Hatred of Valentine explains Beckett’s Epic FAIL: 5 pitches “down the middle of the plate”?

When one of the best starters in baseball readily admits he threw four different pitches “down the middle of the plate” for FIVE homer runs in less than 5 innings, something is very rotten in Fen Park.

Either Beckett instantly lost his ability to pitch, or he is playing the spiteful Little Leaguer, whose favorite manager was replaced by a new guy that he doesn’t like.

By “giving up” five home runs in half a game, Beckett appears to have sent a clear message to Valentine:

"I can’t stand you and, who knows, I must might throw pitches “down the middle of the plate” every time I start for you, just to prove that the Sox cannot win with YOU in charge."

We give Beckett the benefit of the doubt; he may be under-performing, because he simply can’t get past his emotional block with Valentine; it is not that he is intentionally pitching like a Low-A rookie; yet, it will likely cause some to wonder how his pitching ability, his control of four different pitches, suddenly evaporated; to the suspicious by nature, it will appear he is losing, hoping to get Valentine fired.

"Beckett has become petulant, petty and personal and he threatens to end the Sox pennant pursuit–promptly. Beckett must be traded, before he runs his value further into the ground."

The regular patrons at the bars in Southie, like the Quencher Tavern on “I” Street and Kiley’s on Old Colony Ave might even be speculating, darkly, about Beckett’s odd performance; some may even be making references to the 1919 White Sox scandal, forgetting that the motivation for those players [Chick Gandil, Eddie “Knuckles” Cicotte, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson,  Claude “Lefty” Williams, Charles “Swede” Risberg, Oscar “Happy” Felsch, and infielder Fred McMullin] was a big pay day from the gambling cabal, represented by Boston bookmaker Joseph “Sport” Sullivan.

No, clearly, for Josh Beckett, this is not about money, not a chance.

But, just imagine that, down at the Blackthorn Bar at 471 W. Broadway in Southie, an ancient crusty curmudgeon at the end of the bar, who has been stuck on that stool so long that he has become a barnacle on the bar wood, starts speculating that Beckett “took a dive” or “went in the tank.”

A local Soccer hooligan, waiting on a cheeseburger, shouts a broad retort to the assemblage:

“Nah! He just HATES Valentine!” and, before the mumbles of agreement subside, the bartender makes his ruling: “The guy didn’t lose the game on purpose…he did it unconsciously…”

The unemployed High School English teacher, at the back corner table, who quotes the local sports writers, as if he we reading from Shakespeare, stands and reads aloud from the Boston Herald:

“Steve Buckley opines, and I quote: ‘While nobody’s writing off the Red Sox or any other team just two games into the schedule, we can all agree on this: They’re cooked without Beckett.’ “
“Beckett’s gotta go!” concludes a man returning from the MENs room.
“They usually fire the manager…” mumbles the State worker on his lunch break.
“Nah! Send Beckett to Pawtucket, maybe a few games in AAA will help him find his control…”        says the plumber popping peanuts from a wooden bowl.
“Yeah, maybe he can work at Schilling’s video game company in Rhode Island for beer and chicken money…” jokes the bus driver, dropping a bill on the bar, jamming an arm into his jacket.

Listen: one of the top pitchers in baseball threw FIVE pitches “DOWN THE MIDDLE OF THE PLATE.” One of the best starters in the Major leagues suddenly lost his ability to locate any of his pitches and explains:

“Too many pitches in the middle of the plate.” As if announcing a newly-discoverd Old Testament Commandment, he says:

“You can’t miss in the middle of the plate to most big league hitters.”

Well, Gosh, Josh… Really?

Sure, this time it wasn’t his thumb, sure!

Next time, will it be a vague pain in the elbow, the shoulder, the lower back, until that pain settles in Valentine’s ass. He has shown today that he is prepared to unintentionally [subconsciously] serve up Sunday slow-pitch offerings during his starts or hang out on the DL like a petulant malingerer.

A player who could have been the “new face of the Red Sox” has become a canker sore, a seeping pus pustule, which requires immediate surgery.  It’s time to cut the Beckett losses and find a place to send him, where he can have a life of liberation from meanie managers like Valentine and resume his Feckless Frat Boy role, heedlessly pursuing his brand of happiness and maybe overcome his lifelong case of arrested development.

The Fenway Faithful and members of Red Sox Nation expect more character from their pitchers, like pitching with a bleeding foot. Boston offered the Frat Boy a chance to “Man Up,” but he chooses to play the role of rebellious adolescent, who has lost his “control.”

In a previous post, we suggested a trade to Detroit; his anomalous pitching performance made it appear that he was already pitching—batting practice– for the Tigers.

And, now, the Freshman with the laptop, wearing a BU t-shirt and a sketchy beard, the Journalism major, puts up his hand and announces:

“This Nash guy at the Bosox Injection nailed it…” And he reads from his screen: ‘…he is playing the spiteful Little Leaguer, whose favorite manager was replaced by a new guy that he doesn’t like.’ ”

“You still reading that MO-ron?” the bartender chides and tunes the overhead TV to ESPN.

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