Bobby Valentine has not managed a major league game in a decade, but one thing is for sure, he hasn’t missed a beat. The new Red Sox manager has been busy filling the Fort Myers, Florida air with vim, vigor and vitriol.
If you question Jeremy Lin's value to the NBA, consider this: Since Lin's breakout game as a New York Knick three weeks ago the nation followed the deaths of Don Cornelius, Whitney Houston and Gary Carter, Josh Hamilton's drug relapse, Super Bowl XLVI, Madonna's halftime show, Hines Ward and Ricky Williams retirement, Kate Upton's SI Swimsuit cover release, Adele's Grammy sweep, Roland Martin's suspension, Stephen Colbert's disappearing act and Elizabeth Smart's wedding. In every tragedy and triumph of every media cycle in recent weeks only one storyline consistently captured the world: Jeremy Lin.
I remember the first time I met Josh Hamilton. He walked slowly up the steps, through the box seats behind home plate at Joseph P. Riley Jr. park in Charleston, South Carolina. He was wearing a gray Tampa Bay Devil Rays t-shirt and white game pants.
Hamilton was clean shaven with curly brown hair – and not a single tattoo. He dropped into one of the empty box seats on a hot, humid July 4 late afternoon in South Carolina and propped his massive feet on the seat in front of him. That’s what I remember most: his massive feet.
When I listened to Boston Red Sox ace Josh Beckett tell his side of the story of what happened last September, I didn’t hear him apologize; in fact, I don’t think Red Sox fans – or the organization that paid him $17 million in 2011 -- will ever get an apology.
Is an apology necessary?