You have to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em . . .
Of course, it’s nice to have a pitcher left when you do.
Quite a metaphor, poker. From a baseball owner. Sports and gambling should be associated whenever possible.
Jerry Reinsdorf might have compared a pennant race to some other trite human vice. Something safe. You know, like smoking indoors or illegal cable.
How about gutless, spineless surrender, not unlawful but nonetheless disgraceful in most parts of the competitive world and in the company of any poker player I have sat down with.
Wilson Alvarez, Roberto Hernandez and Danny Darwin are well out of this Sox mess, gone to where they are wanted, needed and applauded, all any ballplayer requires, plus an exorbitant salary, of course.
As for those who remain behind, Big Frank, Brave Robin, Sour Albert, Goofy Bev, they can slink to work full of regrets and spite and shame by association. Nothing much will have changed.
Reinsdorf said he doesn’t want to come in second in a poker hand. Is this logic, insanity or just an adroit little image, like his Boston Celtics thing with the Bulls?
Certainly, this is easier to see. Who hasn’t been raised by the checker? There is no more empty, helpless feeling than that. Suddenly, you realize your three little eights are staring at a flush.
But etiquette, arrogance and the need to know require a call.
This is the conduct of men. There are things you do not do. You do not bail out of a pot with the high card showing, you do not win and leave early and you never, ever count your money out loud.
Poker is Reinsdorf’s image, not mine. And all I can say, there’s an open seat at my table any time, Jerry.
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Is this the easiest guy in the world to bluff, or what?
First Michael Jordan, and then the Cleveland Indians, I guess. Maybe the Milwaukee Brewers, who are pinching each other right now to see if they are dreaming.
It’s Aug. 1, the Brewers have a chance to be in the playoffs, and their nearest and fiercest rival just threw in its hand.
A chance is not enough in Chicago, apparently. Dreams are bigger here. And older. It is not enough just to win this little jerry-rigged, attendance magnet, this division/slash/wild-card thing–which, by the way, was part of the new, modern trend in baseball, of which Reinsdorf was the prime pioneer.
What a Reinsdorf team must do, a $54 million team, is not only win now, but win later, not win little, but win big.
Even if the Sox catch Cleveland–and who is crazy enough to believe that except any fan given half a hint?–does that mean they can beat Seattle or Baltimore?
We shall never know.
Trading Harold Baines to a pennant contender was the first admission that the Sox are not a contender, no matter what the standings and history might say. Exporting the pitching staff to the Giants abuses the point.
What the Sox should be doing is finding a Baines of their own, an extra bat, an extra arm.
Instead they send away aces for hole cards in deals yet to be dealt, forfeiting this, the hand the Sox are playing. This is the pot they are invested in. The ante, back in the winter, was some $16 million for Albert Belle and Jaime Navarro.
There is no poker player in the world who antes $16 million and leaves it on the table without seeing the last card.
This is like folding a pair of aces because the third card is a six.
If the Bulls, with five championships and a title to defend, had to squirm and twitch and beg to get another opportunity, what chance did the gloomy, scattered Sox have?
Not finish second? Every team but one comes in second. Not only is there no crying in baseball, there are no bronze medals in baseball. No split pots. No high spade, low club or misdeals in baseball, just to keep the metaphor unmixed.
Nor jokers, either, not counting Reinsdorf, of course.