Red Sox Need To Grow Up

“As The World Turns” has gone off the air after 54 years of amusing stay-at-home housewives during the day, but not to worry, the Boston Red Sox new soap opera is taking over the time slot and dominating the ratings.

Never have so many people been so exorcized by a 90-win season. Stories of back-biting, gossip, pettiness, whining, and all-around childishness oozing out of the Red Sox clubhouse following the monumental September collapse that propelled Tampa Bay into the American League playoffs and left Boston seething on the sidelines make you blink in amazement.

As the Boston media autopsy the rotting Red Sox carcass with the fervor the Washington Post reserved for Watergate, we are hearing that the inner workings of the locker room resembled “Animal House” as much as a professional sports franchise in the hunt for a championship. And now, all of a sudden, Mr. Nice Guy Terry Francona, who brought more glory to the team and the city than any other Boston manager, is being described as the second coming of Dr. Gregory House, a pill-popping, medication-addled dysfunctional guy living like a hermit. The theory is that Francona couldn’t handle the team during its slump because he was living in a hotel separated from his wife, worried about relatives serving in the military in America’s overseas wars, and was taking too much medicine because of pain in his many times surgically-repaired knees. Francona called this analysis rubbish, and as he noted, nothing was different in his life when the Sox were 80-41. This just smacks of a cheap shot.

Other tales of the city exceed the extremism of that portrayal of Francona. Whispers from the inner sanctum indicate that on the four out of five days they were not taking their turn on the mound representing the starting rotation Josh Beckett, Jon Lester and John Lackey (he had more free time than the others since he was getting knocked around by opposing batters so often) did not hang around the dugout cheering their teammates on, but instead repaired to the bowels of the clubhouse to drink beer, eat fried chicken and play video games. Does it say anywhere in a major leaguer’s contract that he has to pay attention to the games his team plays? Apparently not. Definitely sounds like a frat house with boys, not men.

Then there was the report that players were really, really ticked off because they were going to have to play a day-night doubleheader due to rescheduling because of the threat of Hurricane Irene. Remember the days when double headers were actually scheduled? Some guys’ plans must have been disrupted. To make the players feel swell again, management gave each one a $300 headset (presumably so they could listen to the music of their choice and block out the weather reports), plus a chance to play on zillionaire team owner John Henry’s yacht.

Is this stuff all true? Was there more? Combined, the Red Sox situation is a runaway train, though this type of dissection does, of course, only reflect the depth of passion devoted to the team throughout New England. The fan base must have answers as to why the Sox tanked.

What a mess. No wonder Theo Epstein thinks the Cubs job looks good.