Who Gets the Last Shot?

News Flash: Kevin Millar opened his big mouth, said something he shouldn't have, and the media is in uproar about it!

Shocking, I know.

So Kevin Millar went on the Best Damn Sports Show Period late last week and said that before Game Six in the ALCS the Sox players took shots of Jack Daniels, and since they won that game, they felt the need to keep up the ritual for the rest of the playoffs. He also recounted this to local reporter Dan Roache.

Why is this the big news when the Red Sox just won the World Series for the first time in 86 years?

The fact that this story has gotten so much play, IMO, just adds fuel to the fire for those (in the media, Clemens, people outside of Boston I've encountered in the last week) who think Red Sox fans are somehow unhappy now that we've won the WS, that we're now just going back to being miserable. This story being blown out of proportion just shows that at least the media, if not some of the fans, want to latch onto the one potentially negative thing happening right now.

I personally think, what is the big deal? Come on, people, it's Kevin Millar! Are we really surprised he ran his mouth? He's been in Boston two years now, he's said his share of outrageous things, and occasionally had to back away with his tail between his legs. So he has to do it again. So what?

Should we be outraged, indignant, incredulous the way much of the media is reacting? I definitely don't think so. In fact, I'm amused by the whole thing. The Best Damn Sports Show Period is FAR more entertainment than sports news. Even with Roache, you have to take into account who is talking and what he's saying. This is, after all, the rally karaoke guy, the guy who shaved his head for good luck last year and stopped shaving his chin this year for good luck, the guy in the KFC commercials, the guy who tried to stop Manny from going out onto the field for pre-game introductions by pulling on his back pants' pockets, the guy Orlando Cabrera said tried to pull his pants down in a home plate celebration. He's a goofball, he makes us laugh, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

After some backlash about his comments, Millar backtracked to Peter Gammons that it was just a symbolic thing, just a shot in a Gatorade cup that was passed around among the players, not a big deal, nobody was drunk. Frankly, even if Millar's latest comments were just to soften the blow (and after watching the Best Damn Sports Show Period clip, I'm leaning in that direction), and even they all DID in fact take a full shot of Jack Daniels before the game, I don't care! Anyone who has spent any time around professional sports would have to agree the idea of some guys sipping a little whiskey before a game is pretty damn low on the scandal scale.

As for those who are complaining about the shots being a bad example for kids -- please! We have no problem showing athletes downing champagne and beer on the field, with wads of chewing tobacco during the games, and we're reminded at the beginning of every broadcast to be sure to grab our Budweiser! We've got players demanding absurd amounts of money; we've got rampant rumors of steroid use; we've got players saying they're too good to be put in the six spot so they just walk out of the game. Baseball, and pro sports in general, haven't been doing much to set a good example for kids anyway. And by the way, it's not their job -- that's what parents are for.

So the Sox took a shot before the game? So what?! We spend months praising this team for being a bunch of idiots, rebels, free spirits, then when we hear they might actually have done something a bit unprofessional, we freak out and bash them for it. Real nice.

Can we all please lighten up and go back to enjoying the first World Series in 86 years?!

Okay, ranting done, back to state of euphoria.

Thoughts on the 2004 Sox

On Friday night, October 29, Chad and I went to the Cask N' Flagon across from Fenway Park for dinner and a few drinks before settling into our tent at Boylston and Kilmarnock in preparation of the "rolling rally" to celebrate the Red Sox winning the World Series. About 95% of the patrons in the Cask had some item of Red Sox clothing on. The music was a medley of Sox-related songs (Dirty Water, Tessie, Sweet Caroline, old radio station mixes), with most people singing along or dancing with strangers. Every few songs, the middle-aged guys at the end of the bar would start a new chant, often directing different sides of the bar to chant different phrases. We high-fived friends and strangers alike.

This went on for hours. That was two full days after the Sox clinched the World Series victory. If you were living under a rock and finally pushed it aside and walked into the Cask that Friday night, you'd have been sure the Sox had won it just moments before. The celebration was that exhuberant.

And it will be that exhuberant for a long, long, long time.

Many players have talked about wanting to bring the championship to Boston for the fans. They speak of knowing how much it means to the fans, what joy it would bring. If you're not from Boston, if you haven't lived and died with this team your whole life, and your parents and grandparents before you, I'm not sure you can truly understand the pure, unadulterated joy that this championship has brought to the members of Red Sox Nation.

But I suppose if any group of guys could understand, it's our beloved Idiots. I can't recall another professional sports team that so clearly enjoys playing the game with each other. These guys truly played as a team. Can you imagine Sammy Sosa on this team? Barry Bonds? Even Nomar, no matter how hard it might be to admit? Not a chance. But Papi, Millar, Johnny, Manny, Tek, Schilling, Trot ... These guys never seemed to forget that playing a game is supposed to be fun, and it's never more fun than when you win it all.

And it all felt so genuine. "That's just Manny being Manny" became an oft-heard phrase around Red Sox Nation this summer, but the same could be said for virtually everyone on this team. They were just being themselves, and they just happened to be a bunch of fun-loving idiots who were really good ball players. They didn't seem like superstars; they seemed like the people you hung out with every day.

Picture your best friend who has to sit in the same spot and wear the same shirt every game because he's utterly convinced that this affects the outcome; when he goes to Fenway he listens to the radio broadcast on his headphones and scores the whole game; and you don't talk to him about any of this because it all seems to work --well, he's your Curt Schilling.

Think about your friend who has their share of personal problems, who drops off the face of the earth for months at a time and then suddenly shows up again as though they never left, and you're always happy to see they're still alive and kicking -- that's your Derek Lowe.

Think of your friend who's well past college but still smokes pot on a regular basis -- that's your Johnny Damon.

Think about the smartest kid in your high school, the one motivated beyond all reason for a teenager, voted most likely to succeed, who you're glad you stayed in touch with because you knew it would pay off some day -- that's your Theo Epstein.

Think about your impossibly good-looking friend, who always attracts all the members of the opposite sex, but you can't hate them because they're just too nice -- that's your Pedro Martinez and Gabe Kapler.

Think of that friend who doesn't do a whole lot of talking, but when the chips are down, he's the first to lend an ear -- that's your Jason Varitek. And if that friend is out of town when you need him, his brother is sure to take care of you -- that's your Doug Mirabelli.

Think about that asshole who keeps showing up at parties uninvited and trying to start fights -- that's your Byung-Hyun Kim. Aren't you glad you locked him out of the house for the playoffs?

Think about your most devoted church-going friend, the one who never has a bad word to say about anyone and always tries to find the positive in every situation -- that's your Bill Mueller.

Think about your college football buddy, that huge hulk of a guy who most people assumed was one mean dude from the look of him, but as soon as you started talking to him his huge smile revealed the heart of a teddy bear -- that's your Papi Ortiz.

Think about that one friend who never shuts up, but you don't really mind because he never fails to crack you up; he's the guy you're afraid to pass out around because you know you'll wake up with one less eyebrow -- that's your Kevin Millar.

Think about the one guy you want with you if you ever get in a bar fight -- that's your Trot Nixon.

Think about your whitest of white friends who grew up in an affluent suburb but listens to rap, wears baggy clothes and big gold jewelry, and speaks in ebonics -- that's your version of Bronson Arroyo.

Think about that cousin of yours who's always saying off-the-wall things, and you think it's just to get attention but eventually you realize that's just the way they are -- that's your Manny Ramirez.

Think about the friends who you haven't known for all that long or don't see very often, but you know you can count on them in a pinch -- they're your Doug Minkskjdfiustz, Dave Roberts, Orlando Cabrera, Pokey Reese, Kevin Youkilis, Mark Bellhorn, Alan Embree, Mike Myers, Curtis Leskanic, Ramiro Mendoza, Ricky Guitierrez.

Think about your friend who starts off the night really impressing the hottest woman in the bar, but takes a bathroom break and when he comes back your other friend is walking out the door with her. That's your Mike Timlin and Keith Foulke.

Think of your dad, who sometimes guided you with the most seemingly illogical decisions and made you want to scream in frustration, but he always had the best interest of the family in mind, and he never, ever gave up on you -- that's your Terry Francona.

Think about your oldest friend, the one who's always been there to do whatever you ask of them, even when they didn't really want to -- that's your Tim Wakefield.

You see, any group of guys could have been the ones to win the first Red Sox World Series Championship since 1918, and it would have been great, we would have been ecstatic, it would have been historic.

But with this group of guys winning it, it was like your own friends and family winning it -- a quirky, crazy bunch of people who occasionally let you down but always made up for it, who sometimes made you want to pull your hair out but who you wouldn't trade for anything, who brought you some pain but far, far more joy, and most all, who no matter how many years pass you will never, ever forget.

Red Sox Rolling Rally!

Kevin Millar tips his cap to me -- Seriously!

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See all of our pictures from the parade

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I could just as easily file this whole thing under "Signs I've Gone Over the Edge" ...

Chad and I headed into the Fenway area around 8pm Friday night to stake out a spot near the beginning of the "rolling rally" to be held throughout Boston on Saturday. We were armed with tents, sleeping bags, munchies, and plenty of layers. We left behind our sanity.

We figured finding a spot to park the car overnight would be the biggest challenge considering all of the parking restrictions, but we quickly found a spot in the public garage inside Fenway. It only seemed fitting! The attendant insisted we were fine to leave the car in the garage overnight, and that we would be able to get it anytime after 5am the next day. Lesson learned: Believe in the Red Sox; don't believe in Fenway parking garage attendants.

With the car all settled, and only a few people already camped out at the beginning of the parade, we decided to grab a bite and a few drinks at the Cask n' Flagon before pitching our tent for the night. Perfect choice. The music most of the night was Sox related, and fans were still riding the high of two nights earlier. If you didn't know any better, you'd think we just won that night.

Around midnight, we headed out to look for a spot. After gathering some info from a chatty security guy, we decided to move slightly away from the very beginning of the parade directly outside of Fenway. The deciding factor was the security guy telling us he calls the rats around there "Big and Bigger". We moved away, catching a glimpse of Bigger on the way. Believe in the chatty security guy.

Barricades were already being set up along Boylston Street. We picked a spot on Kilmarnock, at the intersection of Boyston. Chatty security guy told us the duck boats would be passing down Kilmarnock and turning onto Boylston. Again, believe in chatty security guy.

For the next few hours, Chad and I attempted to sleep, trying to ignore a group of young drunk guys yelling, "Sweep!" at least 718 times. I also tried to ignore the conversation between two strangers (in more ways than one) outside our tent who chatted on and on about, among other things, wrestling, Star Trek, and drugs (direct quote: "Crack never did anything for me"). At this point, I started to question being there, considering who the company was. But it was too late to turn back.

The people started coming in bigger numbers somewhere around 5am. At that point, I gave up on sleeping, made a trip to Dunks, prepared my sign, bundled up some more as the rain began to fall, and started counting down the hours.

Somewhere around 7:00am or so, the main cop manning the intersection of Kilmarnock and Boylston started telling people to move further down a block, that the parade wasn't starting at that intersection. At this point, the barricades started at Boylston but there were none at all on Kilmarnock, the side street where the parade was listed as starting. A good chunk of people grabbed their things and started heading for the next block, while others began plotting a riot -- mostly those who had spent the previous seven-plus hours staking out a spot at that intersection. Chad asked a couple cops farther down Kilmarnock, I called my dad to check online, and with everyone else (including chatty security guy) telling us the parade would indeed start at Kilmarnock, we stayed put. One couple who had spent the night started heading one block up, and I overheard one of them say, "If the parade doesn't start one block up, I'm going to stab that cop." Hope the cop's okay.

By about 8am, barricades had been set up all along Kilmarnock. Chad and I had staked out our spot at the very front. I was not moving come hell or high water, or little kids. The place was packed, the cops were stopping people from coming any further on our side of the street, people were popping up on rooftops, the players started arriving. D-Lowe pulled his beige Hummer through the crowd as we chanted, "D-Lowe! D-Lowe!" Also coming through our way were Pokey, Francona, Varitek, Youkilis, and Manny and Papi together in a yellow Hummer. These arrivals definintely helped pass the last two hours, which felt like an absolute eternity, especially when it started to really rain.

At about 10:20 we finally heard the roar of the motorcycle cops coming around the corner. When we glanced the first duck boat, it was mass pandemonium. My heart was pounding away, I was screaming and jumping up and down. I realized what it must have felt like to see the Beatles in America for the first time. We had an incredible view -- the duck boats were about five feet away.

The Old Timers were first in line. I found myself screaming for Butch Hobson, a sure sign I'd gone over the edge since I actually find him a little creepy. Also saw Oil Can Boyd and a favorite of my dad's, Luis Tiant. Very cool start.

I believe next up (it was a bit of a blur) was a boat that had the owners in the back, holding the trophy. Larry Luchino pointed to my sign! Johnny Damon came by, flashing the peace sign, and the crowd went insane.

Soon after was my boy Millar. I made a sign (have to give credit to the idea to Chad) that said, "Kevin, Thanks for Picking Boston Over Japan." Since I was right up front, I was able to hold the sign in front of the barricades for a clear view. Millar saw it, pointed as he read it, tipped his hat and gave me the now-routine hand guns! I was, um, beside myself, to say the least! And Chad captured it perfectly! (See above picture).

After that it was all gravy. I somehow missing Curt Schilling entirely (I think he was on the same boat as Millar,which explains why I didn't see him). Also missed Foulke, Cabrera and Bellhorn, but managed to catch everyone else. Another sign I was going over the edge was when I found myself screaming ecstaticly at the sight of Mike Timlin. I mean, he's money, but I don't think I would have been any more excited to see Matt Damon, and that somehow seems wrong.

The parade itself took no more than five minutes to pass through, but it was one of the coolest five-minute stretches of my life. I came within a few feet of a group of guys who will go down as unforgettable legends in Red Sox history. It was well worth sleeping on Boylston, and even worth waiting three more hours to get our car out of the Fenway garage and then driving 10 hours home to Maryland on almost no sleep. It was all totally, completely worth it, and the perfect ending to an incredible week.

Huge thanks to Chad for taking all of the pictures -- I was way too preoccupied, and he did an awesome job!