The Architects of the Red Sox, in an effort to end a heartbreaking and painful (yet entertaining) 86-year championship drought, secured Curt Schilling last winter from Jerry Colangelo for two cans of baked beans and a crate of lobsters.
Colangelo, who hates Steinbrenner beyond human comprehension, was willing to be an accomplice in the architects’ attempt to reverse the curse. After all, he had just demanded Soriano, Nick Johnson, and the stadium itself from the Yanks for Schilling, knowing that they would have to refuse, and now he handed Schilling off to the Boston for nothing.
Once Schilling signed with the Sox, he took a crash course on how to hate the Yankees. Ben Affleck called him, so did Stephen King—probably a few thousand screaming drunks from the Cask ’n Flagon did too.
Schilling drank the kool-aid and became part of Red Sox nation. He understood his purpose. "This is what I had envisioned when we agreed to come here last year, was to be here for games like this," Schilling, said before Game 1.
"I signed to be in this situation. I want to be part of a team that does something that has not been done in almost a century.”
That Schilling was brought in to beat the Yankees is no secret. It’s the sole purpose of existence for Red Sox nation. (Full documented proper name: Provincial whining narcissistic chronic complainer’s nation.)
When the Yanks left him crying in the Fenway dugout in July, I took that as a good sign. But now it’s October. All that matters is what happens now. Schilling has a ring at our expense. He’s tough. He was born in freakin’ Alaska for crying out loud. Beating him would not be easy.
To no one’s surprise, Schilling spoke brashly, adding to the hype and bringing it to a feverish pitch: "I'm not sure I can think of any scenario more enjoyable than making 55,000 people from New York shut up."
Ah, more fodder. Well, Curt, I can think of something more enjoyable: watching you stumble around on a bum ankle, having the worst post season outing of your career.
Hey Curt: If you're going to shoot your mouth off, you can't hide behind an injury. Jimmy Key got it done in 96 with a torn-up shoulder. David Cone got it done after a brain aneurysm. Rocket got it done with his upper thigh muscles pulled apart. I don't remember them shooting off their mouths before those games. They spent their energy pitching.
It begs the question: Do the Yankees have yet another illegitimate son?
Okay. Okay. Yes. It’s only Game one, and there is so much more to come, and I could very well be eating my words soon. The Red Sox fans in my neighborhood may have already smashed my pumpkins. Pedro may pitch lights out tonight.
But since one of the entertaining aspects of the Red Sox futility is their excuses, painful losses, and good ol’ bad luck, I just wanted to be the first to introduce Curt Schilling’s ankle to Bill Buckner’s knee, and to Johnny Pesky’s glove, and to Luis Aparicio’s legs, and to Grady Little’s decision making abilities…and to Denny Galehouse and, well, you get the picture.
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I’d write more this morning, but I’ll drop my pen now since I can’t wait to read Jim Caple’s article today. I haven’t read it yet but I can only imagine it’s full of witticisms about why the Yanks didn’t deserve the win—how Matsui didn’t deserve his 5 rbis—how Mussina didn’t deserve to retire the first 19 sox. Who knows, there may even be a payroll reference in there.
But even Caple wouldn’t be able to say Mo didn’t deserve his accolades. Tom Kelly was so right; Mo belongs in a league above this one—way above this one, and I am not even talking about baseball.
And how about this from Kevin Millar: "As weird as it sounds, Derek Jeter, taking aside that I play for the Red Sox and I'm a major-league baseball player, being a baseball fan, that's the best player that I've seen play the game."
On to Game 2……
Phil is a staff writer for NYYFans.com, and he writes a weekly column for the website of WCBS News Radio 88, the home of the Yankees. You can reach him at PhilAllard27(at)hotmail.com.
