10. Mo Vaughn
In the early 90s, the Red Sox had a problem. The perception around the league, which was more Black than it is now, was that the Red Sox didn’t want Black players. It was hard to argue as Ellis Burks was the only African American on the roster for a year or two.
Black players were straight up telling reporters that there was no way that they’d play for the Sox because the organization and the city made them uncomfortable. As a fan of the Sox and Boston (Massachusetts has been my home forever), that really bummed me out. I’m not Black, so I can never fully understand what they were saying but it made me angry.
Not angry at Black players of course, but angry at the situation as a whole. The Sox had to be aware of the perception of the city, why the fuck weren’t they being more open to Black players? Every time the press asked about it, they’d get blown off. Why didn’t they care?
Then Mo was promoted. Unlike the more shy Burks, Vaughn came up and immediately began asking the tough questions. “Why weren’t there more Black players in the clubhouse?” “How come Black fans don’t feel comfortable in Fenway?” “What is this organization doing about it?”
Finally a person who got it. Predictably older columnists, like Will McDonough, fought back. Some fans told him to essentially “shut up and hit”. But Mo kept talking. Louder and louder. Until someone did something.
The thing is, unless Mo was producing, no one would listen to him. But he was hitting, he hit for average. He hit long bombs. Drove in runs. Pretty much anything offensive that the Sox needed him to do, he did. He won (actually probably stole) the MVP in 1995 from Albert Belle. Reporters hated the notoriously prickly Belle and I’m convinced the votes for Mo were actually votes against Belle. Though TBH John Valentin had a case to beat both of them.
If I was a Cleveland fan, I’d probably still be pissed. But I’m not, so sucks for Belle, I guess.
Mo never delivered the ultimate prize for the Sox, no matter who his running mate was—Jose Canseco, Nomar to name a few—but he kept trying. In 1998 Mo knew he wasn’t going to get the money he felt he deserved in Boston so he went to Anaheim and became an Angel. He had a decent first year there, then got injured, gained weight and bounced to the Mets for his last few seasons.
But Mo Vaughn was a catalyst for change in Boston. He showed the league that Boston can embrace an opinionated Black man. Mo set the stage for players like Pedro, Manny, Ortiz, Betts, players of color who spoke their mind. If he won a few championships maybe he could’ve been our generation’s Bill Russell? But we should still honor what he did both on the field and off.
9. Tim Wakefield
Everyone thinks they’re a good teammate. But that’s probably not true. If you’ve ever been on a team you’ll know that there are anxieties, jealousies, selfishness. For all of the rah-rah, "we're a team!" stuff that gets thrown around any locker room, at the end of the day, sports is kind of a selfish pursuit. This is especially true when things start to go south and the team is floundering. You end up playing for yourself in the hopes you get noticed so you can get off this dumb team.
But every once in a while there’s a person on your team who’s relentlessly positive with out being corny, helpful without being a nag, someone who continually does the right thing and isn’t expecting anything back.
I never made the Major Leagues but I’ve read/heard enough stories to know that every team is filled with ultra Alpha type athletes who have never had a bad thing happen to them on the field. Guys whose outwardly confidence is high into the stratosphere and are used to being the best player in any team they’ve been a part of. They’re so good they’re not expected to be good teammates. That’s a job for shitty players.
Getting to the Majors and learning to be a good teammate and sacrifice for the benefit of the other players, that’s not really a part of most athletes' tool box. But every so often its obvious when a team has a good guy like that truly puts team first.
On the Sox from 1995 until 2011, that guy was Tim Wakefield. His first year in Boston he was picked up off the scrap heap—Pittsburgh dumped him in Buffalo and the Red Sox were desperately in need of starters so they grabbed him. Wakefield pitched a game in Anaheim limiting the Angels to a few hits then shut out the A’s TWO days later in Oakland. And he was off. I’ve seen Clemens, Pedro, Schilling, Beckett, Lester, Sale and others pitch but Wakefield going 14-1 for a stretch in that season for the Sox was truly unbelievable.
He was a mainstay of the pitching staff for the rest of his career. He worked out of the pen as a mop-up guy, a closer, a seventh inning bridge. He was a member of the starting rotation. He was a spot starter. Whatever he had to do, he did. Sometimes he was really good, sometimes he was really bad. Sometimes I couldn’t wait for his next start, other times I wondered why the Sox were employing a knuckleballer. But I never doubted that he gave everything to the team.
When the Sox needed innings in Game 3 of 2004 ALCS, Wakefield gave it to them. Without his sacrifice and a rested bullpen, the Sox don’t win four straight over the Yanks. He was left off the 2007 World Series roster, Wakefield didn’t raise a stink. He just cheered on his teammates from the bench.
The lowest part of his career had to be giving up the walkoff homer to Aaron Boone in the 2003 ALCS. Apparently he was weeping in his locker wondering if he’d be his generation’s Bull Buckner. Like Buckner, Wakefield didn’t deserve those goat horns and luckily it never came to that for him. Tim Wakefield was beloved by New England. In his last year he made the All-Star team and then left the mound for good. He worked for NESN almost immediately after his retirement so it seemed like he never left us.
On the last day of a miserable 2023 season, Tim Wakefield passed away. The sadness that enveloped Red Sox nation was immense and heartfelt. Wakefield may have been from Florida, but he was like one of us (hell, we named a town after the guy!) and whether it was because of his countless hours of charity or the way that Wakefield was so brave going to he mound armed with nothing a knuckleball and a dump truck full of resilience, he seemed like the type of guy you wish you could be.
Wakefield was a rock.
8. Dwight Evans
If you have a brother you might share a bunch of stuff: a room, toys, clothes. But the one thing you don’t share are your heroes. You can both like the same player, my brother and I both worshipped Bo Jackson and Rickey Henderson, but inevitably one person likes the player a little more and he becomes “yours”.
When my brother Jay and I were younger, I thought Jim Rice was the best and he really liked Dwight Evans. I’m not sure why he did but he talked a lot about Dwight Evans. I liked Dewey too but eventually Jay moved on to Don Mattingly (he’d kill me if he knew I was putting this out into the universe) and then others, but Evans was his first.
While I told you about voraciously defend Jim Rice from 6-4-3 jokes, I was also watching Dewey and getting a real strong impression for him. Truthfully he did a lot of stuff Rice didn’t do, he hit for a higher average, he seemed a little faster, defensively he was amazing and he had a cannon for an arm. Rice had a little more power (though Evans wasn’t a slouch) and he also had a few years where he put everything together and had a few monster seasons. Rice had higher highs but lower lows than Evans and that’s probably why he’s in Cooperstown.
But Evans deserves to be there too. I hate comparing two worthy HoF players but Evans played longer than Rice, was more consistent, his drop off wasn’t as sharp. And like I said, his defense was unparalleled. No one ran on Dwight Evans. And the catch he made in Game Six of the 1975 World Series? Amazing. Carlton Fisk doesn’t become CARLTON FISK without that catch. If that didn’t happen then what does Robin Williams talk about to Matt Damon in “Goodwill Hunting”? Not only does Fisk owe Dewey something but Ben Affleck and Damon do as well.
In any event it wasn’t just Evans’ production that everyone loved. He had a long road from prospect to All-Star. He got beaned in the head which resulted in a massive concussion and eventually messed with his confidence at the plate. He had his entire swing remastered by Walt Hriniak mid-career, which no one liked, especially Ted Williams. When the greatest hitter of all time calls you out, it must be tough.
But he worked hard and improved every year at the plate. Getting on base, hitting bombs (remember when he hit a homerun on the first pitch of the 86 season off Jack Morris?), driving in runs. He showed you can improve and excel with age. As the years went by, he became a New England institution. But it wasn't just the production, it was the other things. Like yelling “DEWWWWWWW!” when he was at bat. It was the Selleck-esque mustache. It was imitating his batting style—the toe tap, leaning all the way back before uncoiling—during Wiffle Ball. It was knowing that a right fielder isn’t the shittiest player on the field, with your arm and glove, you can make a difference.
After the Sox let him go he played a year on Baltimore, which was weird to see him in Oriole orange, but the California kid came back to the Bay State.
A few years ago I saw him at Capitol Grille here in Burlington. I was with my wife and another couple and I whispered to them, “holy shit, that’s Dwight fucking Evans” and before they could answer I yelled, “DEWEY!” He turned around, pointed at me, said “Hey!” and asked me what I was eating. I think I said steak and he said, “great choice” then floated away.
I was beside myself. Dwight Evans asked me what i was eating. And I called him Dewey, a name I’ve heard that he absolutely hates. Who gives a shit, we’re best friends now.
I wish I could ask my brother what he thinks of Dewey. Whether he still likes him a lot, whether he cares if he gets into Cooperstown. But that’s impossible because he passed away a few years back. And that’s okay because whenever I think of Evans I think of my brother as a little kid talking about him, mimicking him in the backyard and that’s enough.
It just makes me feel good. Isn’t that what baseball is supposed to do?
7. Jackie Bradley Jr.
Remember the controversy when JBJ made the big league team in 2013? Some people were worried that he wasn’t ready others were afraid that the Sox burnt a year of his eligibility and that he’d be a free agent sooner.
I was all kinda dumb. Turns out he wasn’t ready for prime time and the eligibility thing didn’t even matter. FTR, I was one of those people wailing about the eligibility. Nothing like a little indentured servitude masquerading as “doing what’s best for the team”!
Anyway, Bradley went to Pawtucket after those first couple of weeks and came up for good in 2014. For some reason I was all in on the JBJ experience. I knew he wasn’t the best overall player on the team, but I spent a lot of time wondering how good he could be.
What made him so confounding was that for three weeks, he’d absolutely carry the team offensively. Homers, big hits all over the place. Then you’d start to settle into thinking that Jackie has turned a corner and while he might not hit .600 for the rest of the season, the way he’s swinging he could easily reach half that.
Then he’d go into a six week funk where you wonder if he’s ever seen a baseball before much less hit one. He was the ultimate seesaw player. I think it was part of the lack of consistency that made him so appealing. Because even when he’d suck, you knew he’d eventually snap out of it. You just never knew when. Every day I’d check the box score to see whether yesterday was the day that JBJ was going to get on track. “0-4, not today, I guess. Maybe tomorrow.”
The one thing that never ebbed was his defense. I’ve been watching the Sox for longer than I care to admit and JBJ was the best defensive player I’ve ever watched. When JBJ was in his prime, I was addicted to Twitter. It was a different time and the app didn’t suck nearly half as much as it does now. But back in the day you could really cultivate what you wanted your feed to be and I mostly filled mine with funny people and sports. Baseball Twitter was amazing because the moment something happened, you saw it 40 million times on your feed. Big hit. Big pitch. Big catch. It didn’t matter, watching a game while scrolling Twitter was a lot of fun and I miss it.
The reason why I’m talking about Twitter is because JBJ was on my feed constantly with some sort of gravity defying catch. And like I said, I didn’t see it once but multiple multiple times. From different angles, in slow-mo, set to a song. I saw a lot of Jackie Bradley Jr. and his feats are imprinted in my brain. Does that have something to do with how I see him as the greatest defensive outfielder in my life? Maybe. But also hear me out, he just was.
There's a baseball cliche that says, "defense never takes a holiday" and JBJ was the personification of the argument “do you take a guy out of the lineup if he’s not hitting but he’s saving runs defensively?” In other words, how much does defense means?
Apparently a lot. I didn’t care that he was batting .230, I just wanted to watch Jackie rob homers and make sliding catches and gun people down (he had a very strong arm, which was nice after years of Johnny Damon, Coco Crisp and Jacoby Ellsbury). I just wanted the guy to hit because I was worried to how long a leash the Sox would give him.
At the end of the 2020 season the Sox sent him the Milwaukee (it was the very last transaction before the lockout) and for a year, and he was someone else’s worry. They brought him back a season later but he was cooked. Boston released him and he bounced around for a few teams. He played for the Long Island Ducks last year and hasn’t officially retired, but he’s pretty much done.
When looking back at his career, it’s nothing short of a huge success. He was an All-American at the University of South Carolina where he won an NCAA World Series. He was part of the Big Red Sox Machine of 2018, was ALCS MVP that year, won another ring in 2013, was an All-Star in 2016 and made over $55 million.
How can you not look back at that and see a success? Baseball is a tough fucking game full of inconsistencies, JBJ was able to navigate those into a nine-year career.
Not too shabby.
6. Nomar Garciaparra
It’s hard to say that Nomar came at a time when the Red Sox needed a superstar. They already had Mo Vaughn, so I guess what they needed was a new superstar.
Nomar showed up in 1997 took shortstop from incumbent John Valentin and didn’t stop hitting or fidgeting with his batting gloves—a tic that every Little Leaguer in New England immediately copied. That season Nomar crushed everything that came his way: fastballs, curves, sliders, knuckle balls, it didn’t matter. Nomar tattooed the wall like Wade Boggs in his prime.
A new generation of Sox fans loved him for it. He wasn’t Nomar, he was NOMMAHHHHHHHH. He won the Rookie of the Year and played every game with the biggest smile. I remember the last game of his rookie year he stayed around after the game and signed autographs for what seemed like days.
Nomar loved Boston and Boston loved Nomar. It was a match made in baseball heaven.
The next year, Nomar hit more than he did his rookie year. By 2000 he led the league with .372
average which was the highest average by a right handed hitter since Joe DiMaggio. As it often happens with athletes and this town, the love affair between Boston and Nomar was starting to lose some of its shine. The fans still loved him but the press was beginning to turn on him a little bit. And when he showed up shirtless and yoked on the cover of Sports Illustrated, whispers of steroids started to spread.
To make matters worse Nomar’s first name was starting to change to “the oft-injured” Nomar Garciaparra. And with the additions of brand new superstar players like Pedro Martinez, Manny Ramirez, Johnny Damon and David Ortiz; someone was moving down in the pecking order of stars.
It all came to a head in the winter of 2003 when GM Theo Epstein had a deal to send Manny and Jon Lester (a throw in) to the Texas Rangers for Alex Rodriguez. Then the Red Sox were going to ship Nomar to the White Sox for Magglio Ordonez. But the complicated transaction didn’t pan out. To make matters worse teammate Kevin Millar went on SportsCenter and told the whole world that he’d rather ARod at short.
Yipes.
Things were awkward that spring and into summer as Nomar played but there seemed to be a dark cloud over shortstop. At the trading deadline, Epstein finally ripped off the Band-Aid and sent Nomar to the other Chicago team, the Cubs.
As you know, the Sox won the Series that year but Nomar was watching that him with his wife Mia Hamm. No one seemed to miss him.
Obviously, it’s awesome that the Sox won that year. I wouldn’t change any part of that drama for anything but it was a little sad that Nomar wasn’t there. He got a ring, but I’m sure it’s a hollow bauble.
In the late 90s Nomar gave us all something to cheer. It was the Golden Age of shortstops and while ARod was the best overall, Miguel Tejada won the MVPs, Edgar Renteria and Omar Vizquel won Gold Gloves and Derek Jeter had World Series trophies, no one hitter harder than Nomar (and I’m including ARod).
The skinny kid from Georgia Tech was amazing. And he looked like he was having so much fun too. Baseball is a lot like life, it can just wear you down after awhile. The glee and joy you find in your job or everyday life can evaporate in a second, if you’re not careful.
That’s why when you have that happiness you need to hold on to it as long as you can. Really drink it in. When I think of Nomar I choose to think of him as a pup slamming balls all over the park and signing autographs after.
I’m sure that’s the way he’d prefer to be remembered too; young and with a smile.
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