“I’m a firm believer that God has a plan and it wasn’t in his plan for us to move forward. God didn’t have it in the cards for us.” ~Adrian Gonzalez on not making the playoffs in 2011

It seems funny now that it all started with Mike Cameron. When Boston traded for Adrian Gonzalez last winter, one of the first questions that people asked was what number the slugging first baseman would wear. The number he wore for the five years he played in San Diego, 23, was already taken by Cameron, who at the time, many expected would play a large role on the 2011 team. (The same people who said, “On the plus side, there’s no way Lackey can pitch much worse.” Yes, I’m regretting both statements.) Some believed Cameron would willingly give up the number, considering the magnitude of the Gonzalez acquisition (not to mention Cameron is a stand up guy), and that’s reportedly just what he did.

Gonzalez declined though, stating that the number 23 had no real significance to him. Instead, he went with 28 because “28 is God providing strength and courage.” Fast forward about six months and Gonzalez is standing in front of his locker explaining that his team missed the playoffs because it was God’s plan. That’s really where the problems began.

Gonzalez took heat immediately for this statement, with many claiming that he was making lazy excuses for his team’s abysmal performance down the stretch. With New England seething, Gonzalez gave a simple yet confounding response, one that very few seemed to support.

When I was watching the Red Sox’ season fall apart, I found myself sitting at the edge of my couch, waiting upon that fateful Jonathan Papelbon pitch to Robert Andino and thinking “Please God, just let it be a strike.” At the time, it seemed like nothing. Looking back, it’s a strange moment, because I’m not a very religious person. But there I was, neck planted firmly towards the sky, pleading for some sort of divine intervention. Maybe it was because I truly believed it would make a difference, maybe it was because I didn’t have enough faith in my lucky Lester jersey, or maybe I just didn’t know what else to do.

When we don’t understand things, we look for explanations. It’s been three months now, but it’s fair to say that I still don’t understand what happened to the Red Sox in September. There are simple explanations: the rotation was too thin, the bullpen underperformed, players were drinking beer and eating fried chicken in the clubhouse. These are all reasonable explanations, and they all had something to do with the collapse. Yet, the more I circle back through the explanations, I keep saying to myself, “There has to be something more. There just has to be.”

The beauty of this game, as in life, is that everyone explains things in different ways. Some use advanced sabremetrics, some use win totals and average, some just use their heart. Adrian Gonzalez’s explanation is that God has a plan. That he was traded to the Boston Red Sox because he was meant to be, and that unfortunately the team missed the playoffs because it was part of the bigger plan. We had trouble enough dealing with the events of September, imagine how Gonzalez must have felt. He spoke from his heart, and it seems unfair to criticize a man for that.

Fried Chicken. Terrible starting pitching. Robert Andino. Each of these elements added to the overall chaos that was September, but they only held the magnitude that they did because of one another. Jacoby Ellsbury not holding on to that ball as he slammed against the wall at Camden Yards, Jonathan Papelbon not being able to sneak that final strike past Andino, Carl Crawford playing just inches too far back. Maybe Gonzalez is right, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe this group of players was just never meant to play into October. Maybe there was something more to it. Or maybe not. Maybe the numbers speak for themselves, maybe the Sox just needed one better pitching performance, one better defensive play. Maybe it is that easy. We all know what Adrian Gonzalez thinks. The rest is up to you.

David Ortiz points to the sky every time he crosses home plate. I wear the same Red Sox t-shirt to bed every night before a big game. Maybe there is no connection, but I’d like to think there is. We all come from different places, we all believe in different things. But when we watch our favorite team, when we discuss the players, when we search for reason, ultimately we’re all showing faith in at least one universal ideal, something that may very well have no explanation, yet something that makes perfect sense at the same time: the game.