Congratulations to the citizens of Boston to have enough sense to not set the city on fire for once. Had the American League winner of this contest been any team other than the Red Sox, I would have called it the dullest World Series that I ever bothered to watch. Has any team ever put up less resistance in the history of the game than the St. Louis Cardinals? Has any World Series team ever had their 4 and 5 hitters go 1-34 with that one hit being a bunt single? I've got nothing against Cardinals 3rd baseman Scott Rolen. As happy as I was to see the Red Sox do something they haven't done in 86 years, I couldn't help but feel bad for the guy (no hits!). Here's hoping that New York Mets 3rd base phenom David Wright, who worships the latter, opts to model himself after the regular season Rolen (124 RBIs in '04) as opposed to the post-season one.
Now that the off-season has officially begun, let the hot stove heat up.
Can't Stop The Bleeding reports that Wally Backman has taken himself out of the running for the Mets managerial vacancy, instead opting to concentrate his efforts on Arizona, where he supposedly has a better shot. We here at Statute of Frauds think this is a damn shame. Hernandez "isn't interested" (re; way too opinionated), Dykstra already has some kind of honorary front office job, HoJo's in the minors, and Carter remains too in love with his own legend. Backman's fiery mentality, successful minor league managerial experience, and '86 pedigree are exactly what the Amazin's could use right now.
The smart money for the position would seem to be on Yankees bench coach (and 12 year Yankee vet) Willie Randolph, a move which strikes this blogger as simply another sad attempt to bring some of that elusive Bronx magic over to Queens. Granted, I know nothing about the man's leadership abilities, or skills in handling the tenacious New York media, but isn't it high time we had one of our own in the dugout? Then again, Randolph actually played an abbreviated number of games with the Mets in 1992; a wretched year that still comes nowhere close to capturing the unadulterated filth that was 1993 (firecrackers, anyone?). Poor Jeff Torborg.