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October 24, 2007

The manager, the champion

The Red Sox may come and the Red Sox may go. Big Papi may hit homers, and Manny may knock in runs. Or they may strike out. The fortunes of the team may rise and they may fall. Red Sox Nation may cheer and howl in victory or slink off sniffling quietly in defeat. But one thing remains constant, reliable, assured always to be at the very peak of performance, one super star.

He is the manager. In the manager the Red Sox have a leader who, by constant example and unvarying demonstration, shows the world what a manager should be, what he should do, how he should lead. The manager is a paragon, a beacon shining in a dark world, an example to all who see him, an inspiration and model for the thousands of hero-worshipping boys who aspire to don the uniform of a big-league team and play ball. In the manager the Sox have perfection.

In baseball? Oh no. Baseball is trivia. Who wins and loses is of little consequence. Performance on the field is a sometime thing, forgotten when the last inning ends. The manager is excellence personified in something far more substantial and universally practiced than mere baseball.
Here is a man who can spit.

Watch him. Observe every move through every game, note the timing, the posture, the head movement, the unflagging production, the constancy of it all. You see a thing of beauty. Pay close attention to the manager when the team is playing. You see a man of great talent, dedicated to his art.

As he sits in the dugout the head is bowed slightly. The chewing ceases for a moment. The lips purse. There is a pause, not prolonged, but noticeable. Then it comes. The perfect spit, dead center between the feet, of major volume but not overbearing, aimed like rifle fire. Magnificent. Then the head rises momentarily, the chewing begins again, and the next one is soon to come.

Does anyone dare to suggest that there is a better spitter in the world of baseball than the Red Sox manager? The very thought is heresy. And this sort of talent does not come easily. A spitter of this caliber is like a sculptor or a flute soloist or a novelist, all of whom spend countless hours bringing their vocation to the highest level of excellence. The Red Sox manager is the Ernest Hemingway of spitting.

Consider the time the manager through the years put into achieving the correct posture, the back straight leaning ahead a little, neck bent slightly forward. Think of the hours spent practicing as a young man, when others were out enjoying their pointless existence of having youthful fun. In the Red Sox manager you see determination, dedication, self-denial and the steadfast pursuit of excellence.

And there is the matter of what brings about all this excellence of performance. From time to time, as the game rages and the roar from the stands reaches a crescendo worthy of the world's brass bands put together, there is the manager stuffing something into his mouth. Tobacco? Probably not. If it were, the manager would not have any teeth; and the chaw, once as much a part of baseball as home plate, has pretty much disappeared from the Big Leagues, and the almost constant spurt across the field of brown goo from the mouths of the players has subsided. Gum? Not likely, although some of the players have reached fourth-grade status at producing bubbles. No, it has to be something that will produce sufficient quantities of the essence of spitting to allow the performance to go on through a full game, even into extra innings.

Spitting is such a vital part of baseball that one can dream up a scene of a rookie coming up to the Big Leagues. The scouts have found him. He looks ready for years at the top. But one thing remains. The manager looks over all the records. Fielding? Great. Hitting? A long-ball man. Base running? Fast. Then comes the key question. Can the kid spit? Let's have a look. The kid puckers up, draws all the material he can and lets one go. Not bad, not bad, says the manager, impressed. To himself he says, this kid's got a big career ahead of him.

But not as good as that of the Red Sox manager. He can out-spit anyone who ever put on a pair of spikes. He is the champ, uncontested, with a rapid-fire pace, unlimited endurance and perfect execution every time. Let the game go on. Let the score seesaw back and forth. Let the crowd go wild. But there in the dugout, standing occasionally and leaning on the railing looking out at the field but usually sitting on the bench, is the manager, chewing and chewing, his cheeks distended, getting ready. Then from the head bowed in the perfect posture, comes the beautifully executed spit. The Red Sox must be walking about with chests thrust forward in pride. He's all theirs. And fans by the thousands across the country can watch him. It's enough to get you settled in your favorite chair in front of the TV or going back to the ball park game after game. It's the ultimate performance.

Baseball does not offer anything better than this.

Robert Reed is a former editorial writer for The Sun.

Posted by Admin at October 24, 2007 4:17 PM