As I reread this tweet about the passing of Red Sox legend Jerry Remy I’m having an impossible time getting over the “7th cancer battle” part. In the words of Norm, the worst you can do against cancer is tie. 6-0-1 is a depressing fucking reminder that cancer doesn’t care about the rules of a seven game series. Remy swept that gutless coward in four and it kept showing up demanding a rematch. Fuck cancer, always and forever.
We grew up incredibly lucky in New England. Obviously the teams themselves were amazing, but having Remy and Tommy calling these games really shaped how we took it all in. A great movie isn’t shit without the right score and soundtrack, you know? Boston, no matter what, always has been and always will be a baseball town. The roster changes every year, the uniforms get tinkered with, managers turn over, they added seats to the Monster, took down the Coke bottles, the only real constant when it came to Red Sox baseball was Jerry Remy. He was the Boston Red Sox. And now that’s gone. I’m glad he got his last moment at Fenway.
Remy and Orsillo were the perfect duo to call a baseball game. Plenty knowledgeable of not only the sport, but the job at hand. Baseball can be slow, 162 games is a grind, and they got that better than anyone. When the moment called for seriousness, they were ready. When it called for two hours of a standup comedy routine, they were somehow more ready. The pizza throw, the west coast games, none of that will be replicated by anyone who sits in those chairs.
But what I’ll miss most, and I’m probably alone in this but I don’t care, is his greeting about the SAP button. “Buenos noches, amigos” in my brain will forever mean “play ball.” He never once missed that mark. Day game? You better believe he has a “buenos tardes” in the holster ready to go. It was a small detail that many probably glazed over, but Red Sox games wont feel complete without it moving forward.
Buenos noches, Jerry. Thanks for the memories, amigo.