I feel like the mutt reporter in the final moments of "King Kong." A kid points to the gorilla on the sidewalk, and I say, "It wasn't them planes that killed the beast. T'was beauty that killed the beast."
No, I'm not saying Carl Crawford is pretty.
The word is hubris, folks. Hubris.
Whenever the dictator says the insurgency is quelled, when the king says the locusts are dead, when the President says mission accomplished... run, gadammut, run.
And when a team believes a pennant has been won in April or May... (or August, as we seemed to think two weeks ago...)
Just hubris, folks. Hubris.
And so it ends, the great Yankee-Redsock rivalry, which headlined American sports for a decade. Clemens v. Pedro. The Damon turnaround. Aaron Boone. The bloody sock. And opposing versions of the worst collapse in history. Memories, now.
Our enemy is defeated, and we are staggering forward... tired and bleary... to what? Our own collapse? Another early playoff elimination? Or could we cap this war with a championship?
From where I sit -- which is standing next to the gorilla -- this proposed Redsock-Dodger deal looks like that rare commodity -- a trade that hurts both teams. It will take Boston years to develop a clubhouse leadership unshackled by accusations of back-stabbing and disloyalty. And young arms don't always pay off. (Ask Brain Cashman.) Meanwhile, the Dodgers suddenly look like the best team of 2005. (And Nick Punto has to be asking himself, what did I do?)
The word is hubris, folks. And we better put a lid on ours.
Boston is dead. Tampa Bay is dead-ahead.
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