Hub too good for Nomar
by Steve Buckley
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Hey, Nomar Garciaparra, do you want something to really complain about?
Here goes, hotshot: You don't deserve to play in Boston.
You don't deserve to play in a baseball hotbed. You don't deserve to play for a team that somehow manages to attract 30,000 fans for a Monday afternoon makeup game against the Cleveland Indians.
You don't deserve to play for a region whose fans know as much about Hippo Vaughn as Mo Vaughn.
Devil Rays fans don't know who's pitching tonight. Red Sox fans know who pitched the 1948 playoff game against the Indians. They know the name of Trot Nixon's wife, Joe Castiglione's son and Joe Mooney's favorite college football team.
If you're a Red Sox fan, Johnny Pesky is an old family friend. Lou Gorman may well have made one of the worst trades in baseball history, but Sox fans nonetheless will slap the guy on the back and shake his hand when they see Uncle Lou at a banquet. Bill Buckner made an error for the ages and then, a few years later, received a standing ovation when he returned to the Red Sox.
Dennis Eckersley chose to come back to Boston to end his brilliant career. Jim Rice, born in South Carolina, and Dwight Evans, born in California, and Rico Petrocelli, born in Brooklyn, still live in the area.
Luis Tiant never has to pick up a check. Thirty-six years after he pitched his last game for the Red Sox, Dick Radatz gets to go on the radio and talk about his old team. Jim Lonborg settled in as a local dentist. Walt Dropo, Dom DiMaggio, Ted Lepcio and dozens of others became Boston businessmen.
Yeah, those guys really hate it here.
But that's the way it is. Some Red Sox players eat it up, enjoy it, embrace it. They arrive here as Boston players and they wind up as Bostonians.
And then there are the Nomar Garciaparras of the world.
Sorry, No. 5, but you don't deserve to play in a region whose fans have revered you, respected you and cheered for you since the day you arrived in the big leagues.
You've complained about the fans. You've complained about the media. Last year, when Johnny Cumberland got sacked as pitching coach, you complained about the ownership. And remember a couple of years ago, when the Sox sent Lou Merloni down to Pawtucket? You complained about that.
Oh, and do you remember a few years back and you were flirting with .400, and the writers asked you to talk about it? You waved everyone off, told everyone to get lost with those questions, and made it clear that you only care about winning, not numbers.
Yet just last week, you picked up the phone and called the press box and whined to official scorer Charlie Scoggins about getting an error turned into a hit.
You said the sun got into your eyes.
No, Nomar, it wasn't the sun. It was the spotlight. It's been in your eyes for five seasons now, and it has blinded you. You see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear.
Negative media? The knights of the keyboard have rewarded you with journalistic bouquets. We have tiptoed around your locker, seeking out the Johnny Damons and Lou Merlonis for postgame quotes, and we only talk to you when you deign to speak to us. Out of respect, we have left you alone.
Yet all you do is complain. Last year, you tossed out your famous, ``That's why nobody wants to play here,'' comment. You turtled the very next day, said the writers had no way of knowing what you were talking about. Yeah, right. The pitching coach gets the gate, you walk past a bunch of writers and say, ``That's why nobody wants to play here,'' and we get it messed up.
Ditto with last week, when you - Mr. I Just Care About Winning - threw third base coach Mike Cubbage under the bus after getting picked off second base. If you really cared only about winning, it wouldn't have made a difference if Cubbage had been sitting in a rocking chair in that third-base coach's box, sipping a latte and reading ``Heidi.'' If it was winning that was on your mind, Mike Cubbage would not have been a postgame topic.
If it's so bad around here, Nomar, go home. If we're all so negative, so cynical, so pessimistic, so Calvinist, believing that every pennant is predestined in spring training, then you should probably not be here.
If that's the case, go home. Go play for the Dodgers. Go play for the Angels. Go play for the Padres. Soak up the sun, the atmosphere, the good times and the positive press.
But remember this, Nomar: If the Red Sox trade you, or if you stick around long enough to declare free agency, you may one day discover, to your eternal sadness, that Boston wasn't such a bad place to play after all.
Ask Fred Lynn.
Ask Mo Vaughn.
Ask Bruce Hurst.
You are a driven performer, Nomar.
Is it possible that playing for the Red Sox helps drive you?
by Steve Buckley
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Hey, Nomar Garciaparra, do you want something to really complain about?
Here goes, hotshot: You don't deserve to play in Boston.
You don't deserve to play in a baseball hotbed. You don't deserve to play for a team that somehow manages to attract 30,000 fans for a Monday afternoon makeup game against the Cleveland Indians.
You don't deserve to play for a region whose fans know as much about Hippo Vaughn as Mo Vaughn.
Devil Rays fans don't know who's pitching tonight. Red Sox fans know who pitched the 1948 playoff game against the Indians. They know the name of Trot Nixon's wife, Joe Castiglione's son and Joe Mooney's favorite college football team.
If you're a Red Sox fan, Johnny Pesky is an old family friend. Lou Gorman may well have made one of the worst trades in baseball history, but Sox fans nonetheless will slap the guy on the back and shake his hand when they see Uncle Lou at a banquet. Bill Buckner made an error for the ages and then, a few years later, received a standing ovation when he returned to the Red Sox.
Dennis Eckersley chose to come back to Boston to end his brilliant career. Jim Rice, born in South Carolina, and Dwight Evans, born in California, and Rico Petrocelli, born in Brooklyn, still live in the area.
Luis Tiant never has to pick up a check. Thirty-six years after he pitched his last game for the Red Sox, Dick Radatz gets to go on the radio and talk about his old team. Jim Lonborg settled in as a local dentist. Walt Dropo, Dom DiMaggio, Ted Lepcio and dozens of others became Boston businessmen.
Yeah, those guys really hate it here.
But that's the way it is. Some Red Sox players eat it up, enjoy it, embrace it. They arrive here as Boston players and they wind up as Bostonians.
And then there are the Nomar Garciaparras of the world.
Sorry, No. 5, but you don't deserve to play in a region whose fans have revered you, respected you and cheered for you since the day you arrived in the big leagues.
You've complained about the fans. You've complained about the media. Last year, when Johnny Cumberland got sacked as pitching coach, you complained about the ownership. And remember a couple of years ago, when the Sox sent Lou Merloni down to Pawtucket? You complained about that.
Oh, and do you remember a few years back and you were flirting with .400, and the writers asked you to talk about it? You waved everyone off, told everyone to get lost with those questions, and made it clear that you only care about winning, not numbers.
Yet just last week, you picked up the phone and called the press box and whined to official scorer Charlie Scoggins about getting an error turned into a hit.
You said the sun got into your eyes.
No, Nomar, it wasn't the sun. It was the spotlight. It's been in your eyes for five seasons now, and it has blinded you. You see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear.
Negative media? The knights of the keyboard have rewarded you with journalistic bouquets. We have tiptoed around your locker, seeking out the Johnny Damons and Lou Merlonis for postgame quotes, and we only talk to you when you deign to speak to us. Out of respect, we have left you alone.
Yet all you do is complain. Last year, you tossed out your famous, ``That's why nobody wants to play here,'' comment. You turtled the very next day, said the writers had no way of knowing what you were talking about. Yeah, right. The pitching coach gets the gate, you walk past a bunch of writers and say, ``That's why nobody wants to play here,'' and we get it messed up.
Ditto with last week, when you - Mr. I Just Care About Winning - threw third base coach Mike Cubbage under the bus after getting picked off second base. If you really cared only about winning, it wouldn't have made a difference if Cubbage had been sitting in a rocking chair in that third-base coach's box, sipping a latte and reading ``Heidi.'' If it was winning that was on your mind, Mike Cubbage would not have been a postgame topic.
If it's so bad around here, Nomar, go home. If we're all so negative, so cynical, so pessimistic, so Calvinist, believing that every pennant is predestined in spring training, then you should probably not be here.
If that's the case, go home. Go play for the Dodgers. Go play for the Angels. Go play for the Padres. Soak up the sun, the atmosphere, the good times and the positive press.
But remember this, Nomar: If the Red Sox trade you, or if you stick around long enough to declare free agency, you may one day discover, to your eternal sadness, that Boston wasn't such a bad place to play after all.
Ask Fred Lynn.
Ask Mo Vaughn.
Ask Bruce Hurst.
You are a driven performer, Nomar.
Is it possible that playing for the Red Sox helps drive you?
