Remembering the Trade

A day of Dispatch at the deadline

It was July 31st, 2004. I attended the final concert of a certain jam-band you may have heard of named Dispatch. If you don’t know the band, you probably remember the traffic backup they caused in and around the Boston area on this beautiful Saturday afternoon, as over 100,000 fun-loving, pot smoking music fans stormed the Half Shell on the banks of the Charles River.

The sun was shining, the boose was flowing, and despite my lack of interest in the band performing (I thought their name was “Discharge” for half the day), I was having a pretty damn good day.

Although I was attending what would end up being one of the largest independent music events in this country’s history , I was well aware of the day’s real importance.

It was the final day of July. It was the day of the all-important trade deadline for Major League Baseball. And with my Boston Red Sox in the thick of the playoff picture, any move (or non-move) by General Manager Theo Epstein was very important.

The Red Sox have historically been active on deadline day. In 2003, the Sox scored a duo of Pirates, Jeff Suppan and Scott Sauerback. In 2002, under GM Dan Duquette the Sox dealt for slugger Cliff Floyd. And in 2001, the Sox buffed up their bullpen acquiring Ugueth Urbina at the deadline.

But the 2004 season was a little different. In the past, the Sox were usually scrambling for a last minute deal to add a pitcher, whether it was a starter or reliever. And the trade the Sox made was usually never good enough, just a last minute attempt to strengthen a staff that couldn’t be saved.

A good example of this would be the 2003 season, when two pretty solid National League pitchers (Suppan and Sauerbach?) were added to a team that was tearing the cover off the ball and setting offensive records at the plate.

Aaron Boone ended that season. And as much as Grady gets blamed for his non-pull of Pedro in Game 7, the fact was that the Yankees simply had better pitching. And to sound cliché as all hell, pitching does win championships.

Thanks to the addition of Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke in the off season, the 2004 Red Sox had a somewhat refreshing problem that had to be taken care of on July 31st—it wasn’t pitching.

Theo pointed the finger at defense. He was correct. But it wasn’t our defense that was going to prevent us from winning the title. Let’s be honest. The real problem was team chemistry.

The team was just starting to get into a groove by the end of July, but for the most part, the 2004 Red Sox were being labeled as a group of tremendous underachievers.

And it was hard to disagree. Losing series after series against teams like Baltimore, Toronto and Cleveland just wasn’t going to cut it. And as July 31st approached, the tumor had been found and it needed to be removed. It’s just unfortunate the cancer on the ball club was once the backbone of the organization and the most beloved athlete in this city.

So when over 100,000 people were making their way into Boston on July 31st, one very important man was saying goodbye.

It was around 4 p.m. when I pulled out the old cell phone and noticed the loud noise coming from Dispatch onstage made me miss some phone calls.

So as I called my voice mail box, I could almost hear a whisper start to spread throughout the crowd around me. I was somewhat aware that these people were all talking about the same thing. A secret I didn’t know. It was like a game of telephone that was making its way down the Charles.

I had three missed calls and three voicemails. Interesting. One from my brother. One from my buddy who lives in North Carolina. And one from my Dad. I got a pit in my stomach. Why were two family members and a friend 600 miles away calling me?

The first message was from my friend in NC. His voice was somber. And I’ll be truthful. I don’t remember a word he said.

But I knew exactly what the call pertained to. And I also knew what the other phone calls from my brother and father were about. I didn’t even have to listen to them to know.

I heard a guy in the group next to me utter the words. Words that, four years ago, I never thought would be uttered:

“We traded Nomar”

Nomar Garciaparra was never the guy I would have outwardly called my favorite player on the Red Sox. I tried to be original because EVERYBODY loved Nomar. I tended to lean toward the lesser known, non-All-Stars--John Valentin, Tim Neahring, Troy O’Leary, etc.

But it was hard not to like Nomar the best. He was a staple in this town. When Mo Vaughn and Roger Clemens left town, I was convinced that Nomar Garciaparra was going to be the guy who not only had his best years in Boston, but actually spend his whole career here. I thought No. 5 would be right up there in right field with Williams, Doer, Yaz, Cronin and Fisk.

I can vividly remember an autograph session I attended in 1998 at Fenway Park. All the players were being swarmed by wide-eyed kids….and creepy old men who you can tell where going to immediately stick a price tag on each signature. That aside, the one thing I can remember from that day was a skinny, bright eyed Nomar who was wearing a smile from ear to ear.

I could just tell that at that moment in time, he was loving life as a member of the Boston Red Sox. He loved the fans. He loved the ballpark he was playing in. And he loved that letter on the cap he was wearing.

Garciaparra had an aura around him that day. An aura of a legend I’d be telling my grandkids about. The same kind of legend told today about the greatest of them all, Ted Williams.

These were the memories going through my head on that walk back from the concert to my apartment last summer. It was sad.

A part of my upbringing gone. And for what? The sake of a championship race we probably weren’t going to win.

As I stepped into my apartment and plopped onto the sofa, I switched on the television. And reality slapped me right across the face.

Trade coverage dominated every local station. Footage was shown from a couple weeks prior, of Nomar sitting on the visitor’s bench at Yankee Stadium, sulking like a spoiled four-year old.

The game on the line against their biggest rival and he was on his ass. Not only was this a different player than the 1998 Nomar, but more importantly, this was a much different person.

The smile was now a scowl. And he didn’t belong on the Boston Red Sox anymore.

Nomar is now more than a distant memory. The Sox are defending World Champs and atop the American League East. We’ve been through two gold glove shortstops since.

Nomar is somewhere nursing his groin, with Mia by his side, watching his Chicago Cubs carry the torch as the most cursed team in baseball.

But life goes on. These guys are loved one minute. Gone the next. And forgotten in due time.

On deadline day 2004, a local hero was sent packing. It happens almost every year, if not here in Boston, then somewhere else in the Majors. It’ll be sure to happen this year with close division/wild card races throughout the league.

I don’t expect anything drastic from the Sox this year, barring a critical injury from the time this is printed and the deadline, but I have learned something from last year’s trade.

I’m going to enjoy the Manny’s, the Papi’s, the Varitek’s, and the Damon’s and you all should, too. Because chances are they will be wearing another uniform someday. It sucks. But that’s baseball.

Going into the final day of July last year, I didn’t know the name of the band I was seeing. But by day’s end, I knew it was Dispatch and I’ll never forget it. By dictionary definition, dispatch means: To relegate to a specific destination or send on specific business. To complete, transact, or dispose of promptly.

Coincidence? I think not.