Originally published April 19, 1990, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe
Mr. Michael Greenwell of Fort Myers, Fla., and Yawkey Way is upset at the way his baseball team, the Boston Red Sox, is portrayed in the newspapers. Mr. Greenwell thinks reporters are unfair, too negative and don’t spend enough time writing about all the nice things that happen in and around Fenway Park.
Mr. Greenwell is paid millions to play a game. He seems like a nice boy, although in left field, his position, he has less range than Margaret Thatcher. Here is what he has done thus far in a miserable young season with a bat in hand: At the plate 30 times prior to last evening, he has a .200 average with 6 hits, no home runs and no runs batted in.
His problem one he shares with many athletes is that he never learned a thing from his elders, people like Greta Garbo and Steve Carlton. Garbo, of course, was a horrible actress who knew enough to get lost, stay lost and say nothing on the public record for decades. Carlton was an excellent lefthanded pitcher who remained mute for years: no interviews, no comments, not even an occasional grunt. Perfect.
I suppose it’s human nature to wish that everything was portrayed well in print and on TV. But when you have a pack of whining, marginally talented malcontents gathered together in one clubhouse it’s kind of tough to constantly wear rosecolored glasses.
Greenwell, I guess, doesn’t understand the function of papers and sports reporters. That’s all right, too, because a lot of fans don’t have the slightest clue, either.
If people in the news business operated the way the left fielder wanted them to, things would surely be different each morning when you bought this product and each evening when you watch the news for free. Everything would simply be swell.
Unfortunately, that’s not reality. Sometimes the truth is hard to swallow: We have a bumbler for governor. We have a pack of gutless swine in the Legislature. There are too many murders. Some kids are real maggots. Our schools have slipped. The family has faltered. The economy isn’t booming the way it was 6 years back. Money is owed. It rains. People get sick. Some die.
For comic relief, relaxation, pure joy a host of reasons a lot of New Englanders turn to baseball to bail them out of the doldrums. Well, we’re not getting baseball.
Instead, we’re getting a poorly prepared excuse for the sport. It’s played by men who get a good check to perform, and when they don’t, the least they could do is take their lumps like millionaires should.
No doubt about it, it’s a tough crowd around here. This is not San Diego, where the sun always shines and fans go to the ballpark to eat tacos and watch a chicken dance. It isn’t San Francisco or L.A. where, when you get bummed out about the score, you leave early, put on a purple body stocking and go dancing with 10 friends and 4 complete strangers.
There are a lot of angry, aggravated human beings in New England. For a lot of them, life is like scratching a sore. They spend half a year humping their way through a long winter, packing coats on little kids, fighting flu, skimming taxes, avoiding meter maids. When April appears and baseball returns, you can actually hear a huge sigh of relief.
Yet not too many Red Sox players understand their summer surroundings. The players are swollen with greed. Their principal loyalty is to an agent and free agency. Their love is concentrated on contract extensions and perfomance bonuses. Not one has ever offered to return any cash after a bustout season. Instead, they hawk autographs for $8 a pop to little kids.
And, sadly, the money and premium pay most of it hard earned has affected the Red Sox and baseball more than it has any other sport. The Bruins are a small unit of personable, immensely likeable human beings. The Celtics play as if their lives depend on it. Both winter teams are a part of the community at large. They show up for charities. They smile. They at least act as if they are happy to be here.
Too many of the Red Sox walk around as if they are waiting for a call from the governor to commute their sentences. Off a roster of 24 players, there are about 6 truly nice guys. The rest of them just don’t get it: Fenway Park is the only true star. The players are merely part of a franchise that doesn’t have to work that hard because sellouts are a rule of thumb long before the team heads north with no pitching staff, no first baseman and nobody to dent the wall on regular basis. Fools like me still sit in our seats.
Sure, Mr. Greenwell has a right to complain about what is read to him in the newspaper. But I’d have a lot more respect for his dumb, hurt feelings if he simply did his job instead of trying to do mine. His job is simple: Shut up and perform.
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