EDITOR’S NOTE: This excerpt from “The Franchise: Boston Red Sox: A Curated History of the Sox” is reprinted with the permission of Triumph Books. For more information and to order a copy, please visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org or TriumphBooks.com/FranchiseRedSox.
When you go almost 90 years in between World Series championships, there has to be more to it than just bad luck.
Yes, it was the Red Sox’s misfortune, for three straight trips to the Fall Classic—1967, 1975, and 1986—to play the National League champion with the best record of any NL pennant winner from that decade.
And yes, given that all three Series went a full seven games before the Red Sox lost each time, surely some bad breaks anddebatable calls played parts.
Then there was the institutional racism, the startling inability to acknowledge the importance of pitching, and other factors.
But when the Sox finally, ultimately, at long last won the 2004 World Series, it became apparent that their long drought may have also had something to do with makeup.
The Red Sox, of course, had had great players before— several of whom are now represented in Cooperstown. They’dhad capable managers; savvy front office executives; and, say what you will about him, a supportive, eager-to-spend longtime owner.
Not until 2004, however, did they have the proper mix of players, the right combination of personalities, the perfect alchemy to win it all.
The 2004 club had that because both Theo Epstein and Terry Francona intuitively understood that it took a special player to survive and thrive in Boston.
While there are other big-market, high-pressure cities— New York and Philadelphia immediately come to mind—Boston, pre-2004, was probably in a class by itself.
Every year that didn’t end with a championship was a failure. A combustible media environment—egged on by talk shows that traded in recrimination and blame—and a loyal fan base starved by the long title drought helped to make Boston a challenge for many players.
Some players were mystified by the unending focus on past failures—the recountings of 1978 or 1986—and wondered what all of that had to do with them. Some didn’t understand the linkage between past teams and their own. When a modern-dayplayer committed an error, was it necessary to invoke the memory of Bill Buckner? Must a rookie pitcher be reminded ofthe travails of Bobby Sprowl, circa 1978?
Such references were, to the players, ancient history, unrelated to them. For the fans, however, it was all linear—along, connective string of disappointments, one after another.
The fog of negativity that hung over the club—with some lingering from the previous October and Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS heartbreak at Yankee Stadium—wasn’t going to be lifted anytime soon. It would linger until the Red Sox changed the narrative by finally winning.
If the 2003 season taught the front office anything—other than the need for a more reactive manager—it was that the team needed additional starting pitching. In Curt Schilling, the Red Sox found the perfect supplement to the rotation.
Only a few years earlier, Schilling had faced the Yankees in the 2001 World Series and emerged victorious, starting and besting Roger Clemens in Game 7. Schilling had willingly embraced the challenge of defeating the game’s most storied franchise. The Yankees already had the most championships in baseball history, and when the 9/11 attacks took place and the Yankees advanced to the World Series less than two months after that horrific event, it seemed that the baseball gods had arranged for New York to emerge victorious.
Prior to Game 1 of the 2001 World Series, with Schilling set to pitch for the Arizona Diamondbacks, I asked him aboutthe task of combating the “mystique and aura” associated with MLB’s most storied franchise.
“Those are dancers in a nightclub,” Schilling said, dismissively. “Those are not things we concern ourselves with on the ball field.”
Two years later, after a Thanksgiving Day visit from Theo Epstein and assistant GM Jed Hoyer, Schilling waived his no-tradeagreement and became a member of the Sox. He understood the expectations that came with such an assignment, and instead of shrinking from them, embraced them wholeheartedly.
Not long after Schilling was dealt to the Sox, he filmed a commercial for New England Ford Dealers. In it, Schilling wasshown hitchhiking in the desert. He got into a truck with his Red Sox equipment bag and when the driver asked where he was headed, Schilling replied: “Boston—gotta break an 86-year-old curse.”
His frankness and willingness to embrace the situation made Schilling an instant favorite of the fan base. Here was someone who spoke their language, who arrived with a healthy hatred of the rival Yankees.
Schilling’s willingness to embrace chances to defeat the Evil Empire—as Red Sox CEO and president Larry Lucchino had humorously dubbed them—didn’t end with his arrival into town.
That October, before starting in Game 1 of the 2004 ALCS at Yankee Stadium, Schilling understood his responsibility and relished the assignment.
“I’m not sure I can think of any scenario more enjoyable than making 55,000 people from New York shut up,” said Schilling.
Here was someone, clearly, who didn’t worry about providing additional motivation for the opponent or fret aboutproviding bulletin board material. Schilling said what was on his mind—this would become more problematic in his post–playing career—and didn’t apologize.
The Red Sox had others who were equally irreverent, who had just the proper kind of “don’t back down” attitude.
Kevin Millar didn’t have the career credentials to match those of Schilling. He had never been an All-Star, had neverbeen a contender for an individual award, and certainly had never shared a World Series MVP trophy the way Schilling had.
But Millar had something that couldn’t be voted upon or awarded. He had a carefree spirit, an easygoing way that allowed him to ignore the noise that could so easily envelop a Red Sox team.
It was Millar—part DH, part first baseman, part clubhouse clown—who came up with the phrase “Cowboy Up” for the Sox.It was Millar’s rallying cry, a way to motivate his teammates. In the middle of a losing streak? About to begin a big series? Ready to dive headlong into the postseason? It was time to “Cowboy Up.”
It worked. If the Red Sox weren’t exactly immune to the outside pressures and expectations associated with playing forthe team, they could lower the volume by acting like kids whose parents had left them home for the weekend.
So, it wasn’t unusual for Johnny Damon to be performing naked pullups in the home clubhouse at Fenway minutes before game time.
Some of this atmosphere was the result of manager Terry Francona enforcing few rules and allowing the players to be themselves—however dangerous that might have sometimes been. But Francona trusted his players to get their work in andbe prepared for games.
If they then stretched the boundaries of good taste or defied baseball convention, what was the harm?
Of course, it helped that even the team’s star players were larger-than-life personalities who didn’t shy away from expressing themselves. Ace Pedro Martinez, when confronted with the specter of the Curse of the Bambino, issued a challenge to the slugger’s ghost: “Wake up the damn Bambino, and I’ll drill him in the ass!” exclaimed an exasperated Martinez.
Slugger David Ortiz, motivated to prove the Minnesota Twins had committed an epic miscalculation by releasing himafter 2002, began to view every at-bat as an opportunity at redemption.
And then there was Manny Ramirez.
Ramirez wasn’t new to the team, having signed a massive free agent deal with the Sox after the 2000 season. But witheach passing year, the legendary tales of “Manny being Manny” grew more widespread.
Contrary to public perception, Ramirez was a student of hitting. He would typically arrive at the ballpark late in themorning or early in the afternoon to watch video of that night’s opposing starting pitcher. He would take extra batting practice,hit flips in the cage, and work on his timing before leaving for a midday nap.
Ramirez’s persona was that of a carefree swinger who got by on God-given talent and little else. But that was hardly thecase. Ramirez worked at his craft and studiously prepared for his at-bats, treating each as a precious opportunity.
There were tales—apocryphal or not—of Ramirez intentionally missing pitches early in an at-bat in an effort todisarm the pitcher and induce him to throw the same pitch again, either later in the same at-bat or perhaps the next one.
Then, Ramirez would be positioned to club the same pitch that he had awkwardly whiffed on earlier.
But Ramirez was not immune to some strange behavior, some of which his teammates found entertaining, and some they did not.
In Baltimore for a series against the Orioles during 2004, Damon raced back to track a ball hit by the Orioles’ David Newhan. Finally retrieving the ball on the Camden Yards warning track, Damon, who was not blessed with a major league–caliber arm, turned to fling the ball back into the infield as quickly as he could.
Ramirez, who had sprinted over from left field to back up the play, lunged at Damon’s weak offering—even though the ball had traveled only about 75 feet. It was then up to Ramirez to make yet another throw to the Red Sox infielder stationed on
the lip of the infield. The additional exchange on the unexpected cutoff meant that what should have been a triple for Newhan was, instead, an inside-the-park home run.
In other words, this was not a group burdened by pressures. They were too busy enjoying themselves.
Sometimes, improving clubhouse chemistry came as a result of subtraction rather than addition.
When Epstein determined that the Sox needed a midseason shakeup—both to improve a subpar infield defense and to bolster the team’s delicate clubhouse chemistry—he gambled on unloading Nomar Garciaparra.
Garciaparra, who had two batting titles earlier in his career, had become a liability in the infield. Of equal concern was thathe had become a sullen presence in the clubhouse, alternately railing at ownership for withdrawing an earlier contract extension and at the local media for what he perceived to be their suffocating and unnecessarily—in his mind, anyway—negative coverage.
He had a line added to the carpet in the home clubhouse, to keep reporters away from his locker. He bitterly complained about scoring decisions and in general, seemed to be brooding about some perceived slight or another.
When Garciaparra was shipped out in a complicated four-team deal at the deadline, it was as though a fog had been lifted in the clubhouse. No more conspiracy theories or complaints about the local media being out to get the Sox.
In Garciaparra’s place came shortstop Orlando Cabrera, who played with a light spirit and infectious energy. He soon was a crowd favorite.
Still, for all the transformations to the team’s makeup, they found themselves just nine innings away from being sweptin the American League Championship, capped by a 19–8 shellacking in Game 3.
After all that had been done to improve over last year— the trade for Schilling; the signing of Keith Foulke; the trade-deadlineblockbuster—were the Sox really going to go down in such ignominious fashion? A year prior, they had at least fought and scrapped to go seven games—and into extra innings at that—before losing. Now, were they really going to be swept, in front of their own fans?
In the owners’ suite, John Henry, Tom Werner, and Larry Lucchino crafted a press release congratulating the Yankees on their victory. It had come to this.
Or had it?
