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. 

  


  
    

Red Sox Bobbleheads we'd like to see -- 2015 team & retro set

In honor of Mike Napoli Bobblehead Night, here are some other Red Sox past and present we'd like to see similarly honored -- with a bit of revisionist history at work:

Eduardo Rodriguez following through during record 9th straight win to start his MLB career. 

Pablo Sandoval completing a RIGHT-HANDED home-run swing.

(just reverse the picture--I can't find one)

Hanley Ramirez making leaping catch against the Green Monster -- the ball snug in his glove.

Nine mini-Brock Holts manning all nine spots on the diamond.

Jon Lester shaking David Ross' hand after hurling an 8-0 shutout on Opening Day, 2015.

Nomar Garciaparra going through his between-pitch rituals.

Carl Everett petting Wally the Green Stegosaurus.

Wade Boggs pissing off Barney by drinking all the beer in Moe's Tavern.

Bill Buckner singling to finish Boston's 4-run, game-winning rally in 9th inning of Game 7 of 1986 World Series at Shea Stadium.

Carlton Fisk signing his new three-year contract after it arrives in the mail on Dec. 18, 1980.

It's a 1981 card (sigh)

Don Zimmer and Bill Lee hugging after Lee shuts down the Yankees to save the 1978 AL Playoff.

(This was taken a few innings before)

Bernie Carbo rounding the bases  after his third pinch-homer of the 1975 World Series clinches the championship for Boston.

Jackie Robinson, resplendent in his home white Red Sox uniform, congratulated by on-deck hitter Roy Campanella after Opening Day homer, 1949.

(I know, just squint and make believe)

Babe Ruth on deck in 1927 World Series for Red Sox at Fenway Park -- Boston's fifth Fall Classic of the decade in "The House That Ruth Shook."

Fenway Fun under full moon for Red Sox on Friday the 13th

Nothing could cool off the Sox Friday

The Red Sox have already been dead and buried several times this season, only to be dug up each time they string together a few wins. Those seeking a true turnaround, however, have never been quite as encouraged as last night at Fenway Park.

As I arrived at the damp Fens with almost-10-year-old Rachel (the 2004 talisman), I took all the normal good-luck precautions. I bought a bag of unsalted peanuts from Nick Jacobs' cart at the entrance to Yawkey Way, made sure my lucky cap was on securely, and tapped a Jimmy Fund collection box as I headed to Section 17. We took a shot and settled in about 10 rows in front of our "real" seats, and although I warned Rachel we might get booted, it never happened. 

More positive karma came in the form of the ceremonial first pitch tossed out by Hall of Famer Carlton Fisk. It was Fisk and former batterymate Luis Tiant who did the honors before Game 6 of last fall's World Series, and that night turned out OK. The starting pitcher was the same for Boston as in the Fall Classic finale too -- John Lackey.

This all pointed to a good night for the boys in red (FYI, I prefer the classic white home jerseys), but it was old pal Terry Francona's Indians who struck first. They got to Lackey for a couple runs in the second courtesy of a mammoth home run to right-field from Carlos Santana, which prompted this exchange: 

Santana's dinger quiets the crowd -- for now.

(Associated Press, Charles Krupa)

Dad: "Wow, that was a no-doubter."

Rachel: "Why do they call it a no-doubter?" 

Dad: "Well, there was never any doubt it would go out once it left the bat. But don't worry, it's still early."

Deep done I worried that the offensive doldrums that have haunted the Red Sox all year, especially with men on base, would continue under the foggy full moon. These fears were initially realized when a lumbering Ortiz was thrown out easily at the plate in the bottom of the second after a very poor decision by third-base coach Brian Butterfield to send him with nobody out and Cleveland starter Justin Masterson struggling to find the plate. 

The gaffe was magnified by a couple shots that rolled to the 420-mark in deepest center from A.J. Pierzynski (hitting more than .330 at Fenway!) and Jackie Bradley, Jr. Although they were good for a double and triple respectively that gave Boston the lead, it should have been 4-2 instead of 3-2 -- and with runs so hard to come by lately I worried we'd regret the one squandered. 

Lackey struggled early, finished strong.

(Associated Press, Charles Krupa)

It wound up not being a problem. Although the Indians did things in the third on back-to-back doubles from Asdrubal Cabrera and Michael Brantley, Lackey locked it in after that and would be near perfect until relieved with two out in the seventh. 

Masterson, however, was clearly off his game, and after allowing two walks to start the fourth (his third and fourth free passes of the night) was yanked by Francona. Young lefty Kyle Crockett didn't have much more luck, as a Mike Napoli double made it 5-2. This seemed worthy of a Dad and Daughter selfie, which we promptly placed on Facebook as a cyber-smile to the Reluctant Fan working at home.  

(A sidenote here; while last year Francona was routinely cheered each time he emerged from the Cleveland dugout at Fenway, last night there was almost no attention paid the former Sox skipper and folk hero during his many trips to the mound. I think this is a positive, for although fans here still remember the championships Tito helped bring to New England, this is a new era with new titles and new players -- save Big Papi.)

The middle innings were quiet offensively, but the Sox flashed some fine leather around including a leaping line-drive grab by Brock Holt in left field and a couple diving masterpieces from Dustin Pedroia on ground balls in the hole. It wasn't until later that I learned that Pedroia had gone to the game from the hospital after the birth of his third child earlier in the day.

Dad Petey plays some D.

(Associated Press)

Petey's early Father's Day got a bit happier in the seventh. He was one of nine Sox to bat in a four-run inning, with his double accounting for two of the runs and Napoli (single) and Daniel Nava (double) hits delivering the others. A moon shot off the left-field light tower by Xander Bogearts in the eighth finished the scoring, prompting a gasp from what was left of a rapidly-thinning crowd. 

Xander shakes the lights.

Cleveland was going through the last of its seven pitchers by the bottom of the eighth when Rachel suggested we move down. This seemed like a great idea, so we spent the top of the ninth watching in box seats by the Red Sox dugout as Burke Badenhop struck out the side to end it.

All in a all, it felt like the good old days of 2013. The Red Sox got strong starting pitching, excellent relief work, timely hitting, and contributions from up and down the lineup. Rookies Bogearts, Bradley, and Holt (now hitting .337, and near .400 when leading off) all looked terrific.

That Bradley kid sure can fly.

The winning streak was now at two, and last place comfortably in the rear-view mirror. Is it the start of a bigger turnaround? That remains to be seen, but Rachel and her dad will be back at Fenway Sunday to try to deliver some more good karma.

Rachel's good luck earns her new shades. 

(Note photo bomb by Twins employees)

How I learned to love Don Zimmer (even in pinstripes)

Zim, how his players knew him. (Getty Images)

As children our thoughts and actions are largely influenced by the adults around us. For kids who grew up in New England during the late 1970s, Don Zimmer never really had a chance.

Everywhere we turned, the manager of the Red Sox was getting bashed as an incompetent boob. If we went to Fenway Park, we heard Zimmer booed from the moment he stuck his head out of the dugout. In April of '79 he even got booed at Fenway on Opening Day, an honor usually reserved for politicians -- not guys who led their team to 99 wins the year before. 

When we listened to The Sunday Night Sports Huddle on WHDH radio, a rite of passage into mature fandom, we heard Zimmer maligned each week by Eddie Andelman and his co-hosts for failing to make the playoffs with the likes of Fisk, Lynn, Rice, Yaz, and Dewey in his lineup. Callers who mentioned the manager's real name were immediately cut off; "Chiang Kai-shek" was how you had to identify the Boston skipper on The Huddle, and even if we didn't know who that was, we laughed right along with Eddie, Mark, and Jim.

Full Popeye mode. (Boston Red Sox)

Zimmer looked like a cross between two cartoon characters. His long, muscle-bulging forearms, pudgy, tobacco-filled cheeks, and squinty eyes made him a ringer for Popeye the Sailor Man, while his short, stout torso and legs were more a match for Popeye's hamburger-eating pal, Wimpy. Throw in the regrettable softball-style, V-necked tight nylon uniforms the Sox wore during this era, and it wasn't a pretty picture. 

This guy was a sports cartoonist's dream, and since the Boston Globe had one of the best in Larry Johnson we were treated to a steady diet of hilarious images. One of these adorned the office door of my summer camp's  head baseball coach for years, a yellowing reminder of just how silly Zimmer appeared to the world.

For us easily impressionable preteens, the member of the Sox to emulate was lefty pitcher Bill Lee, California cool with his long hair, sharp wit, and funny nickname of "The Spaceman." Zimmer was known around the game, logically, as Popeye, but Lee gave him the moniker most often used by kids and hecklers to describe the manager: "Gerbil." 

The anti-Zimmer brigade was often loudest at home, where my stepfather hurled a barrage of insults at the Zenith that he fully expected the skipper to hear. These reached a fever pitch in the summer of '78, when the Red Sox blew a 14-game lead in the AL East and the Yankees roared back to win a one-game playoff at Fenway behind Goose Gossage, Reggie 
Jackson, and Bucky "Bleeping" Dent. Today a 99-63 record almost surely gets a team into the playoffs as a Wild Card; back then all it got you was second place and a plane ticket home.

Zimmer in '78 -- when it all slipped away. (Topps)

Late in the 1980 season, with the injury-plagued Red Sox limping toward a fourth-place finish, Zimmer was fired. Grandfatherly Ralph Houk took his place, and while the Sox still didn't win anything, the manager-bashing and booing largely stopped. The human punching bag had left town. 

Then something happened. As I passed through into high school and college, and learned more about Zimmer's background and reputation around the game, my feelings started to change.  

The roly-poly guy who waddled like a Weeble on his trips to the mound had once been a nimble shortstop who stole 60 bases (including 10 thefts of home) his second year in pro ball. Zimmer was one of the best power hitters in the minors and on the fast track to make the venerable Brooklyn Dodgers before he was beaned in a 1953 game and suffered a fractured skull.

For two weeks Zimmer lay in a coma, and doctors had to drill holes in the sides of his head to relieve pressure on his brain. Against all odds he not only returned to baseball, he made the major leagues with the Dodgers a year later. (True to his '70s image, the only fact we knew about this scary incident as kids was that "blockhead" Zimmer had a steel plate in his head.)

He never achieved stardom with the Reese-Robinson-Snider-Campanella Dodgers, but was a valuable role player who had 15 home runs in 88 games at second, short, and third in 1955 to help Brooklyn to its only World Series title. He survived another serious beaning that cost him much of the '56 season, and won a second World Series with the Dodgers in '59 after their move to Los Angeles.

Zim, young and a Dodger. (CNN/SI)

Statistics don't always tell the whole story about a player, and they certainly did not with Zimmer. He hit just .235 with 91 homers over 12 major-league seasons, and upon being traded from the Dodgers suffered in purgatory with dismal clubs like the 1962 Mets and 1963-65 Senators. He lasted as long as he did because he was tough, played hard, and was very well-liked by his teammates. Versatility was another plus; he suited up at every position but first base and center field in the majors, and even caught 35 games with Washington.

After his playing days, Zimmer never left the game. He coached in Montreal, managed the talent-poor Padres in their early years (a job from which he resigned and was not fired, as he'd prove with a letter he carried in his wallet), and came to Boston as a coach under Darrell Johnson. Look closely at the reverie after Carlton Fisk's famous 1975 World Series home run, and you'll see Zim (coaching third) is the first person to congratulate Pudge as he heads to home plate.  

Speaking of home plate, Zimmer was married there -- honest. He wed his beloved Jean (nicknamed "Soot") at the dish before a minor league game in '51, and was still with her when he died. 

Wedding bells -- and bats 

(Elmira Star-Gazette)

Zimmer's post-Boston journey included a decent managerial stint with the Rangers and a fantastic job at the helm of the 1989 Cubs, capturing an NL East division title and Manager of the Year honors. Amazingly, he even came back to the scene of the crime -- coaching with the awful early 1990s Red Sox under his former Boston third baseman, Butch Hobson. That took guts, and perhaps knowing it, fans gave Zimmer a break from the booing (turning instead on Hobson).

Ironically, the revival of the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry occurred with Zimmer in the opposing dugout as bench coach and consigliere to manager Joe Torre on the four-time World Series champion Yanks of 1996-2003. As Bostonians we hated the Yankees, but it was now impossible to hate Zimmer. Leaning over to whisper to Torre, or breaking into a grin and whacking Derek Jeter on the back after a good play, he looked more like a grandfatherly fan than a guy drawing a paycheck from Steinbrenner.

Zim and Torre (Torrie Keith, Daily News)

Then there was the moment when Zimmer, angered at Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez for throwing at Karim Garcia's head during the 2003 ALCS, charged across the Fenway diamond to go after the pitcher. A shocked Martinez pushed the 72-year-old coach to the ground, an act which while not malicious in intent left a bad impression on all who saw it. When Zim apologized during a press conference the next day, tearing up in the process, he was the furthest thing from a gerbil. He was more like a teddy bear.

Perhaps appropriately, Zimmer left the Yankees after that season, which meant he wasn't on The Dark Side when the Sox finally broke through in October 2004. He returned to his Florida home and took on various advisory roles with the Rays, changing his uniform number each spring to reflect his years in the pro game. This season it was 66.

The last of many uniforms.

Three titles in ten years mellowed Boston fans, and Zim claimed he always enjoyed coming back to Boston. We learned he had been listening to the talk shows all those years ago, and it had eaten him up, but that he felt fans had the right to boo him if they wanted. He even rented a house from Bucky Dent one year -- and loved to tell the story of how photos depicting Dent's '78 home run at Fenway hung in every room.

Hearing of his death, I felt like I had lost an old friend -- even though I never got closer to Zimmer than across a crowded room. The tributes came from every corner of the hardball universe. 

"I never met anyone was more pure baseball than Don Zimmer," Boston Globe columnist Bob Ryan wrote in a tribute. 

"He was, without a doubt, one of the most beloved players on the team," said Vin Scully, Dodgers broadcaster from Zim's days with the club until today. That says a lot, when you think about the guys on that Brooklyn/Los Angeles team.

Sure, he should have rested Fisk more in '78 and taken out Hobson when he had bone chips floating in his elbow. He should have pitched Lee against the Yanks in September (or in the playoff game), but while this may have driven the fans and talk show hosts nuts, his players on the Sox loved him. 

Sorry for the boos, Zim. We were just kids. We didn't know better.

Rest in Peace, Don. (Topps)

Reds-Red Sox Redux: The real story behind Carlton Fisk's Iconic Home Run Image

Just like he dreamed in back in Charlestown, NH

In honor of the Red Sox-Reds matchup at Fenway Park, I thought it would be fun to revisit the most iconic moment in the history of this rivalry -- Carlton Fisk's home run to win Game Six of the 1975 Boston-Cincinnati World Series. 

How was an NBC cameraman situated inside Fenway's Green Monster Wall astute enough to capture Fisk's dramatic reaction as he watched his fly ball to left hit the foul pole in the 12th inning? Read this excerpt from my 2011 book, Fenway Park: The Centennial to find out:


The score was still 6-6 in the bottom of the 12th, the clock inching past 12:30 a.m., when Fisk led off for Boston. Standing beside Fred Lynn in the on-deck circle as Reds reliever Pat Darcy took his warm-up tosses, the self-assured catcher told his teammate, "I'll get on, and you drive me in."

Some fans were still settling into their seats after grabbing post-midnight snacks as Fisk took Darcy's first pitch high for a ball. He then hit the next one on a rising trajectory down the left-field line, toward the foul pole that rose above the Green Monster. "It was a question of it being fair or foul," Fisk told reporters after the game. "The wind must have carried it 15 feet toward the foul pole. I just stood there and watched. I didn't want to miss seeing it go out."

Here's the swing...

Actually, Fisk did more than just watch. In an effort to circumvent the wind, he stepped out of the batter's box and began leaping, waving his hands in an effort to wish the ball into play. And while he, Lynn, and everybody else at Fenway was tracking the flight of the ball, the 36 million fans viewing the Series on NBC were treated to the raw emotion of Fisk leaping and pleading. The footage, shot by veteran cameraman Lou Gerard, gave birth to what became known in TV sports as the "reaction shot," and it's one of the most replayed images in sports history.

All thanks to a rat.

The inside of the Green Monster was never the Taj Mahal, but by the mid-'70s it had become downright nasty -- a dark, dirty, graffiti-covered pit in which a few rats sought solace from Joe Mooney's groundscrew. It was here where Gerard had set up his camera for Game 6, and his instructions from director Harry Coyle were to follow the path of the ball if it was hit toward him -- or if not, then to stay zeroed in on Fisk. 

"C'mon, C'mon....stay fair!"

Gerard was set to carry out the assignment until he spotted one of the Wall's furry freeloaders perched atop his camera. Shocked, he momentarily froze rather than swivel his camera to track the ball, and his lens stayed hooked on Fisk. It was up to Dick Stockton, calling the game for NBC viewers, to describe for them where the ball was headed:

"There it goes! A long drive! If it says fair... Home run! We will have a seventh game in this 1975 World Series!"

In the end, Fisk's shot bounced off the foul pole and fell harmlessly back down to left fielder George Foster as Fisk rounded the bases. Perhaps due to the crowd's sheer enthusiasm, just a few overzealous fans outflanked a mild security presence to vault onto the field and slap Fisk high-fives as he rounded third and headed home to end what was then the longest game (four hours, one minute) in World Series history.

Call off the seventh game!

Throughout New England, car horns honked, church bells rang, and kids with transistor radios under their pillows jumped on their beds. Fenway Park organist John Kiley broke into a succession of festive numbers such as the "Beer Barrel Polka" -- this was long before rock music was piped into the park -- and fans sang along.

Banging away at his portable typewriter above home plate, Ray Fitzgerald of the Boston Globe suggested in print that a seventh game was not necessary. How could anything top this? How could either of these teams lose? But the combatants were back at Fenway later the same day to settle matters.

As church bells rang...

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."

Fenway first-pitch-and-catch honorees it would be fun to see

The mayor belongs on the mound.

Everybody from Peter Gammons to John Farrell's housekeeper has dissected the Red Sox-Cardinals World Series match-up position by position, so at Fenway Reflections we thought we'd focus on another important aspect of any postseason contest -- the first-pitch throwers.

Sox VP Dr. Charles Steinberg and his crew have always done a great job trotting out honorees for this task, including 2004 heroes Dave Roberts and Bill Mueller during the last two ALCS games at Fenway Park. Tonight it's Hall of Famer and recent statue recipient Carl Yastrzemski handling the chore for Game 1, and it's hard to argue with that choice.

But if we could put pomp and circumstance aside, along with superstitions about past Series lost, wouldn't it be great to see some of these folks stride out to the mound and back behind the plate?

Dick Hoyt to Rick Hoyt

The Hoyts on the hills.

Well known to any true fan of the Boston Marathon, this father-son racing duo has inspired millions through the years. Who hasn't teared up watching Dick push Rick's custom-made wheelchair up Heartbreak Hill or across the finish line? When you learn the story behind their partnership, especially the accomplishments Rick has achieved off the course, your respect can only grow. These guys live "Boston Strong" every day.

Billy Rohr to Russ Gibson 

Not worth much, unless you know the story.

Gentleman Jim Lonborg was the big winner on the 1967 Red Sox, and the Cy Young Award winner has been justly honored as a first-pitch tosser on several occasions including Game Two of this year's ALDS. It was rookie right-hander Rohr, however, who first signaled to New Englanders that the '67 Sox might be worth watching when he came within one pitch of a no-hitter at Yankee Stadium in his very first major league game. Gibson, his catcher, was also making his big-league debut that day. That's the kind of stuff Impossible Dreams like 1967 -- and 2013 -- are made of.

Oil Can Boyd / Bob Stanley to Rich Gedman

Gedman tags out Gary Carter in the '86 Series.

Bill Buckner has gotten his moment of first-pitch redemption at Fenway -- actually, several of them, including Opening Day in 2008 before the '07 champions got their rings. He has received his standing ovations, and now it's time for three more members of the near-miss 1986 Red Sox to get theirs. 

Boyd, Stanley, and Gedman were all one strike away from World Series rings, and deserve some love to replace the angst they experienced during the meltdown at Shea Stadium. Stanley and Gedman are both New England natives who became All-Stars for the team they rooted for as kids, and the charismatic Boyd has settled down to make his home here. The Red Sox would not have won the '86 AL pennant without them, and now it's time to let them know they are appreciated. 

Jordan Leandre to Mike Andrews 

Leandre to Andrews would be a beautiful battery.

Leandre first gained Fenway fame as a 4-year-old cancer patient, singing the National Anthem before several games in the magic summer of 2004 and the next few years thereafter. Fans watched him progress from two full-leg casts to a wheelchair to a limp and then a triumphant run around the bases. He's since graduated from the Jimmy Fund Clinic to a healthy career as a teenage pitcher, including a no-hitter in summer-league play.

Andrews, a rookie Red Sox second baseman on the 1967 AL champions, devoted more than 30 years to fighting pediatric and adult cancer as chairman of the Jimmy Fund, and still looks like he could turn a double play at age 70. He's famously shunned the spotlight in the past, but honoring him would be a natural choice in this, the 60th anniversary of the Jimmy Fund-Red Sox partnership 

Bill Lee to Carlton Fisk 

A near-miss battery.

This battery started Game 7 of the 1975 World Series vs. the Reds at Fenway. Left-hander Lee was one botched double-play and one eephus pitch away from a championship toast at his beloved Elliot Lounge, while Fisk -- who had famously won Game 6 with his homer off the left-field foul pole -- just missed a title in his only Fall Classic of a 24-year catcher career. Polar opposites off the field, the stoic Fisk and iconoclastic were in perfect harmony on it.

Thomas Menino to Bill Russell

Russ knows rings.

Sure, he often gets poked fun at for his creative use of the English language, and he sometimes gets his sports facts wrong, but Menino has done much right for Boston during a record five terms as the city's mayor. As he readies to retire from office, this would be a great way to honor the man who stood Boston Proud after the Marathon bombings and many, many other times. 

Celtics great Russell is the greatest champion in Boston sports history and will be getting a statue in his honor here on Nov. 1 thanks in large part to Menino's lobbying. We know Russ doesn't have much of a throwing arm from watching a previous first toss, but it would be fun to see him crouch down for Menino's delivery.

Terry Francona to Jason Varitek 

Two of the great minds behind '04 and '07. 

Yeah, things ended badly for Tito here, but what better way to bury the hatchet? He received a nice Fenway greeting during his return with Cleveland this summer, but an appearance here would bring down the house.