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10/3-10/5 Red Sox vs. Rays Series Thread
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Post by jerrygarciaparra on Oct 5, 2022 15:32:56 GMT -5
Pressure is off. Go have fun playing baseball, boys. JD showing how. Yeah.....and it is a great way to put a stamp on his Sox career. He is definitely gone.
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Post by soxfansince67 on Oct 5, 2022 15:38:29 GMT -5
Whoa. This is getting really emotional. Not the game. The banter.
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Post by jerrygarciaparra on Oct 5, 2022 15:40:33 GMT -5
Eck with the "Sit down".....LOL
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cdj
Veteran
Posts: 13,976
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Post by cdj on Oct 5, 2022 15:51:21 GMT -5
JD’s last Red Sox homer
Thanks for the memories
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Post by alexcorahomevideo on Oct 5, 2022 15:58:23 GMT -5
This team might look ALOT younger next year. Might be another lean season. Just makes you appreciate the last 20 years or so.
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Post by incandenza on Oct 5, 2022 16:04:21 GMT -5
This team might look ALOT younger next year. Might be another lean season. Just makes you appreciate the last 20 years or so. Still thinking the Red Sox will go $60 million under the CBT for no particular reason?
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Post by soxfansince67 on Oct 5, 2022 16:09:18 GMT -5
Pivetta seems like he is gasping into the last game. Approaching 80 pitches in 3 innings. Pretty Porcello-like season. Throws lots of innings, but results often meh
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Post by jerrygarciaparra on Oct 5, 2022 16:24:36 GMT -5
twinkle toes.....ha.
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Post by greenmonster on Oct 5, 2022 16:39:33 GMT -5
JD’s last Red Sox homer Thanks for the memories Or Not
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Post by julyanmorley on Oct 5, 2022 16:39:57 GMT -5
Some first inning posts need to be edited
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Post by kman22 on Oct 5, 2022 16:40:02 GMT -5
You wish you saw more of those throughout the summer.
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Post by maxwellsdemon on Oct 5, 2022 16:40:19 GMT -5
JD’s last Red Sox homer Thanks for the memories You can say that again.
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Post by alexcorahomevideo on Oct 5, 2022 16:45:12 GMT -5
Okay...now last homer as a Red Sox!
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Post by alexcorahomevideo on Oct 5, 2022 16:46:12 GMT -5
This team might look ALOT younger next year. Might be another lean season. Just makes you appreciate the last 20 years or so. Still thinking the Red Sox will go $60 million under the CBT for no particular reason? I don't think they spend up to what they did this year. No. I believe YOU insinuated that I felt that way and I just didn't really care that much to correct you. To each their own.
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Post by Gwell55 on Oct 5, 2022 17:38:42 GMT -5
Brasier doing his part yet again!
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Post by xdmo on Oct 5, 2022 17:44:08 GMT -5
We need a clutch blown save from someone tonight.
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Post by taiwansox on Oct 5, 2022 17:59:49 GMT -5
We need a clutch blown save from someone tonight. Just like how Mookie ended his Red Sox career with a walk-off, I’d like to see Eck end with a win in the booth (draft pick would be nice constellation though)
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cutz
Veteran
Posts: 2,321
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Post by cutz on Oct 5, 2022 18:17:30 GMT -5
THANK YOU JD !!
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Post by GyIantosca on Oct 5, 2022 18:35:09 GMT -5
Ok CB, your hands were tied with the major league team. Let’s see your vision going forward. No money issues, no prospect issues.
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Post by manfred on Oct 5, 2022 18:36:47 GMT -5
Forget players. #1 priority in the off-season is replacing Eck. Like finding a DH after Papi.
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jimoh
Veteran
Posts: 3,966
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Post by jimoh on Oct 5, 2022 18:43:55 GMT -5
Meaningless game and yeah he has one of their two hits but what is the benefit to Hosmer playing and Casas not? Establishes that he is healthy so we can trade his cheap contract.
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Post by Guidas on Oct 5, 2022 18:50:20 GMT -5
OK, this crap season is over. Now fix this mess, Bloom, or next year you’ll be in the same boat as JD, Nate and Hill.
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Post by julyanmorley on Oct 5, 2022 18:51:22 GMT -5
From A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of A. Bartlett Giamatti by A. Bartlett Giamatti, et al "The Green Fields of the Mind "
It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.
Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.
But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.
Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.
New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.
Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.
The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.
That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.
Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.
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Post by redsox04071318champs on Oct 5, 2022 18:58:13 GMT -5
It's funny. I've been watching the Red Sox since 1980 and I've seen 11 losing seasons in that time. Nine of those seasons were full seasons as the other two were the shortened 1994 and 2020 seasons.
Out of 9 full season losing seasons, now 5 times, more than half, the Red Sox finished with a record of 78-84 .481.
When they disappointed in 1983 it was 78-84. Then when they disappointed in 1987, they finished 78-84. Same record 10 years later in 1997. Then again in 2015 and that was a last place finish, just like in 2022, with the difference being that the Sox played really strong baseball in the 2nd half of that season which portended the bright future ahead. This year's squad had a terrible second half. They went 35-52 after peaking at 43-32.
So when the Sox are set to disappoint, pencil them in at 78-84.
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Post by benzinger on Oct 5, 2022 19:03:00 GMT -5
Well, it is official: Verdugo put up his best numbers for the Sox in 2020 and has declined each season since in BA, OBP, SLG & OPS+. At least he was healthy enough to play in 150 games this season, though. I’ll give him credit for that much.
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