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John Marzano, former catcher for the Red Sox, Texas, and Seattle, member of the 1984 Olympic team, and MLB.com commentator died yesterday of an apparent heart attack.
Here he is playing Nolan Ryan to Paul O’Neill’s Robin Ventura. Marzano was the picture of a South Philly tough guy and he will be missed.
Photo taken August 28, 1996, courtesy of AP Photo/Loren Callahan.
Like the drummers in spinal tap, right-handed Red Sox relievers always wonder what doom awaits them when Mike Timlin nurses his way back to health. Bryan Corey need wonder no longer: he was designated for assignment so that Timlin would be available for the Yankees series.
Along with Timlin he was one of the more enthusiastic percussionists of the pen, so if they miss a beat or two tonight, it might be because Corey is no longer thumping away.
Beneath a crisp blue sky and choreographed to a soaring soundtrack performed by the Boston Pops the 2007 World Champions received their rings today at Fenway.
Banners for the five previous championships, 1903, 1912, 1915, 1916, 1918, dropped in sequence. Just as it had three years ago, the enormous 2004 banner unrolled over the entire left field wall. Then the 2007 banner unfurled, battling against updrafts to billow stubbornly before settling.
Greats from the Bruins, Celtics, and Patriots brought their respective trophies with the rings to a table. Johnny Bucyk had the heftiest burden and made no show of taking the shortest route possible to respite. Bill Russell, Danny Ainge, John Havlicek, Bobby Orr, and Tedy Bruschi were among the attendees.
Representing the 2004 Red Sox were Brian Daubach, Curtis Leskanic, and David McCarty. Johnny Pesky did not call Leskanic a son of bitch on camera, but later Number Six managed to slip in a “goddamn” while hoisting a smaller version of the 2007 banner up the flagpole in center field.
This time Carl Beane did not announce each coach, staff, or player’s name this time, nor did Terry Cashman sing a Red Sox version of “Talkin’ Baseball.”
Instead, recognizable movie themes were timed with players’ entrances:
While walking towards the flagpole to Ramirez and Royce Clayton were in profound conversation. “Manny’s telling him he can get a lot of money for the ring on eBay,” quipped my friend.
During the playing of the anthem, one Boston Pops member turned around to take a picture of the United States flag on the wall.
From behind that flag Bill Buckner emerged. The ovation was lovingly long. He made his long walk from the wall to the mound, obviously moved but at a loss as to how to respond. His hands alternated between being tucked in his pockets and wiping away tears. As he stood on the mound he murmured quiet “thank yous.” After tossing a strike to Dwight Evans they hugged. Years of misplaced blame were purged in those few precious moments.
Pesky stood at the microphone with his bat on his shoulder. As a proper gentleman should before undertaking any task of great import he doffed his cap. “Let’s play ball.”
For the second time in four years the Red Sox visited the White House and were feted by the president on the South Lawn of the White House. On Wednesday, February 27, George W. Bush spoke lucidly on one of the few issues in which he is expert — baseball. The other topics in which he has experience — evading military service, drug and alcohol abuse, pilfering elections, and the like — are not discussed in polite company.
President Bush made mention of “the Mighty Red Sox Nation,” practically recognizing it as a sovereign state. Fanfare such as this and the fact that the Red Sox outdrew the Yankees in road games incited Hank Steinbrenner’s rant in The New York Times’ Play Magazine.
“Red Sox Nation?” Hank says. “What a bunch of [expletive] that is. That was a creation of the Red Sox and ESPN, which is filled with Red Sox fans. Go anywhere in America and you won’t see Red Sox hats and jackets, you’ll see Yankee hats and jackets. This is a Yankee country. We’re going to put the Yankees back on top and restore the universe to order.”
The feature chronicles Hank’s ascent to the Yankee throne (and descent into madness) thanks not to his talents but because of the divorce of Steve Swindal, the former heir to imperium, from George’s daughter Jennifer. It also described the architecture and embellishments of the new Yankee Stadium, which called to mind rallies at Nuremberg rather than a leisurely day enjoying the national pastime.
If the stadium’s exterior, with its limestone and granite façade, is self-consciously retro, the interior will be thoroughly modern.... The team’s interlocking “NY” logo will be everywhere, from the door handles to the latticework. Lining the so-called Great Hall that runs from home plate to the right-field foul pole will be huge two-sided banners, with Yankee legends in black-and-white on one side and more recent superstars in color on the other. The Yankees are eight years removed from their last world championship, but it’s hard not to regard the new stadium, with its over-the-top evocation of Yankee mythology, as an in-your-face assertion of Yankee might, a pointed and — depending on your perspective — either desperate or reassuring reminder that the team is less a baseball club than an American institution. It will be Red Sox Nation’s version of hell.
As hellish as the current administration of the United States is, I much prefer my team visiting 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, the site of a true monument of democracy. Such sojourn means more than erecting a cenotaph to long-past greatness.
Photos courtesy The White House and The New York Yankees/Associated Press, respectively.
With the signing of Bartolo Colon to a minor league contract, Curt Schilling demonstrated marked relief.
“This is awesome! That butterball eats so much, most of the food that supplies the big league club will have to be trucked down to Pawtucket. There won’t be as much food around here to tempt me to break my weight clause.”
Showing off his relatively svelte figure to the group of media people he cornered, Schilling also stated his hopes that Colon might contribute to the major league club this season. “And if he manages to make the roster, I’ll be sure to stand near him so I’ll look even thinner than I appear now.”
Terry Francona, who signed a three-year extension today, had some concerns about both Schilling and Colon in the same clubhouse. “Wouldn’t that much mass potentially warp the fabric of the space-time continuum?”
“Or would they be more like a binary star system, like 61 Cygni?” When questioned about whether Colon or Schilling could still be considered stars, Francona backed off the twin star comparison. “Now that I think about it, Cygni is made up of two K class stars, which are on the smaller side. These guys are more Class B, but no where near the size of Class O.”
Manny ambled into the Fort Myers training compound, the sun barely tinging the horizon with light. Earlier than his teammates, earlier than most Red Sox coach staff, as usual.
He was surprised to see Daisuke already there getting a massage.
“Hey, man. You here pretty early, eh.”
“Yeah, had to get some massage therapy,” the pitcher replied, looking up from the table drowsily.
Rolling his right shoulder, Manny thought a back rub before sitting for hours in front of the television analyzing pitchers would be ideal. “Can I get one, too? Just feeling a little tight around here, you know.” The slugger gestured to his back.
The masseur cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I am supposed to only treat Mr. Matsuzaka, but since no one else is around, I could, maybe, after I’m finished here....”
Manny sensed the awkwardness of the situation. “Oh, no, no, no it’s okay, man. I don’t want you to get in trouble or anything.” To put everyone back at ease, he changed the subject.
“I’m gonna negotiate my next contract and get me my own guy,” he smiled broadly while stretching. “Getting old, you know. I ain’t got no pop no more.”
Matsuzaka chuckled. “It’s not easy getting perks out of the Red Sox. Mr. Henry, Mr. Lucchino, Theo... they are smart businessmen. That’s why I got Boras.”
“I don’t know, I don’t hear a lot of good things about that guy, you know. It’s all money, money, money.” Manny turned away to make his sojourn to the video room.
“He got me that Lincoln Town Car.”
Turning around slowly with delight shining across his face, Manny asked, “Could you give me Boras’s number? Oh, and Dice-K, you can tell your guys to stop looking for that Skyline GT-R for me. I bet Scott can get that included in my next deal.”
Overly vigorous campaign sign waving for John McCain, long hours of MMORPG testing, reaching too far to pat himself on the back, or some combination of the three has torn Curt Schilling’s rotator cuff.
When the hurler went against Red Sox team doctor Thomas Gill’s advice and opted for season-ending surgery upon the recommendation of his personal orthopaedic surgeon, Craig Morgan, the Red Sox threatened to void his contract. Per the collective bargaining agreement, a third doctor was consulted. David Altchek, the medical director for the Mets, agreed with Gill’s assessment. In the end, Schilling decided against surgery, but will be out until the All-Star break at the very least.
In the battle of medical school credentials, Altchek graduated from Cornell, Morgan went to Emory, and Gill attended Harvard. All are board-certified orthopaedic surgeons. At both ends of the spectrum, Altchek boasts Carl Pavano and Pedro Martinez as patients. Morgan has testimonials from Schilling, Paul Byrd, and Jeff Brantley on his practice’s site. Massachusetts General Hospital, where Gill practices, is more discreet about its clientèle, although it does note that Gill is also the Patriots’ Head Team Physician.
That expertise will be brought to bear on Tim Wakefield in 2008, as well as the needs of the young arms of Clay Buchholz and Jon Lester. File the Johan Santana blockbuster under “sometimes the best deals are the ones you don’t make.”
At the moment, Gill might be preoccupied with providing psych referrals for a number of Patriots players.
Not because he’s a common man, but because he enunciates.
Sean Casey is known as “the Mayor” because of his affable nature; he’s the friendliest player in baseball five years running according to Sports Illustrated polls.
On second thought, he went .296/.353/.393 in 143 bats, which is all too common. But, his .363/.929 to .285/.716 left/right split compliments Kevin Youkilis well (.290/.815 to .287/.854), if that could even be seen as a problem that required fixing.
Casey inked a one-year, $700,000 deal today. He joins reliever David Aardsma, who came to Boston earlier this week from the White Sox in return for minor leaguers Willy Mota and Miguel Socolovich, as the latest Red Sox acqusitions.
These aren’t earth-shattering deals, of course. The alternative could have been days of torturous deal-making with Johan Santana’s agent Peter Greenberg while bidding farewell to either Jacoby Ellsbury or John Lester. Mike Lowell and Casey attempting to out-nice each other will make for a fun-filled 2008.
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