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.

The 1975 Red Sox helped save baseball -- and my childhood

Forty years ago tonight the Red Sox and Reds played what is routinely cited as one of the greatest games in sports history. Filled with high drama and compelling characters, Game 6 of the 1975 World Series set TV viewership records and jump-started baseball's popularity -- which had waned with the rise of the NFL and Monday Night Football.

Some say Game 6 saved the National Pastime. It definitely helped save me.

I was in the stands at Fenway that cold October evening, and wish I remembered it better. It was well past an 8-year-old's bedtime, and most of my recollections of the evening revolve around the pregame -- when I joined the multitudes shouting "Looie! Looie!" into cardboard megaphones as we watched ace Luis Tiant warm up in the Boston bullpen -- and the climax -- lots of screaming, hugging, and organ playing after Carlton Fisk's shot to left field banged off the foul pole for a game-winning homer.

The 7-6 Red Sox win only temporarily staved off a Cincinnati celebration the next night in Game 7 , but the feats of Pudge, El Tiante, and their teammates during that season and beyond had a lasting impact on me -- providing a way to survive and then escape from the darkest force of my childhood.

Before '75, the Red Sox were not on my radar screen. My big brother Adam played in the Newton Central Little League, and I went to his games, but my father was an MIT-educated engineer who liked to joke that he "wasn't created with a sports gene." Dad could build or fix anything but looked like Felix Unger when throwing a ball.  

Baseball was never on the radio or the TV, and I connected with my father by building plastic model cars in his basement workshop. I'm not sure I even knew who Carlton Fisk was then, but I could tell any two Ford Thunderbirds apart by studying the taillights of my AMI replicas. At the time that was good enough.

Pre-Sox stats: A full-length taillight on the '66.

Then, on Friday the 13th of January, 1975, my parents sat me and Adam down on his bed to tell us they were splitting up after 13 years of marriage. My mother claims I said something mature like "Well, if you don't get along well together, at least this way you can stay friends," but at age 7 I certainly couldn't grasp the seriousness of what was going on. 

Dad moved the next day from our house in leafy Newton to an apartment abutting Routh 95 in Burlington, where the three of us hanged out every weekend watching late-night TV and eating burgers and creamed corn. Adam and I slept head-to-toe on a living room couch, like Richie's big brother Chuck and his college roommates on "Happy Days." 

For Adam, then nearly 11, it must have been scary and sad to see our father starting his life over. For me it felt like an adventure.

Beacon Village: Fun far from Fenway.

We didn't listen or watch baseball at "dad's house," but by the time the Red Sox clinched the American League East that September the games started appearing on the big Zenith in our den. Mom had a boyfriend, and he had plenty of sports genes.

Jack was big and strong, a jock-turned-lawyer and a rabid Sox fan. He had the games on no matter what he was doing; he even had a huge set of headphones with a built-in radio that he wore while mowing the lawn. I still made Rydell models in the shop, but Jack never went down there. To connect with the new man in the house, I had to watch the games too.

So I did -- and got hooked.

While my own baseball skills were and remained mediocre at best, I found I had a natural affinity for understanding the game and its history. Jack, who had played in high school and beyond, explained some of the finer points, and I began listening to the Sox on my clock radio as I fell asleep and then poring through boxscores in the next morning's Globe. Tiant, Fisk, Rice, Lynn, Yastrzemski -- these heroes provided the language I figured would win Jack over. 

"Hey, Looie got the win last night," I'd say to Jack as we passed heading to and from the bathroom, and I'd feel, briefly, like his equal.

When Luis was winning, life was easier.

Dad briefly took over as the baseball man in the family that October, when a friend of a friend hooked him up with tickets to all four home games in the Red Sox-Reds World Series. These were, I believe, my first visits to Fenway Park, but it was not the start of a trend; once the series and season were over we rarely went back.

A clear dichotomy formed in the years that followed. Weekends at dad's house from spring through early fall were fun-filled with mini-bikes and James Bond movies and burgers, while the weekdays back in Newton were for baseball. Dad married his girlfriend Judy, who was and is a great stepmom but also lacks a sports gene. Mom married Jack, assuring that the Red Sox would always be on at her house.

Hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

As I got older and began to understand a little how the real world worked, I learned one had to be careful when watching and listening to games with Jack. 

If the Red Sox were winning, he smiled and laughed and was your buddy; if they were losing the smile disappeared and he filled up his big glass from the liquor cabinet more often. He never took me and Adam to games or even played catch with us -- those honors were reserved for his own son -- so this hit-or-miss bonding was the best I was going to get.

Sprawled out on the shag carpet in front of the TV, with Jack in the dark leather recliner behind me, I prayed for wins. After Bucky Dent in '78 and the dismantling of the club that soon followed, the drunk, angry moods became more common. It wasn't just the slumping Sox, I learned later; Jack's once flourishing law career was also on a downward trend. 

Time for another drink.

It was best just to stay away, and I found I could momentarily forget about him and the scare he put into me by listening to Ken Coleman call the Sox games on WHDH -- "850 on your AM dial." If there was no game on, I could sing along to Jim Croche or Don MacLean albums with my mom. She made sure I felt loved, and when Jack was in one of his dark moods I guess I did the same for her.

By the early '80s, when Yastrzemski was winding down, I had given up any chance of bonding with the big guy across the hall. I still loved baseball, and began taking the Green Line from Boston College to Kenmore Square with friends in a rite of passage that allowed me to escape the tension at home by making a new home at Fenway. Occasionally dad got there with me -- one game he took me and 10 buddies to right after my Bar Mitzvah remains a great memory -- but the Red Sox were mostly "my" thing. That was fine.

Yaz retired in October 1983, but the last links to the '75 team, Dwight Evans and Jim Rice, were still going strong when I left for college a couple years later. The next summer I returned just as the Red Sox and young pitching phenom Roger Clemens were heating up. 

It was the type of club that even Jack and I might have enjoyed together, but by this point Mom had finally endured enough. He was on the way out, and when he meekly offered me great tickets to a few games that August -- not to go with him, just free seats -- I politely refused. I'd rather grab a standing-room spot balanced atop the guardrails behind the last row of Section 25 with my friends than take his weak-ass handouts.

By '86, I'd rather hang here than with him.

I have no idea where Jack is now; the last I heard about him, he had done some time in jail and been disbarred for stealing money from clients. I occasionally Google him but nothing comes up other than a few short stories and court documents describing his incarceration. I know people who know one of his other ex-wives, and a few calls would likely unearth his whereabouts. But I don't make them.

Mom found a guy worthy of her love -- and ours -- and they had a great decade together before he died of cancer. She and dad did indeed stay friendly and still get together with Adam and my families often. Ballgames are usually on in the background; Dad and Judy still have not developed sports genes, but they'll go to their grandkids' games.

Jack is about 80 now; I imagine the next time I read his name -- if I ever do -- will be in an obituary. Forty years after he entered my life, and nearly 30 years after he left it, the fear and anger are long gone. What's left are the memories of a great team, and a love for the game that I developed in 1975 out of desperation -- but has remained far beyond its original intent.

Maybe Jack never took me to Fenway, but now I can go whenever I want. I tend to look at it not as revenge, but it feels sweet just the same. 

Like a fly ball heading deep to left, staying fair, and making us believe anything is possible. 

  


  
    

Pedro, Yaz highlight Red Sox "Grade A" lineup vs.Marlins

Pedro looks to tame the Marlins Tuesday.

After getting heat from Florida Marlins fans and management for fielding a lineup last Thursday at Roger Dean Stadium that included just one likely regular season starter, the Red Sox are making sure there are no complaints for those Florida rooters who make the trip to Jet Blue Park for Tuesday's split-squad rematch.

On the recommendation of Boston owner John Henry, who Saturday joked that the Marlins should "apologize for their regular season lineup," Red Sox manager John Farrell has what he calls a "Grade A" starting nine awaiting Florida fans and management 

Wade Boggs will be batting leadoff and playing third base, followed by Dustin Pedroia at second base and David Ortiz at designated hitter. Carl Yastrzemski will bat cleanup and guard the Green Monster in left, with Nomar Garciaparra at shortstop and Mo Vaughn at first. The bottom three in the order will include Carlton Fisk at catcher, Dwight Evans in right, and Johnny Damon in center. 

The starting pitcher? Who else but Pedro Martinez?

"This should be good enough for the Marlins management and fans," says Farrell. "Yaz has lost a step or two, and Carlton is having some problems with his knees, but we think they should be ready."

Yaz: Spry enough at 74.

Asked if he has any reserves available if needed, Farrell says that Dave Roberts has been studying the windups and pick-off moves of the entire Florida staff and will be loosening up for a pinch-running appearance in a close game. Fred Lynn and Jim Rice have also been taking extra batting practice in anticipation of seeing action.

After Pedro, Luis Tiant and Dennis Eckersley are expected to pitch in the game. Boo Ferriss also wanted to get some innings in, but the 92-year-old hurler could not get a plane out of Mississippi in time to make it to Florida by Tuesday morning.

"It's too bad," Ferriss said by phone Monday. "I think I could handle that Marlins lineup pretty good."

Once Bloodied, Captain Carl Yastrzemski Gets Bronzed

Yaz enjoys his day (Associated Press)

I couldn't find my "Yaz Day" shirt yesterday morning, but that was okay -- someone else who spent the past 30 years saving the white tee with the caricature that more closely resembled Governor Mike Dukakis than Captain Carl Yastrzemski managed to dig hers out. It was the least she could do given the circumstances.

Hers still fits -- mine not so much.

They unveiled a statue for Yastrzemski yesterday at Fenway Park, just a few feet away from the bronze likeness of the man he followed in left field for the Red Sox: Ted Williams. Yaz and Teddy Ballgame, together at last outside Gate B. 

After a week that marked the coronation of the 2013 Boston club, an immensely likable and surprisingly talented team that went from last place to an Al East title in one year, Sox fans got to take a short trip back to when the only thing atop the Green Monster was a net and one man spent parts of six presidential administrations guarding it.

Legends from Left: Rice, Ted, Yaz (Justyn Farano)

It had been a rainy morning but there were far more cameras than umbrellas being held up when the festivities got underway at 11 a.m. People complain a lot these days about the "Pink Hatification" of Fenway, but it was definitely a hard-core, blue-collar crowd of several hundred that gathered around the roped-off area where Yaz's family, several teammates, and current Red Sox players were assembled for the ceremony.  

Siblings Mavis and Jim McGetrick, standing right beside me, were a perfect example. They drove up from Providence wearing matching white Yaz painter's hats, each emblazoned with his uniform number eight on top and lined on the sides with some of the stats that helped define the day's honoree: 3,000 hits, 400 home runs, 7 gold gloves, and the 1967 MVP and Triple Crown awards. 

Mavis and Jim still have their pennant too.

The McGetricks also came north toting a boombox of the vintage used by John Cusack to win over Ione Skye in "Say Anything." What did they have in the cassette deck? What else but "The Man They Call Yaz," the Jess Cain tune that flew up the Boston radio charts during the summer of '67 and was later captured on the "Impossible Dream" album found under countless Christmas trees that December.

Another guy behind the McGetricks recalled being a freshman at BU and heading to Fenway for four straight nights in September of 1979 as a slumping Yaz remained stuck on 2,999 hits. He finally got his 3000th against the Yankees, a ground ball that skipped slowly past slick-fielding second baseman Willie Randolph on the Captain's last at-bat before a road trip. Though never proven, the non-play was likely one example in the long, heated Red Sox-Yankees rivalry when respect trumped hatred. Number 3000 was a hit meant to come at home.

His feats in '79 -- when he also had his 400th home run -- were historic, but  1967 was clearly Yastrzemski's most memorable year. In addition to his league-leading 44 homers, 121 RBI, and .326 batting average, he led the upstart Sox to the World Series with a .437 mark in the final 20 pressure-packed games of the greatest pennant race in American League history. He played left field with style and excellence, diving in front of and against the Wall and routinely nailing baserunners who dared to take an extra bag. On the bases himself he was daring but always smart.

Yaz in 1967: The perfect player.

Yaz won games for the Sox in every way imaginable during '67, and reignited Boston's passion for baseball much like the 2013 team has done. The difference is that while it was only one bad September and one bad season that preceded this year's resurgence, the 1967 club was the first in more than 15 years to offer New England fans any September excitement. "Crowds" at Fenway of less than 10,000 fans were common in the mid-1960s; even after least year, it's hard to imagine such apathy ever being repeated.

For those of us born in the late 1960s, a period that coincided with Yaz's peak, our memories of Captain Carl are from his white jumpsuit years -- when he was no longer the best guy on the field but still had the ability to turn on a Ron Guidry fastball or throw out a Willie Wilson at second when the situation demanded. We copied his familiar bat twirl and pants tug, but our only images of him as the perfect player came from highlight films.

Yaz in '78: the Jumpsuit Years.

Yastrzemski was not as naturally gifted a hitter as Ted Williams, but he worked just as hard at the craft. One of the most powerful moments of yesterday's ceremony for me was when Yaz's longtime teammate Dwight Evans, another of my favorites as a kid, discussed how Yastrzemski would spend 40 minutes after spring training games taking extra batting practice.

"We didn't wear batting gloves then, and you'd see blood on the handle of the bat," Evans said. Such a tale might seem apocryphal with some ballplayers, but nobody doubted it was true in this case. Yaz was a dirt dog long before the term existed.

I joined Red Sox Nation in April of '67, just before Yastrzemski's magical sixth season began, and I was already into my junior year of high school when I headed on the Green Line to Fenway for his final two games on Oct. 1-2, 1983. I got my Yaz shirt and cap and souvenir program and hoped he'd bow out with a homer like Williams.

Things didn't go quite as dramatically. He managed just a single over the rainy weekend, and popped up on a terrible 3-and-0 pitch in his final at-bat. We didn't really care, however; it was how he ran around the entire ballpark waving goodbye that we would always remember.

Yaz Day: What we remember.

There were programs made up for ceremony too, and I was lucky to get one of the pile handed out to fans by none other than Dr. Chalres Steinberg right after the unveiling. Fans later got a Yaz baseball card as they entered the ballpark, but the neatest piece of memorabilia I picked up was a enlarged, mounted photograph taken at the exact moment depicted in the statue -- Yaz tipping his helmet to a roaring crowd during his last at-bat. 

A guy was selling prints dated and autographed by the photographer for $20 apiece, and when I approached him he said he took the picture himself from his box seat back in 1983. By then he was asking $10 a picture, as sales had not been going well; since I only had a twenty on me, I bought two and gave one to my friend Scott -- who was at Yaz Day with me in '83 and also on hand for Sunday's ceremony.

The $10 photo

In a short but moving speech to the crowd during his 1983 farewell, Yastrzemski mentioned seeing a sign in the crowd that read, "Say it ain't so, Yaz." Pausing, his voice cracked as he said, "I wish it wasn't." This spontaneous and poignant display of emotion from the usually stoic ballplayer earned a roar from the masses.

Mavis and Jim McGetrick remembered the moment perfectly, because they were the ones holding the sign in the left-field seats. They showed me a fading Polaroid to prove it, and Jim laughed and said he had a cassette of the speech with him too if I wanted to hear it.

Mavis (center) holds her sign in 1983....

...and yesterday.

By then it was time for Yaz's latest speech, and as his custom he kept it short. He got a bit choked up only once, when he mentioned how he wished his "biggest fan," his late son Carl Michael, could be there. He praised the current Boston team -- represented at the event by manager John Farrell, second baseman Dustin Pedroia, and current left fielders Daniel Nava and Jony Gomes -- and said it reminded him of the '67 crew. When he mentioned that the statue meant as much to him as being inducted into the Hall of Fame, the crowd applauded. 

Yaz admires his likeness (Kelvin Ma, Boston Herald).

There was no speech for Yaz at the ballgame after the ceremony, just a first-pitch strike to current Red Sox hero David Ortiz before the Boston-Toronto contest. Oritz later homered in the game, which finished in 2:13 -- a quick pace far more the norm back in Yastrzemski's day. 

Will Yaz be back one more time in 2013 to throw out a first pitch? If he is, there will likely be a National League team sitting in the visitor's dugout. That would suit Captain Carl just fine.

A hug for Papi. (David Butler II, USA Today)

   



  

New Andrew Bailey role is boon for Red Sox batters

Another run for the Sox -- thanks in part to Bailey.

The Red Sox broke out for 11 runs on a season-high 20 hits last night, including many balls slammed to the furthest regions of Fenway Park. None of it was much of a surprise to fans who arrived early for the ballgame.

Those who were in their seats for batting practice were treated to an awesome display of power as Sox batters slammed shot after shot off and over the Green Monster. Even Jacoby Ellsbury, who has hit less home runs (five) in the past two seasons combined than he did in September of 2011, was making like Mark McGwire in the '99 Home Run Derby.

The pre-game crowd likely paid little attention to the mustached and bespectacled pitcher who was serving up the B.P. meatballs to Jacoby and Co. One perceptive media member, however, recognized the hurler's delivery and realized the Tom Selleck wannabee was actually Andrew Bailey in disguise. 

Like Bobby V., Bailey couldn't stay hidden long.

Bailey has temporarily lost his role of Red Sox closer, but team management has apparently found a new job for the former All-Star that they believe could most help the team: batting practice pitcher.

The right-hander disappeared before he could be questioned, but when Boston manager John Farrell was asked about the incident after the game, he admitted that the mystery guy on the mound was indeed the same guy who had a 15.75 ERA in his last five appearances -- with just two saves in five chances and a pair of ninth-inning homers.

"Andrew has been getting the ball over plate too often, and we just can't afford to have that happening in the ninth inning of close ballgames,"explained Farrell. "Before the game gets started, well, that's another story. If he can get them over the plate with consistency during batting practice, it gives us a chance to get some real good swings in."

No more Bailey blown saves for a while.

Farrell said Bailey might still be called upon to pitch in games, but with Koji Uehara currently in the closer's role and the rest of the relief corps fairly stabilized, Bailey's best chance at regular action might be well before the National Anthem.

According to team historian Dick Bresciani, this is not the first time the Red Sox have transitioned an active pitcher into the BP role. Calvin "Deer in the Headlights" Schiraldi spent a summer grooving balls for Dwight Evans and Wade Boggs in 1987, and John "Way Back" Wasdin lived up to his nickname on a daily basis in 2000. Carl Everett credited Wasdin for the best first half of his career that summer, but he slumped after Wasdin's late July trade to Colorado.

This one is going WAYYYYYY back.

Although Farrell says it's unclear how long Bailey will remain a pre-game regular, guys like Ellsbury, Dustin Pedroia, Daniel Nava, and Jose Iglesias (three hits apiece tonight) hope it will be a while.

Fenway Fiction

Dewey to Youk: Best later-round Red Sox draft picks

Much was made of the fact that the Red Sox had a Top 10 draft pick for the first time in 20 years this week -- finishing last will do that for you -- but it's not always the top selections that pan out. For every home run pick like Jim Rice, Nomar Garciaparra, and Dustin Pedroia in the first round, the Sox have also struck out with the likes of Jason Place (2006) and Steve Ellsworth (1981).

Even more intriguing, however, are those later-rounders who almost slip through the cracks and wind up playing far above expectations. As Red Sox fans speculate the future of this year's top pick, lefty pitcher Trey Ball, take a look at some Boston post-fourth rounders who later starred for the team:

DWIGHT EVANS - 5th Round, 1969

The 17-year-old high schooler from the San Fernando Valley League (fur sure!) was in the majors by September 1972 and wound up notching 379 homers and eight Gold Gloves with the Sox. This was a pretty good draft for Boston, whose first selection Rick Miller was an outfield mate of Evans for several years at Fenway and later won a Gold Glove himself with the Angels.

WADE BOGGS - 7th Round, 1976

It took the Chicken Man six years and an injury to Carney Lansford to get to Fenway, but he was a star from the start with a .349 average as a rookie and five batting titles with Boston. This was a gold mine draft for the Sox, with eight future big leaguers including Bruce Hurst, John Tudor, and Glenn Hoffman.


DENNIS BOYD - 16th Round, 1980

The Red Sox don't make the 1986 World Series without Oil Can, who went 16-10 that summer and was Boston's winningest pitcher in the three-year span from 1984-86. The top Sox pick in '80, pitcher Ray Krawczyk, never won a game in the majors.


SHEA HILLENBRAND - 10th Round, 1996

He may have been a head case and (in the end) an underachiever, but Hillenbrand was an All-Star third baseman for Boston in 2002 -- when he tallied 43 doubles and 83 RBIs. Boston's top pick in '96 was pitcher Andy Yount, who threw 95 MPH-plus in high school but was a minor league washout.


KEVIN YOUKILIS - 8th round, 2001

Drafted out of the University of Cincinnati, the Greek God of Walks was a rookie contributor on the 2004 World Series winners and a Gold Glove third baseman for the '07 champs. A three-time All-Star with the Red Sox, he's far outshone '01 top pick Kelly Shoppach, a .224-hitting catcher with Boston and four other teams.

WILL MIDDLEBROOKS - 5th round, 2007

Boston fans and management are hoping Middlebrooks' fantastic rookie debut in 2012 -- when he hit 15 homers in 75 games before being sidelined by a wrist injury -- is indicative of a great future. When he went on the DL this year he was batting just .201, but he's still only 24.  Boston's top '07 pick, left-handed pitcher Nick Hagadone, currently struggling as a reliever with Cleveland.

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

Some late-round picks by the Red Sox who made it big with other teams:

Amos Otis - 5th round, 1965
Ben Oglivie - 11th round, 1968
Jack McDowell - 20th round, 1984 (didn't sign)
Brady Anderson - 10th round, 1985
Carl Pavano - 13th round, 1994
David Eckstein - 19th round, 1997
Mark Teixeira - 9th round, 1998 (didn't sign)
Freddy Sanchez - 11th round, 2000

Happy Birthday Bruce, thanks for the memories

A great subject for another day.

Everybody else is talking about the wonderful Jackie Bradley, Jr. (4 RBI Sunday, now batting .423) and his chances of making Boston's Opening Day roster, so I thought I'd step into the Wayback Machine in honor of another Red Sox first-round draft pick who celebrated his 55th birthday Sunday.

Roger Clemens got the MVP and Cy Young Award in 1986, as he richly deserved, but down the stretch and through the playoffs that season there was no better pitcher in baseball than Bruce Hurst. The left-hander from Utah was injured through most of June and July, but he went 8-3 after coming back -- including five straight wins as the Sox distanced themselves from New York and Toronto in the AL East. Hurst, not Clemens, was named AL Pitcher of the Month in September as Boston clinched its first division title in 11 years.

An '86 Topps with a real signature.

In the ALCS against the Angels, Hurst won Game 2 with a Tiant-esque performance -- an 11-hit, 127-pitch complete game -- but Boston lost Games 1, 3, and 4 (two started by Clemens, one by Oil Can Boyd). It was up to Hurst to stave off elimination in the fifth contest at Anaheim, and he turned in six solid innings (7 hits, 3 runs) to keep the Red Sox in the game and set up the ninth-inning heroics of Don Baylor and Dave Henderson in Boston's thrilling 7-6 victory.

Boston won Games 6 and 7, of course, giving Hurst the rest needed to start Game 1 of the World Series at Shea Stadium. Once again, the big lefty was outstanding, allowing the heavily favored Mets just four hits over eight shutout innings in a 1-0 win saved by good 'ole Calvin Schiraldi. Riding this momentum, the Sox crushed Dwight Gooden in Game 2 to take away New York's home-field advantage.

The Mets gave the Sox their own medicine back at Fenway, however, and the Series was all knotted up when Hurst got the ball again in Game 5. This time the Mets got to him for two runs, but not until the eighth and ninth innings after Boston had built a 4-0 lead. Going the distance one more time, Hurst now had allowed two runs over 17 innings against the NL's 108-win powerhouse.

Going for it all at Shea -- Oct. '86

What happened next, Red Sox fans know, is still very painful to recount -- although not quite as bad as it was before October 2004. Boston lost Game 6 at Shea (no details necessary), after which a Game 7 rainout gave manager John MacNamara the extra day needed to start the red-hot Hurst in the finale over a heartbroken Boyd.

For a while, everything went well. The Red Sox took a 3-0 lead in the second on back-to-back homers by Dwight Evans and Rich Gedman (I bet you forgot that, Sox fans, didn't you?) and a Wade Boggs single, and Hurst allowed just one ground-ball single through five innings in holding the advantage. Bruce was headed for his third win of the series and a sure MVP trophy.

Then the ghosts of the past made their way to Shea. Three hits, a walk, and a groundout gave New York three runs in the sixth, and although Hurst had only thrown 74 pitches, MacNamara elected to bring in Schiraldi -- who had already blown the save and lost Games 6 -- to start the seventh inning of a 3-3 game. Before you could say "Deer in the Headlights," Darryl Strawberry sent Cool Cal's fourth pitch to Newark and the Mets scored twice more for a 6-3 advantage from which Boston never recovered.

How did it get away?

Despite failing to hold the lead, Hurst was never held accountable for the world championship that got away. His 2-0 record and 1.96 ERA for the World Series, and his 2.13 postseason ERA over 38 mostly fantastic innings that fall, had been all Boston fans could ask for.

Hurst never did get another chance to pitch deep into October, and left the Red Sox two years later to pitch closer to home with the Padres. I assume, being a religious family man, he also wanted to get away from the  "Delta Force" atmosphere around the Sox in those days. 

Anyway, wherever you are Bruce, I hope you had a great day Sunday -- and thanks for the memories.