New York City, baby.

Sunday, October 19, 2003

Grady Little is the most despicable kind of fool. He's the man who goes through his whole life blending into the wallpaper, seemingly content to work hard day-in and day-out and leave the spotlight to others. But deep inside he's the one who wants to be carrying the ring. He's jealous of the heroes.

So in the most critical moment, with the Red Sox winning the game, with five outs to go, he makes the amazing decision to leave his fatigued pitcher in the game, even though his bullpen has been pitching great this postseason, and bringing in the combo of Timlin/Williamson to pitch the last two inning has become a routine that has paid off every time.

But this is where one man, a man who appeared to appreciate the thankless, but dignified role of those who toil quietly in the background, dramatically intersects himself into destiny, going against the tried-and-true approach to make a call that is all HIS, making a call based on HIS instincts, a call that brings attention to his coaching, that makes him a legend... one way or another.

The seductive song of immortality must have been playing loudly, so loud that it drowned out 50,000 screaming Yankee fans and the thumping hearts of the collective Red Sox Nation.

Little goes down in lore. Sure, it's for maneuvering the Red Sox out of the World Series with five outs to go. He wanted this. He wanted this over what he feared most.

The smallest man must make sure never to go.


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