New England Is Excited Over Morgan and the New Red Sox

BOSTON —  And we thought New England would never dare to hope again. We thought it would take a generation, or at least a decade, before the Boston Red Sox could be mentioned in public with something other than a sardonic, world-weary sneer.

That’s the way it usually is up here--cataclysmic World Series heart jilts, spaced decorously like love affairs with bad endings that friends don’t mention: ‘46, ‘67, ‘75, ’86. Of course, maybe this is just another ‘48, ’49 or ’78. A dizzy hangover fling.

What we didn’t understand was that New England never blamed the Sox for ‘86--as if something other than the year itself needed to be mentioned in these six states to evoke the whole tragicomedy in its emotional entirety. People up here, baseball people, which means everybody except the butcher in Lowell and two maiden aunts in Kennebunkport, always knew where the fault lay. Roughly 100% of it.

John McNamara.

That’s John (Why’d You Pull Clemens? Where’s Baylor? What About Stapleton?) McNamara. When he left, everybody knew the weather would change, like a Nor’easter from the sea with brisk, clean air behind it.

Of course, you wouldn’t expect Haywood Sullivan or Lou Gorman to know that, being sensible management men, not mystics. But any witch in Eastwick could’ve told you it was Johnny Mac; nothing good was going to happen in Fenway until he atoned for his crimes with his job. Calvinist retribution. Nothing drastic. No severed limbs. A simple undignified acrimonious firing, followed by the eternal flaying of his name, would suffice.

Of course, it was probably just an accident that the Red Sox won a dozen games in a row, the longest winning streak in 40 years, the microsecond that McNamara was fired. For instance, that butcher in Lowell and both maiden aunts are convinced of it. But nobody else.

Now, the Fens is full. Try to find a seat, I dare you. Even the aisles are a war zone. When Lee Smith punched out the side in the ninth on Friday, shaking his black glove and his wet curly locks, 35,169 fans--that’s known as praying room only in a pennant race--stabbed their fists skyward as one, celebrating the 17th straight victory in this green yard by the beloved and despised home town team.

When, three hours later, Bob (Steamer) Stanley, the most forgiven reliever in Red Sox history--it’s right there under “Club Records, Most Sins Forgiven”--saved the nightcap of that doubleheader, making it 15-1 since McNamara left, the fists pumped twice.

“Aw, hell, it ain’t this easy, gentlemen,” murmured new manager Joe Morgan. “But take ‘em while they come.” Probably just what they said at Plymouth Rock when the Indians went back into the woods.

Loving the Red Sox is so easy these days it’s hard to believe how many hearts they broke, and into how many pieces, so recently. Of course, it’s easier because Bill Buckner is gone, may his glove burn in hell for eternity.

And it’s much easier since the little, rumpled 57-year-old Morgan informed Jim Rice of his place in the revised scheme of things. After a 13-year reign as baseball’s premier clubhouse grouch and one-man low-pressure system, Rice, the team captain who sometimes didn’t even know the names of all his teammates, is now about as influential as an usher.

When Rice cursed Morgan, then grabbed and shoved him for having the gall to send in a pinch hitter for him, the fading slugger accidentally ushered in the new age.

Morgan didn’t back off, would have fought, then said, in parting, “I’m the manager of this nine.” Next day, Morgan followed up by suspending Rice for three games. Take a hike, without $30,000 in pay.

Rice apologized and said he was ashamed, which was wise, because the young man who ran on the Fenway infield, then dropped his pants to reveal the words “Jim Rice,” was, in fact, speaking for just about everybody hereabouts--except maybe that butcher in Lowell.

Now, invisible but palpable as deep summer humidity, hope hangs heavy and sweet throughout this old park, reviving the Red Sox when they fall behind by small margins--anything less than double digits. “I’m just letting myself get swept up and carried along by this,” said Todd Benzinger after a game-tying homer and a game-winning single on Friday.

Like the bubbly, honest Benzinger, these heroes of July are fresh faces, not yet associated with any tint of Red Sox of failure. So, the same old fans find themselves cheering for new Red Sox.

“How about the kids--the new boys--they’re doin’ a job aren’t they?” says Morgan. Others say that’s because of Morgan, who came up through the minors with them, believed in them, and wanted the old, sad, bad blood out of his room.

“This year, we were supposed to go with youth, but except for me and Ellis (Burks), some of the guys got left behind,” says Mike Greenwell. “Now they are really coming on.”

“I didn’t get any help from anybody until Joe became manager,” says Benzinger who’s the most outspoken of the Mac Buried Us kids. “I never wanted to do so well for a guy as I have for Joe. . . . He was actually our field manager before he was named manager. It seemed like Mac was just the guy who made the (lineup) decisions. Once the game started, we always looked to Joe and (hitting coach) Walt Hriniak.”

McNamara could see what he had in right fielder Greenwell (.344, 17 homers, 83 RBIs through Friday) and center fielder Burks (.326, 111 runs produced, 15 steals). But that’s like saying you could identify Willie Mays and Ted Williams by their stats--because those are exactly the sort of numbers the kids are creating.

It was harder to see Benzinger (35 RBI in 207 at bats) or spunky Jody Reed, who had seven hits and a walk on Friday to raise his average to .325. Remember Spike Owen? Forget Spike Owen. Remember Reed. He plays shortstop under a layer of self-inflicted mud. He’s filthy, he’s fun, he’s Marty Barrett’s physical double and he’s here to stay because Morgan loves him.

“We’re not going to get too high about all this,” vows Reed, which is amusing since he couldn’t be any higher if he were epoxied to the ceiling.

The new wave of kids--even Kevin Romine, once thought to be a salad ingredient, gets game-winning hits now--has filled the Red Sox’ inside straight flush. Getting aging streak slugger Larry Parrish from Texas didn’t hurt either. “We just have an awesome lineup,” says Greenwell, who can’t believe a big league team can hit .293 or think of Rice (.277) and Dwight Evans (.306, 100-RBI pace) as its secondary line of attack.

Did we forget Wade Boggs? That’s the point. He’s hitting .358 and headed for 220 hits and 50 doubles, but he’s almost a supporting character. Greenwell, Burks and Evans all have more runs produced. Even Rice and Marty Barrett have more RBI. And, believe it or not, Benzinger and catcher Rick Cerone (.302) have combined to produce as many runs as Boggs in the same number of plate appearances. These are the averages of the Red Sox normal nine starters: .358, .344, .326, ,325, .306, .302, .293, .277 and .275. “That’s better than my high school team,” said Greenwell.

Only the best of the old guard have been kept from those dark final games in Shea Stadium. The services of Roger Clemens and Bruce Hurst have been retained, which works out nicely since Clemens looks like he’ll end up with about 350 strikeouts, 50 walks and a dozen shutouts this season.

Needless to say, Calvin Schiraldi, and his rent-a-van full of ugly memories, are gone and large Lee Smith, the original wide load reliever, has brought his Dick Radatz-size body to the pen.

The whole affair has lobster land twitching its antennae. The beach balls are being bounced around the bleachers. A man tried to tight-rope his way over the crowd from the left field roof to the home plate screen last week. And the Red Sox have not lost at home since June 24th, when, to restore a note of sanity, the Orioles shelled Clemens.

To peak this building summer madness and revive murmurings about “it’s only been 70 years since we won a World Series,” the Red Sox have acquired Mike Boddicker from Baltimore in return for two young individuals who were participating at the minor league level. This is called trading for a pennant and Gorman may have done it.

“There were only two guys (in baseball) who liked Boddicker back when he was in the minors,” says Morgan. “His manager at Rochester, Joe Altobelli, and me. He’s a competitor and competitors add just by being there. This guy could mean the difference for us.”

Right now, all is euphoria here in Brain City. Boddicker won his first start on Sunday, beating Milwaukee, 5-0. “We’re looking for him to be our Doyle Alexander,” said Benzinger.”

Who will steady this ship when the seas get rough? All of Red Sox history sometimes seems like an exegesis on the delerious after-effects of going 16-1 in July. Only in Fenway Park can it be said that nothing fails like success.

That’s where Morgan is essential. Not since ’32 have the Red Sox been managed by a native New Englander, a fellow who paid his way into Fenway many times. Has any team ever been in such need of a leader with a New England temperament?

In victory here Friday, Morgan gave an analysis that was pure lifelong Red Sox fan: “I smelled a rat. But he vanished. . . . I didn’t like that game, the way it was progressing. We should have croaked ‘em in the sixth with the bases loaded and none out. But we didn’t score. Know what happens when you do that? They come right back at you like the hammers of hell, every time. I could see that game in my mind, been watching it all my life. This time we didn’t let it slip, but we coulda damn easy. It proves when you’re hot, you get away with things.”

Joe Morgan says it as though he’d almost rather not win than “get away with things.” A man who, at the age of 54, still drove a snow plow in the offseason for the Massachusetts Turnpike Authority to add to his minor league managerial salary, is used to doing things the hard way. He may prefer a tough road. “Somewhere down the highway” is his favorite image for the future. “All my players are equal, except when they get their paychecks,” says Morgan, who runs his nine his way.

Just 17 days ago, the Sox were one game better than .500 and nine games out of first. Then, owner Jean Yawkey told her baseball men to stow their advice. She’d fire hard-head, hard-luck McNamara.

Now, the Sox trail by just 1 1/2. “We are some kind of on a roll,” says Greenwell. “There’s a fine line betwen aggressive and stupid and we haven’t crossed it yet,” adds Benzinger. “I don’t see any end in sight to the way we’re playing. Sure, we’ll lose a few, but I don’t see us going back to being a mediocre team.”

Because it’s his job to see things as they are, not as he wishes they were, Joe Morgan sometimes says he smells rats, even when his team wins a doubleheader. However, from New Haven to Bangor, nobody else in these environs smells anything much but roses.

Whoever thought the old dream, or the old nightmare, could return so fast and with such vehemence?