Yesterday in a day-of-deadline trade, the Red Sox sent Manny Ramirez to the Dodgers.

I can’t bring myself to feel sad about it. I really can’t. For a while now, Manny’s been a whiny little kid whose antics and bitching have seriously messed up team dynamics. He stopped playing for the Red Sox as a team and became ‘Team Manny.’ So it just isn’t that hard to see him go. Actually, it isn’t hard to see him go at all.

I mean, he’s going to play for Joe Torre. That, in of itself, makes me giggle.

And feel bad for Joe Torre.

One of my best friends is a Yankees fan and we ended up chatting about trades yesterday while waiting on the news for Manny. Levesque is in the Coast Guard and stationed somewhere in the Middleoffuckingnowhere, Maine and hadn’t been up-to-date on the latest about her team. Meaning, she hadn’t heard that Posada (a Yankees player I respect) had season-ending surgery (seriously, how much does that suck?). She also wasn’t sure about the Yankees dealing away Kyle Farnsworth for Ivan Rodriguez, but Rodriguez is a hell of a player, so I think the Yankees made out on that deal.

Anyway, we ended up discussing players on each other’s favorite teams that we respect (I respect Jeter, he’s a good ballplayer and a great leader) and Levesque respects Varitek (for the same reasons), and we both think A-Rod is bush-league.

Levesque summed it up when she said that A-Rod and Manny should be on the same team, and not playing for the Yankees or the Red Sox or Joe Torre (who is a great manager).

Unfortunately, Joe has Manny now. But at least Manny is with D-Lowe and Nomar again.

See ya, Manny. And know that with all the shit you talked on your way out, you’ll be booed in Boston if you’re there for interleague play. I’ll be booing with them, because a player doesn’t shit on his team, and you did.

Why?

Because the Yankees are only 2.5 games back in the AL East, when at one point during the season, the Sox were as many as 13.5 games ahead. We shouldn’t even have to worry about the 7-game lead over the Tigers in the wild card race, because by all rights and purposes, we should have the AL East pennant clinched.

Do we? No. Why? Because it’s Boston, because it’s the Red Sox. No lead is too great to overcome, and no lead is too great to lose. We knew it would happen. We just hoped it wouldn’t. The Sox have an awesome ability to inspire a flicker of hope even in the most pessimistic fan.

Even this fan, one who checks both ways before crossing a one-way street.

Also, why was Eric Gagne such a great trade? Seriously. Why?

And to our luck, we were in Boston and not Mudville, and the Red Sox scored six runs in the bottom of the first inning. One of the scorekeepers got bored and peeked out—

And our ADD poster boy Manny pulled another I gotta wee while no one’s looking trick.

But I went camera-snap-happy and have a gallery of 190 freaking photos..

What an awesome day, though. I love baseball.

Grrrrr.

I think when someone marries into becoming a Red Sox fan, they should be given a rulebook. And if not a rulebook, duct tape to keep their mouths shut lest they find themselves hurled bodily from a restaurant by a crowd of angry, disheartened Sox fans after the new spouse made a quick comment about how it would be all right to switch the channel on the TV behind the bar because the Sox were ahead of the Yankees by three runs in the top of the eight inning with their ace pitcher still on the mound, so there’s no way they could lose.

Oh wait… that happened in 2003. Grady, grady, grady. You should’ve taken out Petey. My heart still hurts from that loss. Fuck you Aaron Boone, fuck you.

The sad part is that the spouse who was the established Sox fan would have to help said crowd in chucking their life-partner into the alleyway. All you could do is leave them with a parting comment of

Sorry, honey, but the Sox were around long before you were, and the Sox will be around long after.

Then you’d close the side door with an air of indignant finality as your bewildered spouse began the task of climbing out of the Dumpster.

Much later in life, in a therapy session, your shrink will make an observation that you will wholeheartedly deny, even after the Sox leave you weeping at the edge of the foul line once again. He’ll ask you if you realize that your relationship with the Red Sox as a fan was much like that of a relationship with an abusive spouse. Time and time again, your hopes would be beaten down and crushed into tiny particles of dust. Time and time again, you’d reassemble those hopes in time for spring training, only to have them decimated once again as the baseball season stretched onward. “But you don’t understand,” you’ll reply. “They told me they’d never crush me again, not after 2004 and reversing the curse. They said,

I promise, baby, it will never happen again. I swear I’ll never hurt you again.

And I believe them, I do. They won’t hurt me again. They won’t.”

And your shrink will ask, “What happened after that, in 2005?”

“Jerry Remy said it was a hangover from 2004. That’s all.”

“You’re enabling them, making excuses.”

“But I love them!”

So make sure you get a shrink who’s a Sox fan, too. They’ll understand.

Back to baseball cards. Now, the Braves (we were reminiscing about them before I detoured) were a losing team when I was a kid. Attendance was at an all-time low. In a nice marketing scheme, the Braves started a program where if a kid got straight A’s, they were given six free tickets to Braves games. Three games, two tickets per. Sweet deal for a kid (or any baseball fan). I went to many a Braves game with my Grampa. Then the Braves started winning… and soon the program became a pair of tickets in the nosebleed section to one game. Heave a long suffering sigh here. Anyway, in the 1989 box of wax packs I opened the other day, I pulled some Braves cards I always wanted to get as a young Braves fan. Steve Avery, Ron Gant, Tom Glavine, John Smoltz. They all look so young on those cards.

I also managed to pull an assortment of other must-haves from my childhood collecting. Among them were Cal Ripken, Jr., Barry Bonds, Darryl Strawberry, Rickey Henderson, Chili Davis, Andre Dawson… I think all those cards put together are now worth maybe $2. But it’s the memories, man, the memories!

All those memory cards worth $2. Cards that bring about fond memories and don’t incite a pure, instinctive anger from the depths of your soul. Like, say, any Yankees card. Like, say, a particular Yankee (okay, a second particular Yankee because I’m not talking about A-Rod). Like, say, Derek Jeter. And let’s say that, so to speak, My Cup Runneth Over With Derek Jeter Cards from 2007 Topps. Basic 2007 Topps set? I’ve got two of those. Heritage set? I’ve got one of those, too. Topps Parallel Gold 2007? Yeah, I’ve got one of those, too. Apparently the Gold card is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 were I to attempt to sell it on eBay. And of course it had to be DerekfuckingJeter. It couldn’t be a Red Sox player. Or hell, any player that was not and is not on the Yankees. I suppose it could be worse. I mean, the card could have A-Rod on it. Or Johnny-the-Traitor-Damon.

Now, you non-collectors are probably wondering why the card is worth a chunk of cash. Well, a closer look reveals that George W. Bush is watching from the stands and Mickey Mantle is watching from the dugout. Sure, obvious photoshop job. Funny? Yes.

But it just had to be Jeter. Very funny, God. Very funny.

So as a grownup, I got myself a box. Surprisingly, at least to me, most of the gum was still intact. I don’t dare try it, but I’m willing to bet that it tastes the same—cardboard that disintigrates upon contact with liquid. Namely, once it’s popped into your mouth. It wasn’t tasty as a kid and I’m certain it isn’t tasty now.

As for the cards I pulled, I still wanted to get the onces I lusted after as a kid. The cards that every card-collecting kid lusted after in my kid-days. One major card was Jose Canseco. You wanted that Canseco card and you wanted that Canseco card bad. Of course, I never pulled it, and never managed to hoodwink another kid in a trade. However, you always pulled the other, worthless at the time, bash brother Mark McGwire. And I pulled Mark McGwire. Of course, now the McGwire card is much more sought-after than the Canseco card. Oh, the irony. Canseco copped to taking steroids in a book he wrote and manages to point fingers at other players as well.

Finally, as a grownup, I managed to pull the coveted Canseco card. Do I care that its money value is next-to-nothing? Nope. The kid inside me is cavorting with glee. Glee, I tell you. Glee. You hear that, fuckers? Finally, I have a Canseco card and you can’t have it!. Excuse me while I go prance around the room for a bit. [this is where you imagine me prancing... actually, on second thought, don't do that. it'd be more than a bit weird. for both of us.]

Ahem.

Back to my post.

The box also revealed a gamut of baseball memories as a kid growing up in Georgia. You see, I lived forty-five minutes north of Atlanta. In those days, the Atlanta Braves lost. All the time. All the time. At least they were consistent with it and didn’t get your hopes up just to dash them like the Red Sox. Yes, I love the Sox, but they were heartbreakers. With the Sox, you couldn’t help but get a little hope. No matter how pessimistic you were (or are and wll continue to be), somehow the Sox manage to instill hope. I have no idea how. Even during the late innings, you find yourself hoping, though you damn well know better, for them to make a comeback if they’re behind. Conversely, if they’re ahead, even if they’re well ahead, you aren’t confident of a win until the Very Last Out is Called. My husband, ever the optimist and a Sox fan only by marriage, had no idea of this sort of pessimism. With the Sox ahead by seven runs in the eighth inning, he confidently announced:

We can change the channel now. The Sox are going to win.

tbc…