Theo the Second
Theo is back. In case anyone has been on Mars this winter, here’s what happened. The Sox and Theo were renegotiating; something happened; and after being so close to reupping, Theo quit. He walked away. Papers reported some kind of schism with ownership, perhaps a feud with Lucchino. In the meantime, in Theo’s purported absence, the Sox made a couple big signings; but maybe he wasn’t totally gone; maybe he was still in touch? The pitching staff was supposedly improved. Beckett was signed. Of course, exactly how good the pitching staff is won’t be known until we find out if Foulke and Schilling are healthy. And while Theo was absent, the lineup seemed to dissolve. Damon, Mueller, Millar, all gone. Manny again asked for permission to go. And the Sox suddenly found themselves without a shortstop or a centerfielder. Then, a couple months passed, and Theo came back.
In reporting this story, SI calls this tale Shakespearean. Say what? Did I miss something? When I wasn’t paying attention, did someone get stabbed in the night? Poisoned in the ear? More like a comedy, I suppose. How about Much Ado about Nothing? Or maybe it was somewhere between comedy and tragedy, something hard to categorize, say: The Tempest. More likely it was just history: Theo the Second.
Not content to have botched one pretentious allusion, SI then goes on to describe Theo’s negotiations with the Sox as Freudian. How about Jungian? And isn’t there room in here for some reference to Kafka? Kafkaesque is always the favorite adjective of every nitwit who wants to make believe he actually read something in college, although we all know that he just read the classic comic book of The Metamorphosis. Anyway, now we know this story is just a comedy. One written by Homer Simpson. Of course, in a comedy, everything turns out well in the end, and it seems unlikely that we’ll have another epochal happy ending in 2006. So maybe it was just a soap opera.
On a sadder note, a much sadder note, Wilson Pickett died today. It’s not just that he’s gone; after all it had been a long time since Pickett recorded much. But with his passing, who is ever going to sing like that again? Ever. Opera fans are always waiting for the next Caruso, the next Bjorling, the next Pavarotti. But are we ever going to hear the likes of Pickett, or Ray Charles, or David Ruffin again? Not likely. Not in this lifetime, or the next. And we’ll all miss that.
In reporting this story, SI calls this tale Shakespearean. Say what? Did I miss something? When I wasn’t paying attention, did someone get stabbed in the night? Poisoned in the ear? More like a comedy, I suppose. How about Much Ado about Nothing? Or maybe it was somewhere between comedy and tragedy, something hard to categorize, say: The Tempest. More likely it was just history: Theo the Second.
Not content to have botched one pretentious allusion, SI then goes on to describe Theo’s negotiations with the Sox as Freudian. How about Jungian? And isn’t there room in here for some reference to Kafka? Kafkaesque is always the favorite adjective of every nitwit who wants to make believe he actually read something in college, although we all know that he just read the classic comic book of The Metamorphosis. Anyway, now we know this story is just a comedy. One written by Homer Simpson. Of course, in a comedy, everything turns out well in the end, and it seems unlikely that we’ll have another epochal happy ending in 2006. So maybe it was just a soap opera.
On a sadder note, a much sadder note, Wilson Pickett died today. It’s not just that he’s gone; after all it had been a long time since Pickett recorded much. But with his passing, who is ever going to sing like that again? Ever. Opera fans are always waiting for the next Caruso, the next Bjorling, the next Pavarotti. But are we ever going to hear the likes of Pickett, or Ray Charles, or David Ruffin again? Not likely. Not in this lifetime, or the next. And we’ll all miss that.
posted by pops | 10:30 PM
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