Sam Killay covers the Devil Rays at RaysTalk.
About a week ago, Evan asked me to fill in for him today. I agreed, and I’d planned to do a column entitled “Quick Hits” in which I made a series of unrelated (but all deeply insightful) comments & observations regarding … y’know, stuff. Red Sox stuff. About the course of the season so far, the performance of individual players, general baseball, etc. Stuff.
Little did I know, when I agreed to handle today’s column, that we would play the game we played yesterday. What a game. It was a game we played on national TV, a game with a host of sidestories and undercurrents. It involved (in no particular order) an aging ace, a young ace in the midst of an ugly marital spat, key contributions by two strong candidates for the Comeback Player of the Year award for the AL, young flamethrowers, the best closer in baseball, extra-innings, and a dramatic walkoff win by the home team.
Needless to say, my plans changed. I was going to talk about a smattering of subjects, but instead today I want to talk about one thing only — one man. You know who. David Ortiz. Big Papi.
I worked yesterday, so I spent the afternoon listening to the game on radio. I was scheduled to get off at 5. When it was about time for me to leave, I couldn’t tear myself away. Keeping my eye on the timeclock, I listened long enough to ensure that Papelbon closed down the 10th cleanly, then I punched out and dashed through the rain out to my car. I was running partly because it was raining, but moreso because I was afraid to miss anything.
I reached my car just in time as play resumed. And you know what happened next.
Ortiz was due up in the bottom of the 10th. At Fenway. The possibilities were obvious, and of course I dared to hope, to dream. But really, reasonably speaking, how many times can you expect one man to shoulder the collective burden? How many times can you expect one man to play savior at the last possible minute?
The well ain’t dry yet, obviously.
I’m not ashamed to tell you, I was in tears listening to Ortiz in his postgame interview with Castiglione (or Truppiano, I get them confused). It was such a great game featuring an assortment of heroes past, present, and future, and to have it end the way it did was special. Ortiz is a marvel, a glorious longballing timely marvel. What that man has done for us is remarkable beyond my ability to praise him for his achievements.
In a moment of revery, it occurred to me that I honestly don’t believe Ortiz will ever know what he means to Red Sox Nation. Until Ortiz joined this franchise, we were the perennial also-ran, the whipping boy, the team that sold The Babe, cursed, always the bridesmaid never the bride. Call us what you want, but we were a franchise & fanbase with a psychological monkey on our backs. There was a sickening paranoia in everything we did, a sense of despair, a sense that the Red Sox were forever doomed to be baseball’s tragic heroes. We were, in a word, hopeless losers.
Ortiz changed all that. There were a lot of heroes in the magical ’04 postseason run, but Ortiz went above-and-beyond. His contributions in the ALCS are the stuff of legend, probably the greatest clutch performance the city of Boston will ever see. And what he’s done since then has only cemented his legacy. I’m firmly convinced that the man has a rare ability to brush aside the pressure of the moment, focus on the task at hand, and execute. It’s a true winner’s mentality. A lot of guys hit baseballs far, but Ortiz rises to the challenge.
The bottom line is, he gets it done when it needs to get done. Has he changed the complexion of this team? Sure, but more importantly, he’s completely changed the mindset of the fans, even the most skeptical like me.
David Ortiz walks to the plate with the game on the line, and we expect great things. For a fanbase that had developed, through the decades, an ingrained sense of failure, Ortiz has been nothing less than a healing influence. His fireworks have been the cure for the oppressive self-defeatism that once defined us as baseball fans. And he has taught us to enjoy the game again. As I said before, there is simply no way we can thank him enough for that.
The man has to be one of the best stories in baseball history. To go, in the space of less than 4 years, from being stuck behind Jeremy Giambi on the depth-chart at age 27 to an announcer on national TV, in regards to you, crowing, “He’s a legend!” well, you’ve come a long way baby.
As I continued my long-ish commute home today, I had plenty of time to think. I remember an article I wrote for Evan in 2004 about Red Sox nicknames. And I remembered very specifically my early aversion to the nickname Big Papi.
To this day, I have no idea where the name came from. And obviously I was as thrilled as anybody with the 2003 season Ortiz gave us, bursting into the spotlight with a dramatic 2nd half of the season that saw him top 30 homers. But in light of his previous years with the Twinkies, I was reserved about his prospects for the future. 2003 could have been a fluke. You never know.
You never know indeed.
Back in mid ’04, I was resentful of the nickname Big Papi. It sounded goofy. If I’m going to call a baseball player Big Papi, it’s going to be because I have the absolute height of respect, admiration, and affection for that player.
Three-and-half years after joining the Red Sox, Ortiz is a star of the highest magnitude, a force to be reckoned with. The man just hits. He hits in May, he hits in July, he hits in September. He especially hits in October. He hits early in games, he hits in the middle of games, he hits late in games. He hits in extra innings. He hits at home, he hits on the road. He hits at Yankee Stadium. He hits good pitchers, he hits bad pitchers. He hits the fastball, he hits the offspeed stuff. He hits. And hits. And hits.
And if there’s one thing we know for sure, it’s that he hits Tom Gordon. Poor Tom Gordon. That man is gonna be psychologically scarred for life because of Papi.
I can now safely say that I have the height of respect, admiration, and affection for David Ortiz. Big Papi. I use the nickname freely these days, as we all do. Back in ’04, I was right about one thing: a nickname like that is extremely high praise.
In Big Papi’s case, it’s praise well-earned.
