Jay Resha’s Westword Sports: It’s Barftober, Boston

Where to begin? With a headline that includes the word “Barftober,” I better get to the important stuff quickly.
 
Where to begin? Sometimes I spew forth bullet-point type columns, positing some sort of extended fleshed-out list that I think reads better than an essay. I’m trying hard not to do that here, but I offer no guarantees. This piece won’t be edited a hundred times, either – this one is like the slightly-too-loud guy venting to you from the next barstool over. And I might just use anaphora, which is a literary device I have known and employed many times…but apparently did not know how to pronounce correctly until October of 2026. Not joking.
 
Where to begin? I am so disappointed in the Red Sox. I am so disappointed. Duped. Disconsolate. Disgruntled and deceived.
 
Where to begin? At the beginning – and here’s what it is all about.
 
It’s about the tale of three seasons: The wretched 32-46 team that looked destined for last place; the world-beating team on an historic summertime 32-5 run; and the listless 23-24 team with no ability to score runs with any regularity. I had wondered if the three-game playoff would end up a microcosm of the regular season, as it sometimes does. But after the horrible first stanza, there was no world-beating team. There was just…another horrible stanza.
 
It’s about the maddening statisticians deciding everything, and a rookie manager obviously in over his head and drinking more than his fair share of the Kool-Aid. Everything I hate about the modern game was on display for all to see this week. Specifically, pulling your starting pitcher in a must-win, one-run game after 70 or 83 pitches is PREPOSTEROUS. I do not care about the “third time through the lineup.” I do not care about WHIP. I do not care about slash lines or “expected” anything. I care about 150 years of baseball, 50 of which I have been paying close attention to. And the Red Sox look so foolish right now. Cam Schlittler uncorked 117 pitches on Tuesday. That’s what ace pitchers do. They pitch. We’ll never know if Payton Tolle or Sonny Gray would have kept the Sox in the games, or if the hitters might have performed differently if the bullpen didn’t throw up on its shoes the way it immediately did. Twice.
 
It’s about my idiotic column from July 15 (you can find it here) in which I vented a little about Red Sox ownership…but let them off the hook because of the big winning streak, preferring to reserve judgement until the season played out. It played out. I never should have given any stays of execution (when I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong!)
 
It’s about the thought that the Fenway Sports Group is not exactly wearing black today anyway, since they have so many other investments to be concerned about. And Red Sox viewership was way up. Too bad they spent actual capital on all those ads for “Soxtober” only to have the team barf up their chances in September. The suits don’t care about the brutal losses, or the free agents who don’t want to come here, or the frustrated fandom. They are probably just irritated that they didn’t get any home playoff games, with which they could have stockpiled a few extra gold bars into the deeper recesses of the vaults (plural).
 
It’s about how I would feel today if I was Sonny Gray. If I were he, I would never step foot in this city again (unless it is next year, in some other uniform, one-hitting the lifeless Red Sox and then glancing upward to the owner’s box like Roger Clemens in 1997, on the way off the mound.)
 
It’s about three decades of wanting very much to hate baseball, then baseball sucking me back in, then baseball gaslighting me or otherwise sticking it to me once again. Each time it is more egregious. And I haven’t even mentioned the fact that next season will probably not be played, due to (again) the (again) impending (again) labor (again) strife. Again!
 
It’s about the nerds who continue to destroy what was once my favorite game. If this is your way of reaching Gen Z, then good luck to you all. I guess I’ll just be over here, shooing people off of my lawn…while watching exciting sports like football and hockey and literally every other sport.
 
Where to begin? Hell, I don’t know where to end. I’m just shaking my head. The fools.
 
Questions, comments, mistakes? Any and all feedback is welcomed, and you can reach me at jayresha@comcast.net any time.