Author: Dan Freedman

It’s that time of year…again. When honors are given out and people feel snubbed and hackles get raised. Critics get on their high horse and tell the collective voters what they did wrong, and in doing so, how certain people were wronged. There is no shortage of soapboxes, and there is certainly no shortage of ink spilt about what the right choices were, that we need to fix the system, and how we need to be better next year. It’s essentially a January rite of passage. But enough about the Oscars. Let’s deal with important matters – a museum in Central New York that houses the greatest to ever play the game, as well as a few others.

The festivities kicked off in December, when the Today’s Game Committee voted to induct Harold Baines (as well as Lee Smith) into the Hall of Fame. That’s right. In case you were not paying attention, a guy who never received more than 6.1% of the BBWA vote was chosen to have his plaque in the hallowed first floor Gallery. Suffice it to say, there was much pearl clutching about this decision. There were countless articles written asking if Harold Baines, then why not ______ (fill in your favorite player); and how allowing Baines in lowers the bar and thus dilutes the exclusivity and specialness of the Hall of Fame. Hell, my boyhood idol – Will Clark – was thrown around as deserving of induction if the likes of Harold Baines can get the call.

But after all the Sturm und Drang, we really need to ask one basic question: Should Harold Baines be in the Hall of Fame? By all accounts, no. Here are the facts:

• It used to be 3,000 hits punched your ticket, but the PED era upended that assumption. Baines collected 2,866.
• 500 homeruns was another key threshold. Baines had 384.
• His career OPS of 121 is 340^th on the all-time list, tied with Jason Bay, Jeff Burroughs, Ron Cey, and Cecil Cooper. Not exactly a list of Hall of Fame hopefuls.
• He did make six all-star appearances and won the Silver Slugger Award in 1989 (at DH). So he has that going for him.
• It seems Baines best qualification is that according to Bill James’ Similarity Score, his career looks a lot like that of Tony Perez, Al Kaline, Billy Williams, and Andre Dawson – all Hall members. So I guess, based on that standard, if it looks like a duck…

In short, Baines should not be making reservations at the Otesaga Hotel in mid-July, but he will be.

**********

Yesterday, the results of the BBWA voting were released (it’s hard to understand why they don’t coordinate the Today’s Game Committee vote with the BBWA vote, but considering all of the other issues with this process, that seems like the smallest nit to pick). Lost in the ballyhoo of Mariano Rivera being the first unanimous inductee was a former third-baseman turned designated hitter who made it to Cooperstown in his last year of eligibility. This, of course, was not lost on the denizens of Seattle, who have spent countless hours in the Kingdome and T-Mobile Park (née Safeco Field) lobbying for Edgar Martinez’s induction. For a baseball town that has suffered many slings and arrows, Tuesday was a banner day. And yet, the question resounds: Is Edgar Martinez Hall-Worthy (h/t to Elaine Bettis). He is right on the edge, but when put into the proper context, he makes the grade.

Edgar has a career OPS+ of 147 (meaning, for his career, he was 47% better than the average MLB player). That is 42^nd on the all-time list. Here are the players with a higher career OPS+ who are not in the Hall of Fame:

1. Barry Bonds (for obvious reasons)
2. Mike Trout (still active)
3. “Shoeless” Joe Jackson  (not eligible, for obvious reasons)
4. Pete Browning (1882-1894)
5. Mark McGwire (for obvious reasons)
6. Dave Orr (1883-1890)
7. Dick Allen (no one knows why)
8. Joey Votto (still active)
9. Manny Ramirez (for obvious reasons)
10. Charlie Keller (1939-1952)
11. Miguel Cabrera (still active)
12. Gavvy Cravath (1908-1920)
13. Charley Jones (1875-1888)
14. Benny Kauff (1912-1920)
15. Albert Pujols (still active)

Edgar had a career bWAR of 68.4. This is 115^th all-time. Here is the list of players who have more career bWAR and are not in the Hall of Fame:

1. Bonds
2. Alex Rodriguez (not yet eligible)
3. Pujols
4. Pete Rose (not eligible, for obvious reasons)
5. Curt Schilling (if he stops tweeting, he probably makes it)
6. Jim McCormick (1878-1887)
7. Bill Dahlen (1891-1911)
8. Lou Whitaker (should be, and when he is inducted, it will be the subject of many think pieces)
9. Larry Walker (his prospects are getting better each year)
10. Derek Jeter (will be the second unanimous selection next year)
11. Rafael Palmeiro (PEDs, smh)
12. Scott Rolen (another controversial vote)
13. Carlos Beltran (not yet eligible)
14. Rick Reuschel (yeah, I can’t figure this one out either)
15. Miggy
16. Manny
17. Robinson Cano (still active)

When you look at the above lists, it’s hard to justify not having Edgar in the HOF.

And if that is not enough to back up his candidacy, let’s go to Jay Jaffe’s JAWS analysis (Jay being the foremost expert on Hall of Fame worthiness), which compares career bWAR, a player’s 7-year peak, and total JAWS:

As I stated above, it’s close, but Edgar deserves to give a speech in July.

**********

Since Baines got in last December, and leading up to yesterday’s announcement, living in Los Angeles, I have heard the following question numerous times: If Harold Baines is a Hall-of-Famer, and Edgar Martinez is a Hall-of-Famer, then isn’t Steve Garvey a Hall-of-Famer?

Now, for some of you, that is a name you have neither heard nor thought of in quite some time. For others, his name evokes “Not My Padre” bumper stickers. But for many, those of you donning your #6 jerseys at Chavez Ravine, you are taken back to that perfect chin dimple, that mop of wavy brown hair, that slick glove, and that ever-so-clutch bat. The true fans can still see his golf swing outside the batter’s box, and his pigeon-toed stance inside it. We all remember the hand above his head as he rounds first base in a Padres uniform in the end credits of This Week in Baseball. For many of you, the answer is yes, sure, of course; if Baines and Martinez are in the Hall, you think, then my man Garvey certainly deserves to be enshrined.

Well, not so fast. Memory is a funny thing. The baseball saying “the older you get, the better you used to be” is perfect for Steve Garvey. We tend to remember with a longing for an easier time, and the ’70s and ’80s, with three basic statistics emblazoned on the screen each time a player came to bat, made it simple to discern the good from the great. But upon deeper inspection, Garvey is many miles and many mistresses from Cooperstown. Herewith, Garvey’s career stats:

Garvey never got more than 42.6% of the BBWA vote while he was HOF eligible.

He did win the 1974 NL MVP, which gives him one more MVP than Baines, but he never won a Silver Slugger Award. Winning four Gold Gloves seems impressive, but when you consider the NL first baseman of his era, I don’t think Tony Perez or Willie Stargell or Pete Rose provided much defensive competition. And once Keith Hernandez joined the league, Garvey’s reign was over.

And, for the coup de grâce to all “Garvey for the Hall” campaigns, let’s again take a look at Jay Jaffe’s JAWS analysis:

To quote Jeff Spicoli, “not even close, bud.”

So there you have it. Edgar is in because he earned it. Garvey is not because he didn’t. And Baines somehow got in because his former manager (Tony LaRussa) and former owner (Jerry Reinsdorf) were on the committee that chose him after-the-fact. But, at the end of the day, the Hall of Fame is still an incredible place; it remains a bucket list destination for any true baseball fan; and – warts and all – it still represents (nearly) all of the best our favorite game has to offer.

Now, about those Oscar nominations…

PLAY BALL!!

I’m lying in bed Saturday morning, minding my own business. I’m scrolling through Twitter, as I am wont to do. And then I come across this beauty:

"That's all for now folks, see you next week on This Week In Baseball" ~ Mel Allen (1985) #TWIB #MLB #History pic.twitter.com/Q7ftJ91gOD

— Baseball by BSmile (@BSmile) November 27, 2018

In the sixty-two seconds it took to watch that video, I was magically transported back to 1985. I’m sitting on the couch, enjoying the waning seconds of This Week in Baseball, sad that it will be a whole ‘nother week until Mel Allen regales us with tales from across the league; but equally excited that the Game of the Week is about to start.

I don’t want to be the “in my day” guy. And I certainly wouldn’t say “it was better when.” But there was something thrilling about that 31-minute sequence, This Week in Baseball followed by the first moments when you would learn which of the two Games of the Week would be airing in your area. If you checked the TV Guide, it would give you two potential games, and you never knew which was yours. The “A” game was called by Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola; the “B” game by Bob Costas and Tony Kubek. Either was a treat. Living in Los Angeles, we took Vinny for granted, so Bob and Tony was a nice change of pace.  No matter which, we were in for two and half hours of sheer bliss (Note: The average time/nine innings in 1985 was 2:39 (3:00 in 2018).)

Our kids have no idea. They have the At Bat app and the MLB Network. They have national broadcasts and games available every night. They can see and follow any player and any team their heart desires. But in our day, unless you had basic cable and were a fan of Dale Murphy or Ryne Sandberg, you didn’t get a whole of lot of mid-week baseball. And pity the American League fan. There were no interleague games. If you wanted to see your favorite Tiger or Indian or Twin, you had to wait until the All-Star game in July. Think about that – there was 50% of MLB that you could only see (a) if you lived in an American League town or (b) when a specific player appeared in the mid-summer’s classic. It is a concept I can barely get my head around – there is no way my kid could.

To make matters worse, in 1985 we didn’t have night baseball in Chicago. So, even if we were lucky enough to have this classic

on top of our television, you had to stay home from school in order to watch the Cubs’ home games. Living on the West Coast meant that, at best, we could catch new Hall of Famer Lee Smith on the hill in the eighth or ninth inning after the bus dropped us off. But, more often than not, we were relegated to Pete Van Wieren (RIP) and Skip Caray (RIP) and the WTBS Superstation (RIP) (now known simply as “TBS”) broadcast of the Braves game from Fulton County Stadium or Olympic Stadium or Three Rivers or The Vet.

But Saturdays were different. Saturdays lent us a world of possibility. Saturdays gave us a chance to see the Royals in their powder blue unis, or the Rangers in theirs. It gave us a chance to see Bell, Barfield, and Moseby roaming the vast expanse of Exhibition Stadium. For me, the moment the mailman delivered the TV Guide on Thursday, I checked to see if I would get another glimpse of Fenway Park. Would my beloved Red Sox at least get the Costas and Kubek treatment? My fingers absorbed a whole lot of ink flipping those small pages searching for who, and when, and where.

Like most kids, I played baseball on Saturdays, and thus was forced to missed many a TWIB and many a GOTW. That is why, even to this day, I still have certain VHS tapes in my attic (not that I have a machine on which to play them). A post-Pony League Carl’s Jr. Happy Star, crinkle-cut fries, and then a spot on the couch with the remote in hand. My spine still gets a tingle as I type these words.

Then, the moment of truth when you walked in the door – never certain that the new-fangled VCR did what it was supposed to do. And you were never sure if someone had pulled out that little tab on the cassette that rendered the tape useless. Tell me something more devastating than coming home and finding that your program didn’t record? The viscerality (yes, I made that word up) of those memories courses through my veins to this day.

I don’t imagine I am alone in this. If I am, please don’t tell me. I am comforted by the idea that there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of other thirteen year old kids who had the same Saturday morning/afternoon routine as me. And when I hear those dulcet chords, when I watch Doc Gooden pitch and Gary Pettis crashing into the wall and Tony Peña in his crouch, when I see Mike Boddicker’s curveball and Steve Garvey in the Padres brown and gold raise his right arm as the music crescendos, I am taken back to an easier and simpler time. I am not saying it was a better time, but I’m not not saying that either.

PLAY BALL!!

The baseball season ended on Sunday, October 28^th. I knew the end was nigh, so even when Manny Machado succumbed to Chris Sale’s slider, it had, at most, three more days and two more games. But the ending is always abrupt. I awoke Monday morning to a final Baseball Tonight podcast. My “friends” Buster and Josh, the gents who informed and entertained my mornings from March through October are now gone from my life…for a few months, anyway.

My finger no longer reflexively finds the At Bat app on my phone. There are no box scores to check, no Joey Votto OBP to track. There are no more Premiere Plays or magic numbers. No, baseball is on hiatus. The game on the field is comfortably hibernating for the next four months while we, the obsessed fans, are left…to our memories. And football, and basketball, I guess.

I love this time of year. I love the changing weather and the coming holidays. But I do miss baseball. And I know I am not alone.

Baseball is more than a hobby, more than the National Pastime (a disputed fact at this point, I am aware). It is part of our daily culture – it is just there. There are no real days off; no Monday-morning quarterbacking or off day between a home and home. It is a metronome over seven months. And it is beautiful. Better writers than me have discussed this ad naseum, so there is no need to expound.

The aforementioned Buster Olney concludes each season – after the final World Series game, after the final interviews, after the final analysis – by playing Bart Giamatti’s reading of his poem The Green Fields of the Mind. If you have never heard it, click here now;  if you have never read it, click here now. It is the perfect capstone to the season gone by; it is the perfect ease into the long off-season. It is just…perfect.

I have read that poem too many times to count. I believe, in many ways, there can never be a better encapsulation of the game.

But there is even more to the game than what is in Bart’s prose. As I wrote last week about attending the World Series, first with my father, and then with my son, baseball is about time, and history, and family. It is about reliving memories, and creating ones anew. I am not skilled enough to fully express the emotions I have felt at a ballpark – be it when I was five years old or pushing fifty. But I write this column in an attempt to articulate my feelings and have a place for my kids to go one day (now? soon?) to understand the how and why of my love for baseball – in all its storied splendor. But I fall short in my depiction.

Then I heard Larry Wilmore interview the highly-lauded historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. In addition to being one of the world’s great political biographers (Team of Rivals, The Bully Pulpit, No Ordinary Time, The Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys, Every Four Years, etc.), she is also an avid baseball fan, born and raised in Brooklyn. When an audience member asked her what she does in her free time, after discussing her love of murder mysteries, she said this (and it is my hope and dream to ever be so eloquent):

I went to Fenway Park when I was at Harvard; so reminiscent of old Ebbets Field, and a team so reminiscent of the old Brooklyn Dodgers. We would almost always win but lose in the end. And I became an equally irrational Red Sox fan. We’ve had season tickets now for more than 35 years. And I must say, when I go to Fenway Park sometimes – my father died before I got married and had my three sons – so I have been able, when I go to Fenway Park, now to imagine myself a young girl once more – when my sons are by my side – in the days of my youth with Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider, Gil Hodges. Fabulous days.

And then when I see my sons, sitting in the place where my father once sat, I feel this invisible loyalty and love linking my sons to the grandfather whose face they never had the chance to see, but whose heart and soul they have come to know through all the stories I have told. Which I think is why in the end I have this curious love of history that I have had my whole life. Allowing me to spend a lifetime looking back into the past. Allowing me to believe that the private people we have loved and lost in our families and the public figures we have respected in history, just as Abraham Lincoln and all these guys wanted to believe, really can live on so long as we pledge to tell and retell the stories of their lives.

I can only hope that, through my words on this page, I am telling and retelling some of these stories.

PLAY BALL!!

If the World Series was going according to plan, it would be tied at one game apiece, and we would staring down the barrel of a five-game series starting Friday afternoon in Los Angeles. As it stands – as you all know – the Dodgers find themselves in an 0-2 hole trying to get fat on some home cooking.

With two losses in two nights, there have been a lot of negative pieces written about the Dodgers:

• Kershaw again having a rough outing in the playoffs.
• The Dodgers’ bullpen once again letting Kershaw down and allowing inherited runners to score.
• Roberts pulling Baez only to have Wood give up a three-run homer.
• The Dodgers electing to keep a collective regular season total of 110 homeruns on the bench because there was a lefty on the hill.

But there is one player who seems to be getting off scot-free.

Before the series, Buster Olney did a breakdown of the key match-ups in the series. Number 1 on that list was “The Dodgers Outfielders vs. The Weirdness of Fenway Park.” Olney opined that insofar as none of the Dodgers outfielders (Matt Kemp excluded – is he still an outfielder?) had ever played at Fenway Park, learning on the fly might prove very difficult.

We did see Kiké Hernandez play a J.D. Martinez liner off the garage door perfectly. And we did see Cody Bellinger make an incredible sliding catch heading towards the Monster in left center. But we also saw Joc Pederson be too tentative going towards the left field line, allowing an Andrew Benintendi looper to nick off his glove and bounce into the stands for a double.

No one has really mentioned those plays, but I would aver that is because none of them were game-changers. But here are three plays that, in my estimation, were. And had the main culprit in all three been either better coached, or more prepared, or had the inclination to fully hustle, or the disinclination to show off, this series could easily be 1-1, or even 2-0 Dodgers. Allow me to explain.

Remember back to the second pitch of the bottom of the 1^st inning of Game 1. The presumptive AL MVP at the plate. He hits a pop-up down the right field line. David Freese – never to be confused with Keith Hernandez at first base – tentatively goes back, worried about the jutting wall, the slick track, the tarp, and the swirling wind, and allows the ball to fall untouched. We all know what Betts did with his second chance.

I have two questions:

(1) Where was Brian Dozier? Before the trade deadline, Dozier played his entire career in the American League. That included 26 games at Fenway Park. He surely knew the surroundings, and, arguably, that is his play. I guess, positioned in the shift and playing behind second base made it impossible for him to get there. So, we will let Dozier off the hook.

(2) Where was Yasiel Puig? He was playing VERY deep in right center. He was essentially playing no doubles defense against the first batter of the game. He was playing too deep for the situation. And while he did sprint towards the ball, in typical Puig fashion, he slowed up when it looked like Freese was camped under the ball.

Five pitches later Betts was in scoring position. Benintendi then lined a single to right, and Puig came up throwing. Again, Puig was playing VERY deep, and was obviously paying very little attention to (a) where he was standing or (b) who was on base. Had he internalized either, he never would have played hero-ball and airmailed a throw to the plate. But Puig ALWAYS wants to show off his arm, and the World Series is not a time for the Wild Horse to be put back in the barn. But, in doing so, he allowed Benny to go to second. So, when two batters later, Martinez singled up the middle, the Red Sox had a two-run lead and Kershaw was on the ropes.

That inning, and that game, could have and would have been wholly different had Betts been retired. Or, even if we assume that the pop-up was uncatchable, what does the game look like if Benintendi doesn’t go to second on Puig’s throw? Alas, Kershaw’s defense let him down…again, and no one has written about Puig’s complicity in those two plays.

Prior to Game 2, Dave Roberts was asked about the Dodgers outfield positioning, and he confirmed that they had been playing too deep. So riddle me this, Batman, how and why was Puig playing 319 feet from homeplate when J.D. Martinez came up with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the 5^th?

Don’t think he was out of position, allow Mike Petriello of MLB.com to shed some light:

Had he been positioned properly, there is a fair chance Puig catches that ball. Sure, it would have been a great play, but haven’t we seen great plays in the playoffs? Hasn’t Puig made great plays? Is it that far-fetched to think Puig gets dirty, keeps the game tied, and leaps, hollers, and gallops his way off the field with his tongue hanging out?

But let’s assume Puig plays it safe and pulls up short. With his arm, he holds Benintendi at third, and keeps it a one-run game. Doesn’t a one-run game change the entire complexion of the next four innings? Do Red Sox fans feel as comfortable with Kimbrel in the 9^th protecting a one-run lead against Machado, Taylor, and Kemp?

Who knows? Well, I think I do.

It is incredible to me that Yasiel Puig, he of the going to the World Series guaranty; he of the massive game-breaking three-run homer in Game 7 of the NLCS; he of the wild and impetuous antics, is getting a free pass for how he – in the span of three plays – so adversely affected the Dodgers chances to win the World Series.

Friday is new day. Walker Buehler could shut down the BoSox offense, and then Rich Hill could dash the hopes of his hometown team, and we could go into Sunday looking at a three-game series. As Jayson Stark likes to say, “Baseball.” There is only one way to find out.

PLAY BALL!!

Anyone who has ever read this site, or walked into my office, or seen me out and about on weekends, knows that I am a die-hard Red Sox fan.

Although I was born in Southern California, our family moved to Connecticut when I was a toddler. That, alone, didn’t make me a BoSox fan. It was my father’s nearly forty years of fandom (at that point) that cast the die. But living in New England, and visiting Fenway Park as a young child, cemented my love.

We moved back West before my seventh birthday, and since that time, I have been what Bill Simmons would call a “sports bigamist” – I love two teams: one in the American League and one in the National. For my entire life this has been easily managed, as neither was good enough to result in a battle on the largest stage. In fact, the Red Sox and Dodgers played each other in the 1916 World Series (to be technical, it was Wilbert Robinson’s Brooklyn Robins against Babe Ruth’s Boston Red Sox), and then didn’t face each other again for 86 years – until the Dodgers swept the BoSox at Dodger Stadium in 2002. In the last 16 years they have only played twelve more games against each other. The only team the Red Sox have faced less than the Dodgers in the interleague era is the Cincinnati Reds.

But those fifteen games were mere squabbles, not even close to royal rumble that is and will be the 2018 World Series.

So here I sit, on the eve of the Fall Classic, torn between two lovers. What is a sports bigamist to do?

When the Brewers pushed the NLCS to Game 7, I started looking into flights to Boston for Games 1 & 2. But once Yasiel Puig’s liner caromed off the top of the center field wall and he crotch-chopped his way around the bases; and once Dave Roberts’ over-managing didn’t come back to bite the team in the ass; and once Kenley Jansen got four outs over the 7^th and 8^th; and once the Dodgers once again failed to do the little things to tack on insurance runs; and once Clayton Kershaw pushed his post-season demons back into the closet for another night to clinch the pennant and potentially a new/extended contract, I began to think that traveling 3,000 miles, when I could travel 13, seemed like a bad idea.

Sure, Dodger Stadium is one of the worst places for fans (exterior views and sightlines notwithstanding). And sure, Fenway Park is an America treasure. But there are some bridges (and transcontinental flights) that are just too far.

My family is divided. As I have previously written, my father came to Los Angeles with the Bums in ’58. He’s been a Dodger fan ever since. But his heart still resides in Southie.

My sisters and their husbands don’t have any particular affinity for the Red Sox, and have fully embraced their hometown team. My friends – many born and raised in L.A. – bleed Dodger blue. The gents with whom I share season tickets have been waiting 30 years (and anxiously since November 1, 2017) for a Dodger parade in DTLA (since long before DTLA was even an abbreviation).

So I will be tuned in Tuesday and Wednesday, and most likely in attendance at some of the games next weekend, knowing that whatever happens I will be happy…and sad. I will be excited…and disappointed. For the first and potentially only time I ever write these words, my and Fox Broadcasting goals are aligned: just give me seven games.

Seven nights of thrilling October baseball, with umpteen pitching changes and countless bat flips and bat licks.

Seven nights of Citgo signs and palm tree views.

Seven nights of exorcised demons for two of the game’s greatest lefties.

Seven nights of minority managers making major decisions on the game’s biggest stage.

Seven nights of Mookie smiles and Kiké joy.

Seven nights of high-wire closers doing their level best to keep cardiologists on both coasts employed well into the winter.

Seven nights of people complaining about Joe Buck.

And seven nights where three hours will never be enough; where four hours won’t be too much; where we get to savor those last drops of baseball before acknowledging to our kids, our spouses, and ourselves, that winter is coming, and spring is so, so far away.

Two years ago I wrote about the 2016 playoffs, envisioning a Cubs-Red Sox showdown. I said this would make me happy:

[A]ll I can hope is that the Red Sox and Cubs are tied at three games apiece, tied after nine innings, and then someone cuts the Eversource/NStar power grid. Then, after a collective groan, everyone calmly and politely exits Fenway Park, gets on the “T”, and goes on with their life. Hope can always spring eternal.

Replace Dodgers with Cubs, and you know how I feel today.

In 2004, I was over the moon when my team celebrated at Yankee Stadium, but I feared that my heart would be ripped out again (see, 1986). 2007 was exciting, but Red Sox fans were still basking in the glow of 2004, and the Rockies didn’t pose much of a threat. 2013 had a totally different feel, as it seemed like the BoSox were playing with house money, getting outplayed in the ALCS save for two massive and timely homeruns. Last year was special as it was the first time in my adult life my hometown team was in the World Series; but it ended with a whimper – a Game 7 that was essentially over before the Dodgers came to bat.

This year – for obvious reasons – is just plain different. Two huge payroll teams who have beaten the best to get to this stage. Two managers who, as players, have already experienced World Series glory. Two franchises steeped in tradition with rabid fanbases who always want more.

We haven’t seen this match up in 102 years. We’ve been waiting a long time. Enough talk.

PLAY BALL!!

October 16, 2003, bottom of the 11^th inning of Game 7 of the American League Championship Series, Tim Wakefield on the mound for his second inning of work.

We all know what happened next.

That night, as we recall, the Red Sox held a three-run lead with six outs to go to advance to the next round (in this case, the World Series). And then the slow motion car crash began.

As a lifelong Red Sox fan, you could feel it: horrific dread; impending doom; we had seen it all before and there was no good way for this to end. Over the years the soul-crushing details may have been different, but the denouement was always the same: Red Sox players alone in the dugout, another team celebrating on the field; Red Sox fans in the stands or on their couch, hands on their heads and tears in their eyes. It hurts just to write the words.

Regardless of the vantage point, the outcome was preordained: the Red Sox were destined to fail.

A year later the heartbreak stage was set yet again, but maybe less painfully. After a 19-8 drubbing in Fenway on a cold Saturday night, it was a fait accompli that the season would be over the following night. A humiliating sweep at the hands of our archrivals, in our park, a year and a day after having our guts ripped out in New York. Game 3 of the ALCS ended at 12:30am local time, so technically, the misery ended Sunday morning.

Now I don’t want to get ecclesiastical, or discuss divine intervention, but something happened in the 19 hours and 50 minutes before the next game began. Maybe it took a wee bit longer; maybe it took nearly twenty-four hours…until 12:01am Monday morning for the planets to shift, for the stars to align, for something otherworldly to happen. But make no mistake, something did happen on that fall New England day of worship.

At 12:01am Monday morning, EVERYTHING changed. It was at that moment that Kevin Millar drew a leadoff walk off Mariano Rivera.

We all know what happened next.

The 3-1 pitch that missed up and in was the first tremor. In years past, Millar takes a hack at ball four, runs the count full, and Ks on a 3-2 cutter off the plate for the first out of the ninth. But now he was standing on first base.

The earth really started to move at 12:03am, when Dave Roberts barely made it back to the bag after a quick pick-off throw. In years past, he would have been a hair slow, allowing for an ignominious and yet fitting way to lose the potential tying run. But now, he just exhaled with relief, wiped the dirt off his jersey, and took another massive lead.

The waters began to recede from the shore at 12:04am, when Roberts’ left hand touched second base a millisecond before the shortstop’s glove. In years past, pundits would forever be talking about how it took the perfect Posada throw and the perfect Jeter tag to get Roberts, and unfortunately for the Fenway Faithful, the Red Sox were denied again. But now, the tying run was in scoring position.

The earth tilted on its axis at 12:05am, when Bill Mueller singled up the middle to tie the game.

And buildings began to fall at 1:22am, when David Ortiz launched a walk-off two-run dinger into the Yankees bullpen to force a Game 5.

Somewhere between 12:01am Sunday morning and 1:22am Monday morning, the fate of an entire organization – an entire city, hell, an entire region – undeniably changed forever.

We all know what happened next.

And so it was that we found ourselves in Yankee Stadium on Tuesday, October 9, 2018. The Red Sox again leading by three runs with six outs to go to get to the next round (in this case, the ALCS). In this version, the Red Sox managed to narrow the margin to three outs to go with a three-run lead and their (the league’s?) best closer on the hill. And then the slow motion car crash began again.

As a lifelong Red Sox fan, you could feel it: horrific dread; impending doom; we had seen it all before and there was no good way for this to end.

But wait. Although we have suffered the ill effects of sports PTSD, we have now come out the other side. We have won three World Series titles in the last 14 years; we have vanquished the Yankees – at Yankee Stadium, no less – on multiple occasions. We knew – in our head if not our hearts – that this time could be different.

A four-pitch walk to Aaron Judge (none were even close) followed by a Didi Gregorius single on a 1-2 pitch that could have been a groundout to first but for the previous walk. Pre-2004, Giancarlo Stanton would not have just represented the tying run, he would have become it. Alas, that world no longer exists. He struck out, meekly.

Another four-pitch walk loaded the bases, and a hit batter made it a two-run game. The ghosts were stirring, but their appearance was not certain.

Gary Sanchez – the Red Sox’s current nemesis – came to the plate. A single ties it, an extra base hit wins it, and a homer crushes the spirit of New England. In years past, we all know what would have happened.

Craig Kimbrel got Sanchez 0-2 with two great fastballs, and then proceeded to run the count full with three pitches nowhere close to the strike zone (#3, #5, #6, to the right). The seventh pitch of the at bat was a dead red, center-cut, fastball (see #7) that Sanchez somehow just missed. Off the bat it didn’t look like much, but it kept carrying deeper and deeper into the New York night. On hits like this, I watch the fielder, as he will give you a good indication of whether or not the ball is playable; but I also watch the fans. In this case, the further Andrew Benintendi drifted towards the wall, the more excited the fans became, the sicker I began to feel.

That play lasted a LONG time. In fact, from the moment the ball left the bat until it landed in the glove, nearly seven second elapsed.

To put that in perspective, the longest hang time of an NFL punt last week was less than six seconds. If we were driving down the highway at 60 MPH, we would travel nearly 600 feet before that ball landed. If our eyes were trained on the game, we would have blinked at least twice between contact and the out being recorded. There is a lot one can do in seven seconds, including, apparently, hold your breath.

The Red Sox 108-win season could have been upended if Sanchez’s ball had flown five more feet. But that would have been a pre-2004 outcome. That was before the world changed.

When super-rookie Gleyber Torres hit that little roller to third (not to be confused with “a little roller up along first”), any number of things could have gone wrong, to wit:

• No throw and the bases are loaded for Andrew McCutchen;
• The throw pulls Steve Pearce off the bag for the same result;
• The throw pulls Pearce off the bag and in his splayed state, Adeiny Hechavarrria scores from second to tie the game; or
• The worst case scenario – which I envisioned in that split second – the throw pulls Pearce off the bag, Pearce tries to right himself and throw Hechavarrria out at the plate, but airmails it home allowing Neil Walker to cruise in with the winning run.

Any of those things could have or would have happened prior to 12:01am on October 18, 2004. And we, as Red Sox fans, sat there Tuesday night ever-fearful that history was going to repeat itself. That the good times were over and that David Price (in Pedro Martinez’s stead) would be on the receiving end of “Who’s Your Daddy?” chants for the rest of time.

When the final out was recorded and the Red Sox had won, Bill Simmons tweeted:

Alas, those demons are gone; they have retreated to the attic or the basement or the Bronx. Sure, the Red Sox will at some point rip our hearts out again; sure, the Yankees will at some point trounce the BoSox again; sure, not every break will go our way forevermore. But, this is not a pre-2004 world. We as Red Sox fans do not live with the knowledge (only the presumption) that the worst will inevitably occur. Now we can be rational, calm, measured, knowing that the only certainty is that bad things will happen to…the Indians.

PLAY BALL!!