If a homeless man broke into my house and beat the hell out of my grandmother, I think I’d hate him less than I hate Bobby Valentine.
I stole that line from something I read years ago and just inserted Valentine’s name in to it, but it applies perfectly right now. It’s almost impossible to quantify the hatred that I feel for the man who has claimed to be the Red Sox manager for this past season. Hate is not too strong of a word. If anything, it’s too soft of a word. I feel utter disdain. Disgust even.
I’ll have more coherent thoughts on this once a few days go by, but right now I’m too busy acting out both Mick Jagger and David Bowie’s performances from the dancing in the street music video to try to be overly rational. My neighbors think I either won the lottery, just got engaged or am on some sort of fast-acting hallucinogens. Keep in mind that it’s 2:30 p.m.
Yet, none of those things are true. My high is neither drug-induced nor money-related. It’s strictly “Bobby V got fired” related. The Red Sox decided to part ways with the white-haired wizard today, and no matter what happens from here on out – whether the team wins 10 games or 100 games next year – I will be happier than I was the past eight months with Bobby Valentine running my team. He took a part of me that I’ll never get back, but at least I don’t have to give him any more.
I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis after Michael Myers finally died in the last “Halloween” movie. It’s over. Does that mean that I woke up repeatedly during this Red Sox season scared for my life that Bobby Valentine was actually my brother and was hellbent on killing me for no reason other then the fact that he is pure evil? Yes. That’s exactly what it means.
But no longer do I have to arise from my bed in a cold sweat, splash water on face and be afraid to look in the mirror because I think that Bobby Valentine is going to be standing behind in clown make-up with a sickle in his hand. Bobby Valentine is no longer a part of my life in any way, shape or form.
Of course, I’ll never truly forget the damage that Stamford’s director of public safety inflicted on my team, my sport, my love for baseball and my ability to genuinely care about the outcome of games in which I’m not playing. There’s no getting around it – Bobby V changed he way I watch baseball and changed the way I care about the Red Sox. When the team decided to fittingly end its season by getting swept by the Yankees in the final three-game series of the year, they completed the worst season that I have ever witnessed from any of the teams I follow in my lifetime. Baseball, football, basketball, hockey, soccer, golf, tennis, volleyball, horse racing, water polo – none of it has ever been as bad as the Red Sox were this season.
It’s Bobby Valentine’s fault that this all happened. It’s Bobby Valentine’s fault that the Red Sox had their worst season since the mid 60′s. It’s Bobby Valentine’s fault that I considered boycotting a team that I have watched/followed/love unconditionally since I was told that I should.
I’m not going to get into the blame game here, because it’s long and boring and I know there are others who messed up this year just like Bobby V did. Players, coaches, management, all of them. It was a colossal mess. But Bobby’s the manager, and from day freaking one he made everything about himself. Management neutered him? Bull. He neutered himself by being a selfish, standoffish prick who couldn’t relate to anybody.
While being fake-candid and going on the offensive every time he was challenged, Bobby V was “doomed” here from the get-go (as big fat Nick Cafardo would have you believe) only because of the way he acted. It was his team and he played the wrong cards. That’s how it happened. There wasn’t some management meeting where they decided that Valentine was going to be out of the loop. He put himself outside the loop by alienating players and being a complete douche from Spring Training through yesterday.
I remember when the Red Sox hired him. It was so strange and just felt so wrong, like, “Bobby VALENTINE is going to OUR manager? Why?” It didn’t make any sense. There were other options, yet we signed some pompous, aggressively outgoing lunatic to manager our team on a two-year deal with the hope that…what would happen exactly? That he’d somehow become a good manager and a good person, rather then a freaking idiot with no history of success other then sneaking back into a dugout wearing a fake mustache? Give me a break.
No one really thought that one through. They heard the name “Bobby Valentine,” thought it would be a splash and hired him. Here we all are eight months later dazed and confused and wondering how the hell this could have happened.
So much like Jamie Lee Curtis still has nightmares, I suppose I’ll still wake up a few times a week in a panicwww. I’ll imagine that it’s August 15 and the Red Sox are hovering around .500 but haven’t won more than two games in a month, and then I’ll scream bloody murder and curse Bobby V’s name before heading back to bed.
That’s an easy trade off, though. If I have flashbacks like a old Vietnam War vet to the Bobby V era, it’s still better then actually being in the Bobby V era.
Michael Meyers is dead. Bobby Valentine is out as Red Sox skipper. It’s finally over.