Manny Ramirez as Himself

Here it is. Some wrote and wrote well what I was speaking about in my diary entry.
Copyright Slate
For the second time in four seasons, the Boston Red Sox came out from under a whopping deficit to win the pennant. There are those who believe that the momentum swung in this series when Josh Beckett stood the Indians on their heads in Game 5, forcing a return to Fenway Park, and prompting some ominous quotes from out of the Cleveland clubhouse about how much they were going to miss their home field support staff, as though there were no chance that they’d be coming back there to tip them a World Series share. Quite simply, the Cleveland Indians came to Boston wrapped so tightly they made Mitt Romney look like Wavy Gravy. They played that way last night; the third-base line at Fenway might as well have been the Bermuda Triangle. (I think several Cleveland infielders may never be seen again.) And that’s why the true turning point came last week, when Manny Ramirez spoke the truth about baseball.
It came at the end of a lengthy chat with the media, a rare enough occurrence over the past two seasons in which Ramirez has frozen them out. Already he had said that he would trade all his records for a chance at another World Series, which is exactly the right kind of thing to say to people who judge your dedication by the kind of dumbshow you perform in front of the camera. Then, he said that, if Boston were to lose the ALCS, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to those same people. He stood accused, on the front pages of America’s finer tabloid newspapers, and all across the sporting airwaves, in between commercials for auto glass and male-enhancement nostrums, of insufficient grit, of Non-Moxie in the third degree, of Conspiracy To Convince America’s Fans To Lighten the Hell Up. Guilty on all counts.
However, it was impossible to watch the Red Sox over these last three games and not see Ramirez’s words in vivid action. Boston did not play an inning of baseball in which the team was not cool, and loose, and utterly in command of the circumstances. Not even when the double plays killed rally after rally last night, and a 3-2 lead that should have been 9-2 took God’s own time to get to the 11-2 final. You had Dustin Pedroia, swinging from his heels—or swinging from Dave Kingman’s heels, judging from the ferocity of the contact—and the vividly swift Jacoby Ellsbury, a little afterburner at the bottom of the lineup, and Kevin Youkilis bombing the coup de grace off the giant Coke bottles above the leftfield wall. Even the final out, which Coco Crisp ran down a millisecond before getting a face full of wall in centerfield, was a recklessly obtained one. This was a team that realized that losing wasn’t the end of the world, and therefore, losing was nothing of which to be afraid. Manny saw that first and brought the rest of them along.
Click to read more

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *