In lost season, Red Sox found a new ace: Eduardo Rodriguez

Seen often this season: E-Rod gets a hand (AP)

Earlier this summer, Eduardo Rodriguez was asked what he attributed to his rapidly rising star on the Red Sox pitching staff. In slow but thoughtful English, which has improved along with his game, the Venezuelan left-hander said that rather than trying to emulate the three Cy Young Award winners who preceded him in Boston's starting rotation, he was now focusing more on himself -- on being the best he could be as a pitcher.

E-Rod's insights, which seemed astute at the time, have grown increasingly sagelike as this hugely disappointing Red Sox season has continued.

Those three Cy Young winners who helped Boston to the 2018 World Series title -- Chris Sale, David Price, and Rick Procello -- have all fizzled due to injuries and ineffectiveness. Rodriguez, meanwhile, has quietly put up the kind of numbers that traditional fans and the analytics crowd can all appreciate.

If you still believe that victories by a starting pitcher have relevance, E-Rod is your man. His 18-6 record after yesterday's victory over the Giants would look just as impressive in 1990 as it does today, and with two starts left he still has a shot at 20 wins -- a magic figure that has largely gone the way of the dodo and $1.50 bleacher seats.

His Twitter feed says it all: E-Rod is PUMPED!

Rodriguez is no Jake deGrom when it comes to ERA, but his 3.53 mark was good for 7th in the American League entering tonight despite the hardship of being a lefty who calls Fenway Park home. He has kept his team in games all season, and the Red Sox are 24-8 in his 32 starts. In games started by anybody else, they are 56-64.

Some people cite Rodriguez's tremendous run support in downplaying his success. For much of the season, Boston scored more often with E-Rod on the mound than any other MLB pitcher. But that is certainly not his fault; in fact, it's a trend any pitcher would covet. The aim of the game is to score the most runs and win. When Rodriguez pitches, the Red Sox usually do both.

Even more impressive is this: During the long, slow march to the end of Boston's championship reign, as his rotation-mates have floundered and flamed out, Rodriguez has shone brighter. He is 10-2 in his last 15 starts, with a 2.21 ERA and 6.2 WAR -- marks that would earn him heavy Cy Young consideration of his own were he to continue them over a full campaign. He's got something to prove, and it shows.

No one is going to confuse Rodriguez with Sale when it comes to strikeouts, but not trying to mow everybody down seems to agree with E-Rod too. He's no slouch in the department -- with 199, he ranks 9th in the AL -- but given the choice between heat and control, he seems content on the latter. Pitching to contact means quicker outs, which is keeping him in games longer.

Home and away, Rodriguez has caught on.

This might be the single most important change in Rodriquez circa 2019. Last year, when he went a solid 13-5 with a 3.82 ERA, E-Rod was known as a six-inning pitcher. This season he has gone 7+ innings eight times, and is 6th in the league in innings pitched. The decision to limit the workload for Ming vase mates Sale and Price in spring training backfired, in that both pitchers failed to last deep into the season before getting injured; E-Rod, in contrast, has been E-Long in August and September.

If Sale and Price were doing the same, even with the team's horrendous April, Boston would likely be pushing for the playoffs the final week of the regular season -- rather than playing out the string.

No less an authority than Red Sox pitching legend Luis Tiant cites this as the key to Rodriguez's rise: manager Alex Cora is giving him the chance to pitch out of more tough situations, and E-Rod is gaining confidence in himself. "If you don't give somebody the chance to get out of a jam now," asks Tiant, "when will he ever learn?"

The secret is out: E-Rod is for real. (LaVida Baseball)

Rodriguez is learning now, and along with everything else, he has age on his side.

Modern baseball is a sport where being 30 years old earns you a warning label come contract time, and Boston has three graybeards in Price (34), Sale (30), and Porcello (30). Rodriguez, in contrast, is just 26, an age that throughout the game's history has usually coincided with the start of a player's physical and statistical prime. In other words, while the "Big Three" of Boston's 2018 champs are trying to regain their standing as dependable hurlers come 2020, Rodriguez should be getting stronger and better.

As Boston fans count down the final days of a forgettable campaign -- and cheer for E-Rod to reach 20 wins, 200 strikeouts, and 200 innings -- that's a thought they can hang their Hot Stove hats on.

E-Rod is after it (Barry Chin/Boston Globe)

Bill Buckner, gritty warrior who spurred 1986 Red Sox to A.L. pennant, dead at 69

Another clutch hit for Bill Buckner.

Thirty-five years and two days ago, the Red Sox traded Dennis Eckersley and Mike Brumley to the Chicago Cubs for Bill Buckner. The trade was a key to Boston winning the 1986 American League pennant.

Eckersley, battling back and shoulder injuries as well as personal demons, was struggling along with a 5.01 ERA at the time of the May 25, 1984 deal. He would show sparks of brilliance in Chicago, but really wouldn't return to All-Star status until a move to the bullpen. Brumley, then a minor leaguer, was a lifetime .206 hitter in the majors. Neither he or Eck would likely have helped the '86 Red Sox.

Buckner, however, played a major role in Boston's AL championship that year. He had 102 RBIs in 1986 -- 50 before the All-Star Game and 52 after it. The Red Sox entered September in those pre-Wild Card days in first place, but just 3.5 games ahead of second-place Toronto. It was Billy Buck who helped Boston pull away as the team's best hitter in the final weeks. He batted .315 with 8 homers, 22 RBI, and a .938 OPS in September and October.

So please don't add a comment below saying that Buckner cost the Red Sox the '86 World Series. If it was not for him, a guy who played hard and well despite being in immense pain, that club most likely would never have gotten as far as it did. 

THAT should be how Boston fans remember him, with headlines like the one above. Not for that other thing. But there is always going to be that other thing, and that will be in most of the headlines.

When my son told me a few minutes ago that Buckner had died at age 69, a robust man felled by the rare disease of Lewy Body Dementia, my thoughts like everyone else's returned to 1986 and the moment that unfairly condemned this All-Star and borderline Hall of Fame-caliber player to years of abuse. 

This was before Boston was Titletown, when the Red Sox were closing in on 70 years of heartbreak instead of going for their fifth world championship in 15 years. Buckner took the jokes and the boos and the taunting that came his way after his error in Game Six of the 1986 World Series as best as I can imagine anybody doing, and when it got too tough for his wife or kids to handle he moved west to Idaho. It was there he found peace, before dying in his native Vallejo, California this morning with his family by his side.

I wish he had enjoyed that peace for far longer.

Buckner at peace, coaching for Class A Boise.

First some more facts: Buckner was already a former batting champion and All-Star with a .295 lifetime batting average and just shy of 2,000 hits when the Red Sox picked him up in 1984. He continued to perform like an All-Star in Boston, batting 299 with 110 RBIs and 201 hits for the 1985 Red Sox despite hitting just 16 home runs. He usually batted third or fourth because he was so adept at moving runners along. At first base, he was a solid defender who was especially strong at scooping up low throws. 

He did this at less than his peak physically. Once one of the fastest runners in the National League, who roamed the outfield like a deer, Buckner severely injured his left ankle playing for the Dodgers in early 1975 and it hampered him the rest of his career. He managed to play more than 1800 games after the injury, often at an elite level, but his days as an outfielder were over.

The logical spot for Buckner was at third or first base, but the Dodgers had Ron Cey and Steve Garvey entrenched at those spots. So Buckner was traded to the lowly Cubs, where he took over at first, became a fan favorite, and won the 1980 batting title. 

Jeff English started his fine biography on Buckner for the Society of American Baseball Research (SABR) with a definition:

GAMER 1. A player who approaches the game with a tenacious, spirited attack and continues to play even when hurt; a competitor; a player who doesn't make excuses. The term is a compliment, most especially when it comes from another player.

That was Buckner. He played nearly every day, with no whining, despite the pain. Entering 1986, he was only 34 and already had close to 2,200 hits; 3,000 and Cooperstown still seemed a very real possibility. Bone spurs in his left ankle were bothering him so much by this point that he announced he would be having surgery after the '86 season. In the meantime, there was a pennant to win, so Buckner spent hours wrapping, unwrapping, and icing his left leg before and after games. He played in 153 of Boston's 162 contests that regular season -- and three of his days off came after the Sox wrapped up the title.

By the playoffs, unfortunately, he could no longer produce despite the pain -- which only got worse when he hurt his other leg in the League Championship Series against the Angels. He hit just .214 in the ALCS, and .188 in the World Series. But Bill Buckner DID NOT lose the '86 World Series for the Red Sox any more than Bob Stanley or Rich Gedman or John McNamara or anyone else did. What Buckner did do was his best despite injuries that would have put a lesser man on the bench. 

Peter Gammons described Buckner's gritty effort that postseason for the Nov. 10, 1986 issue of Sports illustrated: 

"He crawled like an alligator into one base. He went after a pop-up, fell down and did a backstroke trying to make a catch in Game 4. He scurried on hands and knees to take the first base bag with his glove. He limped out for the national anthem, bat in hand, just in case he needed a cane. He wore a high-topped right shoe for the Achilles tendon he pulled in the seventh game of the playoffs, but it was the pain in two parts of his left ankle that had created the original limp and had necessitated nine cortisone shots since April." 

This underscores why Buckner should have been on the bench when Mookie Wilson came up in the tenth inning of Game Six, but also why he was not. Buckner was not going to ask to sit down -- because even at less than his best, Billy Buck felt he could do the job. The manager did not put Dave Stapleton in at first base with a two-run lead in the bottom of the 10th inning in Game Six, even though he had done so in similar situations during the playoffs. Whether he did it so Buckner could be on the field for the title that never came is irrelevant. It was a mistake, but it wasn't Buckner's mistake. 

Buckner never ducked responsibility. 

The ground ball that went through his legs and allowed the winning run to score that night was his mistake, and he never did anything less than stand up and take blame for the error -- the final miscue in a chain of bad events that cost Boston that game.  He then went out and had two hits in Game Seven, including a single to start a two-run Red Sox rally in the eighth that nearly tied the contest. But they didn't tie it, and the Mets won the game and the series -- leading to all those awful Bill Buckner jokes that made their way across the country in those pre-internet days. 

I was a stupid 19-year-old college kid ranked into oblivion at Syracuse by Mets fans, and I admit I told some myself. Just thinking about my behavior then makes me sick, even if everybody else in my dorm was doing it.

Buckner never deserved the abuse, but it never let up, until Buckner was traded to the Angels the next summer. Boston fans did give him a standing ovation when he made the team in 1990, and another one when he threw out the first ball before a World Series game decades later, but as far as I'm concerned both these gestures were far too little too late. The damage was done.

"I'll be seeing clips of this thing until the day I die," Buckner told the Wall Street Journal in 1998 of his infamous error. "I accept that. On the other hand, I'll never understand why."

Neither do I. And if there was anybody who deserved to live to a ripe old age bouncing grandchildren and great-grandchildren on his knee -- or tossing them pitches in the backyard -- it was Billy Buck.

In his November 1986 piece on Buckner for Sports Illustrated, Peter Gammons related an incident that occurred after Buckner's post-World Series ankle surgery:

"I just want to tell you that you'll always be my inspiration," said a small boy who ducked into Buckner's hospital room Wednesday night. "Thanks for a great season." Then the boy disappeared."

I wish I knew who that kid was; if I did, I'd call him up now and give him my appreciation for doing at a very young age what the rest of us lunkheads did far too late. 

Thank Bill Buckner for representing Boston so well.

Hearing the cheers on Opening Day, 2008

Spiritual twin of 13-pitch Mookie Betts home run dates from a magical season

Thirteen-and-OUT! Maddy Meyer (Getty Images)

There has been much talk of lengthy at-bats concluding in home runs since Mookie Betts ended an epic 13-pitch duel with Blue Jays starter J.A. Happ by crushing a grand slam on Thursday night. Fans and media pundits seeking a comparable regular-season moment have come up with a few, including Dustin Pedroia's 12th-pitch blast for the 2007 Red Sox.

That season ended with a World Series championship -- just the sort of karma connection one is looking for in imagining Mookie's Green Monster-clearing shot as the catapult to a 2018 title. But 12 is not quite 13, and in fact no 13th-pitch homer by any Red Sox player can yet be found dating back to at least 1988 (when pitch-count data was first tracked).

There is, however, just such an at-bat that did result in a home run for a player whose team went on to a memorable postseason. It wasn't struck for Boston, which is probably why nobody in Red Sox Nation has come up with it yet.

When you're seeking good vibes, one can overlook such details. Credit for finding the spiritual twin to Mookie's shot goes to a friend with a zip code in Massachusetts but rooting interests that lay outside Boston.

Rob came of age as a baseball fan in 1968, when the Tigers rode Denny McLain's 31-win arm to a World Series title. He's been a Detroit diehard ever since, through many lean years and the occasional high points.

In 1984, as the first Yaz-less Red Sox club since the Eisenhower administration was slogging along at a sub-.500 clip, Sparky Anderson's Tigers gave their fans a thrill ride with a 35-5 start. Led by Hall of Famers Jack Morris and Alan Trammell, Detroit's deep roster featured a power-loaded lineup, excellent starting pitching and defense, and a reliever in Willie Hernandez who would capture both the Cy Young and MVP awards that year.

The '84 Tigers were a formidable crew.

It was a role player, however, who was responsible for what Rob and others claim as the most memorable hit of the regular season.

On June 4, in a nationally-televised AL East match-up at old Tiger Stadium, first-place Detroit and Toronto were tied 3-3 into extra innings. The Blue Jays were off to a great start at 34-16, nearly a .700 clip, but were still 4 1/2 games behind the white-hot Tigers. Toronto desperately wanted a victory to stay close. 

After the Jays failed to score in the top of the 10th, Detroit put two on with two out in the bottom of the inning. Up stepped Dave Bergman, who including that night had not homered in 99 plate appearances on the season.

Dave Bergman -- where it all happened.

All he needed to give his team the win, of course, was a single -- or even a walk -- but from the start he was swinging for the fences against Toronto pitcher Roy Lee Jackson.

"He was coming at me with fastballs and sliders, and I was taking my best rips," Bergman said later. "I was locked in; he was locked in. I really felt like I was going to hit the ball hard somewhere, and I'm sure he felt he was going to get me out."

Jackson reared back and threw, and Bergman swung. Again and again and again.

Jackson readies to pitch... and pitch... and pitch

The first five pitches were all hit foul, including one smash down the right-field line that briefly looked like a game-winner.

The sixth delivery was high, and Bergman laid off it for a ball. He didn't swing at the seventh either, which was just a bit outside -- prompting a groan of relief from the crowd.

After another foul, Bergman took Jackson's eighth pitch low, making the count 3-and-2.

Then came another foul ball. And another. And another.

Finally, on the 13th pitch, Bergman swung like a golfer in the rough at a low Jackson pitch and launched it into the second-deck porch in right field. It was Bergman's first home run in 100 plate appearances in 1984, and gave the Tigers a 6-3 win.

Bergman going all-out vs. Jackson.

Toronto never got so close to first place again, and Detroit ended the year with a 104-58 record and the AL East title. The Tigers then swept Kansas City in the ALCS and easily dispatched San Diego in a five-game World Series.

Bergman contributed just seven at-bats (and one hit) in the postseason, but all these years later his big moment of '84 is still credited as a launching point in Detroit's last world championship. He died in 2015, but is not forgotten.

Will Mookie's homer on Thursday work similar magic for this Red Sox team? Or will it be just a fond memory in a season that ends short of a title?

Time will tell, but for the next several months Boston fans can hope for the former.

Will Boston end the year like Detroit did in 1984? 

Mookie Betts hit three homers -- in case you didn't notice

Mookie goes yard -- did you hear?

Tune into either of Boston's sports radio stations day or night, and chances are you'll hear someone discussing the concurrent playoff runs of the Bruins and Celtics. Unless, of course, they are analyzing the relative merits of the Patriots draft picks.

The Red Sox have the best record in the major leagues at 22-8, and leadoff man Mookie Betts had his second three-homer game of the young season yesterday. Betts now leads all of baseball in batting (.365), slugging (.823), OPS (a Williamesque 1.274),.and runs (32), and with his usual stellar defense in right field has his sights set on an MVP award.

But despite an uptick in the TV ratings aided by the team's white-hot start, Betts and the Red Sox are flying low under the radar as Boston's other three major pro sports teams demand our attention.

Even the Red Sox are watching the Bruins.

Owners John Henry would certainly enjoy more hype around Fenway in the early going, but first-year manager Alex Cora likely has no complaints. The lack of focus on his club is affording him the opportunity to grow into his job without the media and fan scrutiny that normally comes with the job.

Take Tuesday. The Sox made four errors and left nine men on base in a 7-6 loss to Kansas City that also featured a blown save by closer Craig Kimbrel, but all fans were talking and tweeting about were wins by the Celtics and Bruins in their respective semifinal series the day before. It was the same thing Wednesday after Betts' big day.

This won't last forever, of course. Eventually, the local hockey and basketball teams will end their postseason runs, and the Sox will be back to front-burner status. There will be plenty of platitudes for Betts if he keeps up his heroics and much hyper-analysis of Cora's decisions. But for now, Mookie and Alex will no doubt enjoy their relative obscurity on the Boston sports landscape.

Don't get too relaxed, Alex. 

Yawkey Way decision shows lack of creativity on part of Red Sox and John Henry

Jersey Street -- how is that better?

Judging from the on-air and online commentary, feelings are most definitely mixed on the Boston Public Improvement Commission's decision to rename Yawkey Way -- with far more negative sentiment than John Henry might have anticipated. I'm not going to pass judgment on Henry's reasoning for this move, because it's moot; Thursday's vote means the war is over, and Henry has won.

What baffles me is the lack of creative thinking on Henry's part. Faced with fans he had to know would view a name change as political correctness gone amok, the Red Sox owner missed the opportunity to push for the type of change that might win some skeptics over -- and generate additional positive buzz around the move.

The good old days ...?

By bringing back Jersey Street, Henry has effectively returned Fenway's home address to a time when stale cigar smoke wafted through the stands, the bullpen cart rolled across Joe Mooney's lawn, and drunken bleacherites yelled "Hey Uncle Ben!" at rookie outfielder Jim Rice.


Mail to Fenway arrived on Jersey Street when Jackie Robinson was told "don't call us, we'll call you" after his sham tryout in 1945, and it was where Boston manager (and sometimes GM) Mike "Pinky" Higgins reported for work when he vowed "They'll be no niggers on this club as long as I have anything to say about it." Under Yawkey's employ, he had his way longer than any other MLB boss.

Robinson did not leave Jersey Street smiling.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying everything about Jersey Street is bad. I'm sure lots of nice people have worked and lived on it. But if you're trying to bring about change, why not go all the way?

Here are five alternate street names that would have made for an upbeat ending to this saga -- and still could, if it's not too late for John Henry to get on the horn to the commission.

Bobby Doerr Boulevard: It's hard to think of a more universally respected or beloved Red Sox figure than Doerr, a Hall of Fame second baseman and coach with the club who died last November at age 99. Naming a street for him this year would be a wonderful way of honoring the memory of No. 1.

As an elder statesman, Doerr remained regal.

Ted Williams Way:  Yup, I know this was tried before back in 1991. In fact, I was standing a few feet away on the Fenway grass, working as a young freelancer shortly after college, when Teddy Ballgame was handed the street sign that bore his name and would soon be affixed to what was previously known as Lansdowne Street. Things didn't go as planned; folks kept stealing the Ted Williams Way signs, and the name never took. There is probably a whole generation of kids under 25 who never knew this attempted change ever happened.

But this August marks the 100th anniversary of Williams' birth. What better time to try again to name a street for the greatest hitter in Red Sox history -- and a two-time war hero and champion of the Jimmy Fund to boot. In a 21st century, twitter-fed world, I bet it would stick this time.

It didn't take the first time, but maybe now....?

Jimmy Fund Drive: I admit being a bit bias on this one. I've worked for Dana-Farber Cancer Institute since 1999, focused largely on the great work of its Jimmy Fund charity. I have seen up close many, many times the important role the Red Sox play in making the lives of cancer patients happier -- and how their efforts each summer in the WEEI/NESN Jimmy Fund Radio-Telethon generate millions in critical funds needed for research and clinical care. 

There is already a "Jimmy Fund Way" on Dana-Farber's main campus in the Longwood Medical Area, which Yaz and Mike Andrews dedicated in 1997 to honor the '67 Impossible Dream Red Sox. A Jimmy Fund Drive at Fenway would nobly honor the annual fundraising drives that the Sox make for New England's Favorite Charity.

A bridge for Papi - how about a street for Pedro?

Pedro Place: Other Red Sox greats have statues, why not give the best pitcher in team history his own street? The fact Pedro Martinez is also a man of color known for doing many great works on behalf of his Dominican countrymen and others makes him a worthy and fitting symbol of change in the post-Yawkey era. Besides, how cool would it be to say you were going to meet your buddies at El Tiante's on Pedro Place?

Red Sox Way:  This isn't very creative, but it is straight and to the point. It would help folks find Fenway when lost, and would symbolize what John Henry is trying to create here -- a new Red Sox way of going about business. 

If you're reading, Mr. Henry, my vote goes for Jimmy Fund Drive or Ted Williams Way -- just make sure those new street signs are bolted down tight.

Another Hall of Fame honors Pedro Martinez for his deeds and recalls his classy words

Pedro earned his stripes in Montreal.

For Red Sox fans it was a single sound byte in a month-long stretch of magical, must-see video. Most probably didn't even hear it above all the screaming in living rooms, dorm rooms, and bars across New England. Fewer would recall it later.

Over the border, however, folks took notice -- and never forgot.

Pedro Martinez had just helped the 2004 Red Sox win their first World Series in 86 years. The triumph climaxed a seven-year run of domination by Pedro unseen before or since: a 2.45 ERA and 0.978 WHIP in regular-season play during an era when steroid-fueled sluggers ripped other pitchers to bits.

In his and Boston's crowning moment of glory, a champagne-socked Pedro took a moment in the raucous Boston clubhouse to thank the Montreal Expos fans that had embraced him as he grew to stardom with their team in 1994-97. The cash-strapped Montreal front office had sent Pedro to the Red Sox in a one-sided deal after his Cy Young season in '97, knowing it couldn't resign him. Now they were losing far more than a pitching ace.

Always an afterthought in hockey-crazed Canada, and saddled with a dismal stadium that citizens voted down replacing with a publicly-funded ballpark, Les Expos were moving south to become the Washington Nationals.

"I would like to share this with the people in Montreal that are not going to have a team anymore," said Martinez. "My heart and my ring is with them, too."

A moment shared.

He was speaking to a single Montreal reporter, but the 12-second clip soon went worldwide. The classy comments were Pedro's way of thanking those who had believed in him. Tommy Lasorda and the Dodgers may have thought Martinez lacked the strength and size to be a starter (swapping him to Montreal even-up for Delino DeShields), but Expos manager Felipe Alou and his organization gave Pedro the chance to prove he could. Now the country he departed after four years and a .625 winning percentage is thanking him back with its ultimate honor.

On June 16, Martinez will be inducted into the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame, along with former Blue Jays outfielder Lloyd Moseby and baseball historian William Humber.

In a conference call with reporters after receiving the news on Feb. 1, Pedro expanded on why the honor meant so much. After his 1994 trade from the Dodgers, where his big brother and teammate Ramon had always looked out for him amidst the craziness that is LA, Martinez established his independence in Canada.

"At the time, I didn't know what to do in the streets," said Pedro. "Montreal helped me to become a man, because not only was I on my own, but doing it in a place where I felt really, really safe and loved by the people and embraced by the people that did not care what color you were, what you were wearing, how much money you were making. They were there to make you feel comfortable. So Montreal means the world to me."

Alou gave Martinez a chance.

Martinez always felt, as did many of his teammates at the time, that the Expos could have won the 1994 World Series. They were in first place with the best record in the MLB on August 12 when the remainder of the regular season and entire postseason were canceled by the 1994 baseball strike. Pedro, in his first year with the club, was 11-5 and on a five-game winning streak when the strike hit.

That's why when he finally won his first championship a decade later, Pedro wanted Montreal fans to know he wished it had been with them. His Hall of Fame plaque in Cooperstown may include a Red Sox hat, but he will always be remembered warmly by Canadians as more than just a baseball star. His brilliance went beyond the numbers, on and off the field.

Boston fans understand completely.

Mookie Betts saves Red Sox with gold glove and foul ball

Mookie robs Reddick

First Mookie Betts single-handedly kept the Red Sox alive in Game Three of the ALDS yesterday at Fenway Park with his glove, and then he unknowingly -- except for a few of us in Section 15 -- sparked an offensive explosion that propelled Boston to a 10-3 victory over the Astros and a chance to square their best-of-five series today.

Fans were still streaming into Fenway for what could be Boston's season finale when Houston took a 3-0 lead in the first inning against Sox starter Doug Fister. After the Astros got two men on in the second, chasing Fister, Josh Reddick hit a sharp fly off Joe Kelly towards the right-field corner. Betts sprinted after it with his usual graceful strides, and just as the ball appeared headed for the first or second row, he reached out and grabbed it with a basket catch reminiscent of Dwight Evans' robbery of Joe Morgan at nearly the same spot in Game Six of the 1975 World Series.

Hanley did his part - 4-for-4 with 3 RBI

The play ended the inning; rather than being down 6-0, the Sox were still in striking range. They got one run back in the second, and then in the third Mookie was at it again -- sprinting with his back to the plate and snaring an Alex Bregman smash over his shoulder just in front of the warning track (ending the inning and another Houston scoring threat).

 As Betts jogged in after this latest catch, Boston fans offered the reigning Gold Glover a huge ovation. Rachel and I, who had scored terrific seats in the first few rows of the lower grandstand behind the Red Sox dugout, high-fived our neighbor (and new Fenway friend) Nancy (not to be confused with our longtime friends Nancy and Nancy, aka "The Women of Section 30"). 

Betts nabs another

I was about to get much better acquainted with this new Nancy. In the bottom of the fourth, Betts hit a high foul ball toward our section. It looked at first to be off to our left, but then at the last moment it curved and slammed down directly into the empty seat between me and Nancy (who had nicely moved one over from her "real" seat earlier to give me extra legroom). The ball rolled under the seat, and as I reached down to grab it, Nancy's hand sneaked in at the last moment to nab the prize fair and square.

Rachel was momentarily disappointed, until I explained that the only way I could have grabbed the ball on the fly would be to have flung my beloved scorebook one way and shove Nancy the other. Plus, I said as I pointed to the band around Nancy's left hand, she appeared to have a wrist injury that I didn't want to harm further in our beneath-the-seat scramble.

Rachel forgives Dad

"I understand, Dad," Rachel said, in that 13-year-old way that you know is masking disappointment with a budding maturity so as to not wound her father's bruised ego. "We'll get another one."

Betts struck out on the next pitch, after which came a moment both comical and magical. I learned that Nancy wasn't injured at all -- what I thought was a brace of some sort was actually, she explained with a laugh, a wrist purse in which she was keeping her keys. She also told me she was especially excited about the ball because of a near miss years before. While at a game with her son in these same seats, she had a foul ball land directly in her beer, knock it from her hand, and then roll four rows away and out of her life. This was her payback.

It was also the spark to a Sox rally. The next four batters after Betts hit safely, highlighted by a two-run homer from rookie Rafael Devers that gave Boston a 4-3 lead. Nancy showed off her ball to folks around us, and then tucked in between her legs for safekeeping. Perhaps, I wondered, my near-treasure was meant to be hers -- and meant to be a talisman.

The Price was right for four shutout innings.

The redemptive David Price kept the Astros at bay over the next four innings, but Boston could not add to its one-run lead. A tenseness hung over Fenway, which in our row nearly became a panic after Nancy left to make a concessions run. Her husband Glenn suddenly jumped up, wild-eyed, and began running up and down the aisle peering into each of the five rows ahead of us.

"What's wrong, did you lose your keys?" I asked.

"No!" he yelled. "I lost the ball!"

Thankfully the beer-soaked sphere was retrieved, dried, and placed snugly into a cup holder by the time Nancy got back.

Safe and sound

When she heard about the near calamity she gave Curly a stern but loving look, happy that The Baseball Gods had saved her keepsake. Soon thereafter, the Red Sox batted around in a six-run seventh that put the game out of reach. Betts singled and scored during the outburst, and then added a few more web gems for good measure -- giving him seven putouts overall and the home team a newfound momentum going into Game Four.

Nancy, Glenn, the ball, and the wrist purse.

Rachel and I exited Fenway on high adrenaline, our perfect day at the ballpark completed, when suddenly a shock came over me not unlike that which had befallen Nancy's husband a few hours before. My keys -- including the pricey remote entry fobs for BOTH our family cars -- were gone. My TILE app (thanks for the Father's Day gift, Michelle) alerted me that they were "in Fenway Park," but we couldn't find them despite a law-breaking sprint back into the park and to our seats.

I would have to wait until Monday morning to call Fenway's Lost and Found, but at least -- thanks to Mookie -- Jason and I would be doing so on a game day.

As 1967 team reunites, time is perfect for Red Sox to do right by Tony Conigliaro

It was 50 years ago this Friday. Red Sox outfielder Tony Conigliaro lay crumpled at home plate, the victim of an errant pitch that struck him squarely on the face. As a hushed Fenway Park crowd watched on, teammates lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him off the field.

The hometown hero was just 22, blessed with a sweet right-handed stroke that had already made him the youngest American Leaguer ever to hit 100 home runs. Along with fellow All-Stars Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg, he was at the center of a Boston baseball revival that had risen a team of perennial losers from a decade in the doldrums to the thick of the 1967 pennant race. Tony C was as big a hero as it got in these parts.

And this week, as Yastrzemski, Lonborg, and other members of the "Impossible Dream" team return to Fenway and celebrate the 50th anniversary of their magical summer, the Red Sox organization should use the occasion to pay proper homage to their fallen teammate:

Retire Conigliaro's number 25.

Spare the talk about how such honors should only go to the best of the best in team history. Those who saw him play -- players and fans alike -- are in agreement that were he not nearly fatally beaned that August night, Tony C. would have hit somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 homers playing half his games at Fenway Park.

Conigliaro led the AL with 32 homers at age 20.

It was fate that denied him both that chance and the opportunity to play in the '67 World Series due to a cracked left cheekbone, dislocated jaw. and a damaged retina in his left eye. Doctors said he'd never play again. Yet Conigliaro had the guts to come back after 20 months and produce two more standout seasons with essentially no peripheral vision and a terrible blind spot in his bad eye.

Eventually the situation deteriorated to the point where he had to quit at age 26. A final comeback in 1975 produced many tears but too few hits, and a massive heart attack in 1982 left Conigliaro largely incapacitated and non-verbal. After eight excruciating years for he and his family, during which he never lived independently, he died at age 45 in 1990.

He didn't hit his 500 homers or make the Hall of Fame, but Tony C.'s legacy of courage and youthful glory is more than worthy of the highest honor the Red Sox can give.

"Here is a guy who literally gave his life for his hometown team," says Richard Johnson, curator of The Sports Museum and a leading authority on all things Boston baseball. "What could be more deserving of our respect than that?"

(Associated Press)

This topic has come up for discussion before. Steve Buckley of the Boston Herald has long beat the drum for Conigliaro, with occasional help from the Farrelly brothers, but while the team has widened its number-retirement ranks in recent years, Tony C. has not made the cut.

So why not now? This is likely the last time so many of Conigliaro's former Red Sox teammates will ever all be together again -- Yastrzemski, Lonborg, Mike Andrews, Reggie Smith, and the rest. Rico Petrocelli, the first guy to reach Tony C. when he went down like a shot at home plate, will be here too.

Yaz and other Tony C. teammates are here this week.

Tuesday and Wednesday's games fall during the WEEI/NESN Jimmy Fund Radio-Telethon, and Thursday is an off-day. So why not make Friday the night?

Fifty years to the day of what is likely the most tragic day in franchise history, the Red Sox could invite Mike Lowell (another great ballplayer to wear 25) to take off his jersey and hand it to Tony C's brother -- and onetime Red Sox outfield mate -- Billy Conigliaro. Tony's nieces and nephews could unveil his number in right field and Billy could throw out a ceremonial first pitch to his remaining brother, Richie.

Then Billy would give way to the current Boston team and its opponents for the night: the New York Yankees.

A pennant race under the biggest spotlight -- two things Tony C. relished but never got to enjoy enough. It may be short timing, but the Red Sox could still make it happen.

FOR DISCUSSION: Should the Red Sox retire Conigliaro's number -- and why?

The Red Sox pitcher who helped me get through the 2017 Boston Marathon

Snow couldn't stop him either. (Robert Bukaty, AP)

When I tightened my laces one last time and walked toward the starting line of the 2017 Boston Marathon on April 17, I was 15 days into my second half-century and about to run far further than I ever had in my life. The thermometer was pushing a dangerous 70 degrees, but I had a secret weapon I was counting on to get me from Hopkinton to Copley Square.

A pitcher in my pocket.

Before leaving my office the previous Friday, I grabbed something off my desk -- a baseball card that has leaned up against my monitor for the last decade or so. It's a 2002 "Future Stars" card of Greg Montalbano, a left-handed pitcher who had been named the top minor league hurler in the Red Sox system the previous season. Greg's sister, Kristen, was my colleague in the Dana-Farber Communications office for several years, but that's not why I keep the card there.

The card was a reminder of why I've been a writer and editor at Dana-Farber for the past 18 years. In helping chronicle the clinical care and research going on there, I'm spreading the word and generating attention to the disease. which will hopefully translate into research funding that ends it. It's also why I was running the marathon -- in addition to fulfilling a lifelong dream (I grew up on Heartbreak Hill), I was hoping to raise $10,000 or more for research at Dana-Farber. Thanks to many of you, I had already done so by race day, for which I am deeply grateful.

All well and good, but what does this have to do with a minor league pitcher? Only everything.

Greg Montalbano had the drive and talent to become the first Massachusetts-bred Red Sox pitching ace since the Kennedy administration. A Westborough native who starred at St. John's Prep and Northeastern University, he overcame a bout with testicular cancer diagnosed his freshman year of college to pitch a no-hitter as a senior -- the same year (1999) he was drafted by the Red Sox. 

Success continued in the minors, where after splitting 2000 between the Gulf Coast League and Single A Lowell, Montalbano has a breakthrough 2001 season. He was a combined 12-6 for Sarasota and Double A Trenton, with 122 strikeouts in 139.1 innings, and appeared on the fast track to Fenway Park. 

The Red Sox have a special connection to Dana-Farber and its Jimmy Fund charity dating to the 1950s, so I figured between Montalbano's toughness and Boston-area roots, and my small personal ties to his family, his card would provide plenty of good karma for the marathon. It would also serve as a way of honoring all the pediatric and adult patients -- many of whom I've written about through the years -- who have received treatment and care at Dana-Farber.

So a plan was hatched. In addition to covering my bib with the names of family, friends, and colleagues impacted by cancer, I'd have one more talisman to salute those for whom I was running. Before heading to the starting line, I stuck Greg's card in the back pocket of my shorts.

Remembering many on race day.

A few weeks before, I was not even certain I'd make it to the starting line. A knee injury had kept me off the road for a month. Excellent advice and encouragement from Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge team coach Jack Fultz, my friend and life coach Debra Bennett of Core Harmony, and the magic hands of Emily Bliss, PT, and her colleagues at Marathon Physical Therapy in Newton Corner all contributed to getting me back on the road.

The race-day strategy Jack devised for me was to employ the "Run-Walk-Run" running method developed by long-distance guru Jeff Galloway. The idea is to run three minutes, walk briskly for one, and then run for three more -- repeating the process for all 26.2 miles. This would cause less pounding on my bad knee and preserve my energy, hopefully making up for the long training runs I had missed.

Jack won the 1976 Boston Marathon on a 100-degree day, so he knows something about conserving body fuel. I gave the Galloway Method a try during some last-month training runs, and it worked like magic. Walking one of every four minutes, I was actually significantly faster overall for each mile completed. I couldn't believe my watch.

On race day, however, something happened. More than 40 years of desire to be doing just this -- fueled first by a childhood spent handing out water to marathoners as they crested Heartbreak Hill, and then by decades spent dreaming of joining their ranks -- took over. The first three minutes came and went, and I did not switch to a walk. Before I knew it the first mile marker was coming up and I was still running -- and at a terrific pace. I was usually a 10-minute miler, but I did the first one in well under nine.

Did I listen to Jack, the '76 champ? Nope.

Everything I had been taught by Jack and others told me this was a mistake. You don't go out too fast in a marathon, and you most definitely don't do it if you're running on a knee that could give out at any time. But the crowds were so enthusiastic, I felt so great, and I kept thinking about Greg Montalbano and how he didn't let cancer slow him down in his desire to make the Red Sox.

I decided to devise a new plan. I would walk, but only for about 30-45 seconds while grabbing water from the wonderful volunteers set up just past each mile marker. I would drink one small cup, pour the other over my head (a great idea from Jack I did follow, thankfully), and then tap the card in my back pocket and start running again.

As the miles accumulated, the plan worked like a charm. By the 10-mile mark I was on pace to finish the race in well under four and a half hours, and I didn't feel the least bit tired. The heat that was clearly bothering other runners seemed to have no effect at all on me, and every time I felt like slowing down I would just reach back and give a TAP-TAP to the pitcher in my pocket. Greg's strength gave me strength.

While passing the screaming women of Wellesley College at the half-way mark, I noticed my times begging to slow. Soon I was no longer on pace to finish in under 4:30:00, but figured my original goal of under 5:00:00 hours would be a cinch. I still felt great, and now -- passing my brothers, my sister, and other family and friends gathered along the course to cheer me on -- I couldn't help breaking into a silly grin every half-mile or so. Even in the hills of my hometown Newton, which Jack had implored me to walk, I kept running.

A Smiling Fool ... Before the Wall.

My wife Michelle and daughter Rachel were waiting a block from our house at Mile 20 (just before Heartbreak Hill) and my parents and son Jason were at Mile 22 (just after it). So like a madman, I just kept grinning like an idiot, and as I hugged them all and headed toward B.C. I swear I was almost laughing. When the crowds got real large and raucous around Cleveland Circle, I gestured with both arms for them to yell louder -- which they did. I high-fived kids and enjoyed creative posters like "Find a cute butt and follow it to the finish!"

Before I could take this advice, however, I ran into trouble. As Jack and others had warned, the course sneaked up on me. The straight and mostly flat two-mile stretch of Beacon Street through Washington Square and Coolidge Corner seemed to go on for hours, and my legs became leaden tree trunks. If I stopped running at this point, I worried, I might not be able to start up again. More and more others, worn down by the earlier sun and the Newton hills, had reached their breaking point already.

When one guy near me staggered to the sidelines and plopped down on a lawn chair, apparently done for the day, my mind veered a bit off-course as well to a Stephen King novella I last read about a decade ago. "The Long Walk" is set in a dystopian near-future USA; a group of 100 teenage boys are selected from a list of willing applicants for an annual test of mental and physical endurance. They must walk day and night with no rest across the highways of Maine and New Hampshire toward Boston, with the winner promised riches beyond belief (hence the willing applicants), There is one caveat, however: anyone who dips below four miles an hour more than three times during the walk is shot on sight by soldiers.

Visions of Ray Garraty danced in my head.

Amazing myself by remembering the protagonist's name -- "Maine's own Ray Garraty!" -- I tried to channel some more of his and Greg Montalbano's grit.

TAP-TAP.

In the end it was arm injuries and not cancer that derailed Montalbano's path to Fenway Park. Set to pitch for Triple A Pawtucket in 2002, he suffered a frayed labrum (cartilage disc) in his pitching shoulder during spring training that required season-ending surgery. Arm injuries cost him most of 2003-04 as well, and when he did pitch he was ineffective. By 2005 the Red Sox brass felt they had been patient long enough, and Montalbano was released in spring training. He was 26. .

By now I was most definitely walking, no doubt slow enough to get a bullet from Stephen King's soldiers. I was also starting to get my first real doubts that I could finish in 5:00:00 hours, Then I heard a yell of "Hey Saul!" over my left shoulder. This was no typical fan cheering me on after reading my name off my legs, arms, or singlet, but a yell of familiarity. It was coming from the side of the course nearest the C-Line trolley, a stretch closed off to fans, and when I turned toward it I saw my high school buddy and frequent Red Sox seat-mate Scott chugging along behind the barriers with a smile and a wave. In no mood for talking, Appreciative beyond belief, but in no mood for talking, I managed a few stammered sentences of thanks as he continued alongside me for about a half-mile.

"YOU GOT THIS!" he screamed, but I still wondered.

The Mile 23 and Mile 24 checkpoints came and went, each marked with one cup for the head and one cup for the lips, I bucked convention and did my best not to walk as I poured; Scott's visit had given me a boost, but I still wasn't sure what would happen if I stopped again -- and I don't want to find out. The soldiers might be waiting.

TAP. TAP.

No other big-league team signed Montalbano, but he found new baseball life as a reliever for the Independent League Worcester Tornadoes of the Canadian-American League. Perhaps, he must have thought, he could get another crack at the majors.

Montalbano's story took another twist with Tornadoes.

Then the cancer came back.

By now Montalbano had been through so much that he didn't feel like stopping even if his body was again betraying him, and who could blame him? He continued pitching as well as ever through his treatment, recovery, and another remission, and earned a level of respect from teammates, fans, and coaches normally befitting a Hall of Famer. Perhaps being treated like Pedro Martinez went to his arm; he had an ERA of 3,13 in 2006, and 1.80 in 2007 (when he returned to being a starter).   

The downhill from Coolidge Corner toward Kenmore Square was a Godsend, and suddenly I was looking at the same view I've seen thousands of times driving into work and ballgames. Just past where the C-Line trolleys make their descent underground, Beacon Street takes a last rise to pass over the Mass. Pike and into the square. Overland Street, my office, and Fenway Park are on the right, Boston University's Metcalf Science Center is on the left, and in the middle is by far the most beautiful thing I'd seen all day:

The Citgo Sign.

"HERE HE COMES!! GO SAUL!! GO  SAUL!!"

This is where I reached sudden and very fleeting rock star status. Halfway across the small bridge leading into Kenmore Square is the official viewing spot for the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge (DFMC) team. Many of my colleagues from Dana-Farber Communications were gathered there, along with Jan Ross and her amazing Dana-Farber Running Programs staff and dozens of pediatric cancer "patient partners" awaiting their DFMC runners. I looked over at the sea of waving posters, and noticed at least 10 were covered with my name in big block letters and even bigger blow-ups of the photo from my DFMC donation pager. As I high-fived as many familiar faces as I could, my legs no longer felt nearly so heavy.

Memory of a rock star moment.

The whole wonderful moment lasted no more than 10 seconds before I was back to being another anonymous charity runner struggling to the finish. My jog slowed to a not-so-fast walk as the course met back up with Comm Avenue, passed through the square, and then dipped down and under Massachusetts Ave. The right turn on Hereford Street and left onto Boylston were all that remained.

Then I looked down at my watch, and my eyes widened as the numbers become clear.

4:55:00.

CRAP!

How in hell was I going to make it in under five hours now? I wasn't, obviously, not with a half-mile left and a pace that has gone from 9:40 to 10:40 to 11;40 miles since Natick. By ignoring Jack's advice to use the 3-1-3 Galloway Method at least through the first half of the race, I had cost myself the chance at finishing in the range of middle-aged, first-timer respectability that had been my goal since starting this endeavor.

Back in high school, as a fledgling half-miler, I drove my track coach Hank crazy by always running the second lap of the two-lap race disproportionately faster than the first. I would pass several other runners in the home stretch, but never catch the leader. Hank kept telling me I'd do much better if I could just go out faster, but I doubted my ability to keep up with the top guys all the way through. Each meet, I'd repeat the pattern.

That was my junior year. I figured there would be a chance to change my ways as a senior, but then the stomach problems that would lead to ulcerative colitis kicked in and I had to quit track. Looking back, I wish I had pushed myself harder to ignore the pain and keep at it. But I was a kid and there were college applications and a million other things to get done -- so I just let it go.

Monty chips in for the Jimmy Fund. (Stan Grosfeld)

Greg Montalbano, I am guessing, never did this. Life threw him more curve balls than any one person deserved in a lifetime, all by his 30th birthday, but he kept heading back to the mound for another crack at it. In my case, while it was clearly too late to win the 1984 Suburban League half-mile,  maybe I could still pull off something here.

I reached back a last time.

TAP. TAP.

And I was off -- cranking up whatever gas I had left and taking the sharp turn onto Hereford.

This was the only part of the course I had not run at least once during training, my superstition telling me that I should lay off such hallowed pavement until Patriot's Day -- when it would be all the sweeter. But now I was in such a frenzy to reach the finish that I couldn't enjoy the huge crowds of screaming fans waving from the street and windows as I zig-zagged around other runners and took the last turn onto Boylston. The finish line was now in my plane of vision.

It wasn't really that close, but I started sprinting toward it. The screaming of the crowd seemed to get louder, and I convinced myself they were yelling for me. I remembered what DFMC veterans told me about looking up to the finish-line camera and striking a pose as I crossed, but there was no time for that now. I was looking straight ahead with tunnel vision. and only as I reached the beautiful blue-and-yellow finish line did I notice the big digital timer with my official time.

5:01:40.

I blew it.

Before I had a moment to start cursing myself, someone was hugging me. It wasn't Michelle, and it wasn't Coach Hank ready to chew me out for waiting too long yet again. It was Uta Pippig, the three-time Boston Marathon women's champion and a friend of Jack and the DFMC team. "Uta, you're fantastic!" I managed to blurt out n surprise, to which she smiled and replied, without missing a beat, "No, YOU'RE fantastic. That was quite a kick."

Uta made me feel like a champ. 

For a second, I felt 10 feet tall, with a full head of hair. Then I remembered the 5:01:40 on the clock and got pissed all over again.

A few minutes later, after picking up my medal and calling Michelle, I spotted Jack. "I didn't listen to you, and I blew it," I told him. He smiled and said I did great, and I felt a bit better Then, when I met up with Michelle and Jason a bit later on, I felt A LOT better.

Michelle had been getting BAA text updates on my time sent to her phone throughout the race, and showed me the last one she had just received, I gasped in disbelief, and then realized what had happened. Because there were so many runners in my wave at the starting line, I did not actually pass it and activate my tracking chip until nearly two minutes after the "official" start. So subtracting that time from the 5:01:40 on the clock, my actual time was...

4:59:51!

I DIDN'T blow it -- and I couldn't wait to tell Jack. When I did, he smiled again and said, "Great, but imagine if you had done the Galloway method?"

He's probably right. More than a month later, I'm still playing it over in my head. If I did follow the run-walk-run plan that had worked so well on those last training runs, maybe I would have finished in closer to 4:30:00 -- or even better.

But like I explained to Jack, I just felt too good to walk, beyond those few seconds at each water stop. And even though walking more might had led to a better time on the clock, I think it would have made my overall experience less enjoyable. People who saw me along the course said I never looked tired or uncomfortable -- and actually appeared to be enjoying myself, even at the top of Heartbreak Hill. The pictures people took bear this out; I'm smiling in all of them.

Still smiling. 

So even though I maybe could have run faster, I could not have had more fun.

Again, I'm only speculating, but I am pretty sure that's what baseball was like for Greg Montalbano those last few seasons in Worcester. He probably knew, at least in the back of his mind, that he wasn't going to make it to the big leagues. But he was playing because he loved the game, and it was still FUN. 

Later, when the cancer finally made pro baseball no longer possible, he still enjoyed himself while working as an engineer and making speaking appearances for Dana-Farber at various events. He made time to be a volunteer assistant baseball coach at St. Johns Prep, and for a South End baseball team, and to educate high school and college students in how to easily check themselves regularly for signs of testicular cancer.

Greg Montalbano died on Aug. 21, 2009, after fighting cancer for 13 of his 31 years. Northeastern retired his number 30, making him the first Huskies player so honored, and the Red Sox had a moment of silence for him before their game against the Yankees at Fenway the next day. Kevin Youkilis, a former minor league teammate of Greg's, wrote "GM" in his cap and had 2 homers and 6 RBI in Boston's 14-1 victory. 

Each season, the Red Sox now give out a Greg Montalbano Minor League Player of the Year Award. Andrew Benintendi won it last year.

Speaking of wins, Boston won on Patriot's Day -- 4-3 over Tampa Bay. The victory went to Steven Wright, but less than a mile from Fenway Park, Greg got the win for me. And now he's back on my desktop, always within eyesight if I need a lift.