feels a need to say, “I’M JOHNNY DAMON, AND THIS IS MY HAIR! SEE HOW IT FLOWS?”
The “hands-off” approach apparently mandated by Epstein must have rankled Terry Francona, by all accounts a level-headed guy prior to his arrival in Boston. Theo clearly feels that there’s a championship team buried somewhere in his collection of bohemian artists, and fears that rules might stifle their potential. Unfortunately, given their recent track record, Theo might be more conflict avoider than saavy psychologist. That’s a fatal flaw in a general manager.
Their ace pitcher, Pedro Martinez, compensates for a slower fast ball with a thoughtful, introspective side, and a head full of Jeri Curls. Pedro, by most accounts always a certifiable lunatic, now has a pocket pal in Nelson De La Rosa, the midget who starred in the Island of Dr. Moreau. Clearly, one’s descent into baseball mediocrity is much easier to stomach when you have a midget around to tease your hair and listen to your mindless ramblings about Mango Trees.
But more. Trot Nixon and Kevin Millar are clearly trying to dispel the racist allegations often hurled at the Red Sox by emulating the great Emancipator, Abe Lincoln. Is it merely coincidence that “Four Score and seven years ago” was just about 1918? Is there symbolism in their hairy chins, or is it merely another junior high locker room contest, another plea for attention, another example of previously normal people acting…strangely?
The psychosis extends to Red Sox fans, who inexplicably complain about the Yankees payroll. We call this denial. This is tantamount to a cocaine addict pointing at a heroin addict and saying, “Well at least I’m not that bad.”
In the final analysis, Pedro’s “Daddy” comment is more fitting than he probably realized. Because the Red Sox are collectively acting like insecure teenagers in need of some good role models. Thankfully, the Yankees appear ready to help out.

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