At Least He Didn’t Say The Rock Had No Heart . . .

Red Sox Nation may be stung somewhat by the Kevin Youkilis trade to the White Sox, especially considering the demeaning his manager inflicted on him earlier in the season. But they can take heart that this may not quite prove to be the absolute worst trade of all time involving a fan and clubhouse favourite.

For that dishonour you’d have to hark to Cleveland, where they still can’t forget the capricious trade of a run-producing machine, with a modest batting average, for a singles-hitting outfielder whose often-gaudy batting averages masked that he wasn’t worth too many runs on the scoreboard. A trade about which the Indians general manager who made the deal crowed, “What’s the fuss all about? I just traded hamburger for steak.”

Youk Movement

Bobby Valentine won’t have the Greek God of Walks to walk all over anymore.

As the weekend approached it became a question of “to whom,” not “when.” Especially when Valentine, asked after the Kevin Youkilis situation Saturday, was quoted as saying he wanted to be able to put the people he liked into the lineup. Which could have been taken any number of ways considering the likely precise moment when the numbering began on Youkilis’s Boston days. The April moment in which Valentine threw him under the proverbial bus. There are few things more liable to deflate any proud baseball player, and that’s what Youkilis has been every day he’s played in the Olde Towne Team’s silks, than the hour in which your manager hangs the no-heart tag upon you.

Boys Will Be Boys

Roger Clemens gets off the hook on a perjury rap because either the House Committee for the Sending of Swell Messages to Kids, the actual prosecution, or the original Mitchell Report bungled its way across the sticky wickets of actual or alleged performance-enhancing substances. It induces something of a giant sucking yawn, with only an occasional bleat against putting the Rocket into the Hall of Fame.

"Yeah, Baby! Believe It!"

As I suspect was the case for numerous Met fans—since the day they were born or otherwise—it took me over a week to process that what seemed so long impossible finally happened. It took a mere 8,119 games before a Met threw a no-hitter. And it couldn’t have been thrown by a nicer guy except, maybe, for Tom Seaver. Who just so happens to have lost one of the seemingly infinite Met no-hit bids when Jimmy Qualls, bearing no other reason for fame, broke up his bid in 1969.