The Red Sox Blues

This scene has been all too familiar for Red Sox Nation.

Last night in Baltimore, the lifeless Red Sox lost again. Their ace, Josh Beckett, got shelled (again), their bats failed to get the big hit (again), all the while the team displaying the distant kind of character you’d expect from a 4^th place team in August (again). It’s all becoming very routine.

Once a team feared for its fortitude, the Red Sox now possess a brittle mettle, one that bends and breaks and submits half-heartedly to the pressures around it. When the tides of a game turn against them, they accept its irrevocability, and drift tiredly out to sea. Their mettle is not steely.

Two weeks ago, the trade deadline came and went. As in all professional sports, the trade deadline is judgment day in the MLB, a final checkpoint that separates the contenders from the pretenders. The Red Sox at that time, two games above .500, just a sniff out of the Wild Card lead, and riding a 4 game winning streak, had labeled themselves contenders. With the playoffs inching closer and the American League tightening up, they were coming into their own. 

Then, as if they weren’t so sure of their own ability, as if they had intruded on a gathering they weren’t invited to, the Red Sox duly lost 4 in a row, which quickly inflamed into 7 of 9. Since entering the grueling final stage of this 162 game season, since rising from their saddle with a suddenly buoyant spirit, the Red Sox are 4-9. Their inspired rebirth fizzled and their collective shouts of “let’s go for it” faded out like faraway thunder that never quite arrives.    

We expect them to make a push. We have seen them do it before, like Lance Armstrong in the Alps, and so we knowingly await that implacable breakthrough, the words “I told you so” cocked and loaded between our teeth. But with each tame defeat, the apathy spreading and growing like a disease, the likelihood of a great revival lessens. The positivity of our prescience wanes into uncertainty, and what we were once so sure of, what we took for fact, for simple and uncelebrated routine, now seems doubtful. The Red Sox might miss the playoffs.  

Of course, we shouldn’t be so surprised. The Red Sox, though their $173,186,617 payroll would indicate otherwise, are a .500-level team. They have a terrific offense which is neutralized by mediocre pitching. They are among the league’s best in runs scored, hits, team average and team slugging and they are among the league’s worst in runs allowed and team ERA. Of the 117 starts made so far by Red Sox pitchers this season, just 55 have been “quality starts” (and a quality start, mind you, is 6 innings pitched-3 earned runs, which computes into an ERA of 4.50 and isn’t that quality at all.) The Red Sox are receiving this kind of quality on a less than every other game basis. That is no recipe for a turnaround.

In the past, when the Sox have played like the Sox, their stars have played like their stars. Even last year, between a slow start and a historically horrific finish, Boston set the pace across the league for much of the season, fueled by the bats of Adrian Gonzalez, Jacoby Ellsbury, Dustin Pedroia and David Ortiz, steadied by the arms of Beckett and John Lester. Sure, John Lackey and Carl Crawford didn’t perform the way they were paid to – and at 12-12 with an ERA of 6.12, Lackey didn’t perform the way anyone is paid to – but otherwise the stars shined on. Until the Perfect Storm struck in September, bringing with it fried chicken and beer, the Red Sox felt like the Red Sox. They had a stuffed batting order, a reliable-enough rotation, and a world-beaters type of attitude that agreed with their natural luster. They were a recognizable bunch, from the bench to the bullpen, boasting enough All-Stars to fill the night sky. When you came to play the Red Sox, you knew who you were playing.

Now you don’t. Their starting lineup changes by the game, speckled with inexperience and mediocrity, their weaknesses patched with more weaknesses. They feel like a low-calorie version of their former selves, some flavor still present but most of it diluted by injury replacements and minor league call-ups. Remember Youkilis-Scutaro-Pedroia-Gonzalez? That fearsome infield has deteriorated into Valencia-Aviles-Punto-Gonzalez. And though they boast an impressive trio of Cody Ross, Ellsbury and Crawford in the outfield, Ross has been the best hitter out of the three. In fact Ross, who hasn’t hit above .270 once in a full season, might be the best hitter on this Boston team right now, which is first an indication of the team’s futility at the plate before a testament to Cody. Likewise, Felix Doubront, who wasn’t even projected to be in the pitching rotation, has been the team’s most reliable starter. Again, in a staff including Lester, Becket, Buchholz and Daisuke Matsuzaka, this is not a positive reflection on the club.

Where have the Red Sox gone? Who are these imposters in Fenway? The team everyone used to know so well is dropping Ryan Lavarnway behind the plate. They’re sending Danny Valencia to third base. Tonight they’ll give the ball to Aaron Cook.

Ryan Lavarnway? Aaron Cook? These guys don’t play for the Red Sox.

But right now, anyone can play for the Red Sox. They’re injured and underperforming, and seemingly still recovering from last season’s scarring collapse. They’re caught in its haze still, the stench of defeatism reeking from the Fenway walls. Even in their impregnable sanctuary between Yawkey Way and Lansdowne Street, in the safe haven that renders them Gods, the Red Sox have fallen limp. They are 29-34 in Fenway this season, on pace to finish 37-44. They haven’t had a losing record there since 1997.

Still, we wait for the Red Sox to find their groove. We wait for them to finish the season at a .700 pace, winning 32 of their last 45. But we are fooled by their jerseys, deceived by their name. We are suckers for their eminence. These aren’t the Red Sox, even if they wear that name across their chests. These are just average ballplayers, playing for an illustrious franchise. They win some and lose some.